#and to address the shallow end of this pool:

[wheresarizona]

Columba 

summary: It isn’t until you’re in his home that you learn it’s General Marcus Acacius who’s summoned you for your services—you’re not sure why he did, when the other courtesans standing beside you, hoping to be chosen by him, have bodies that look nothing like yours.

pairing: Marcus Acacius/Plus Size f!reader (Courtesan)

rating: E (18+!! This is smut. No y/n, explicit smut, plus size reader, courtesan reader, age gap (reader is of legal age in today’s standards), takes place pre-Gladiator 2, dommy Marcus Acacius (loves giving orders), he’s a tiny bit possessive, unprotected p in v (wrap it up!), creampie, rough sex, backshots, woman on top, oral sex (m receiving), vaginal fingering, breast worship, hair pulling (m receiving), slight breeding kink, (1) pussy slap, dirty talk, spanking, spit mention, some biting, with hair like that he wants it pulled, some sweetness at the end) 

word count: 4.8k+

a/n: I took one look at Marcus’ hair and immediately thought, that guy likes his hair pulled. I also decided that since he spends weeks to months with a bunch of men at a time, when he comes home, he really appreciates a curvy woman. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d be able to write anything for him until I saw the movie, but the trailer got me. This is unbeta’d, all mistakes are my own. I hope you enjoy!

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs feed me. I’d love to know what you thought!

Masterlist

It was the marble bust atop a pedestal that revealed whose home you were in. The opulence of the domus’ atrium, with its four tall marble columns surrounding the impluvium's shallow, sunken pool in the middle of the room and the compluvium’s opening in the ceiling above it, allowing the moon’s light to filter in, told you whoever lived here had notoriety—then you saw the face carved out of stone, recognizing the curls and strong nose you'd only ever seen as he was paraded past you down the street in honor of his latest victory, and you knew.

General Marcus Acacius is a man feared by many for his ferocity and skills in battle. It's been said Mars, the God of War, blessed his birth, while others believe his bloodline is descended from the God himself. What you know to be true is he's a gifted General that the Emperors and Gods have smiled upon, and in his presence, an intimidating figure you didn't dare look at unless you were addressed.

There are four women standing to your right, all of you younger than him, naked, and courtesans of the highest standard—well-educated and well-versed in politics along with the pleasures of the body—and highly sought out by society's elite. 

Marcus is at the opposite end, silently making his way down the line with what you can only assume is a scrutinizing eye, and you fear there's been a mistake that you're here—the other courtesans are all built similarly with small breasts, flattened stomachs and thinner waists than yours, whereas you’re curvier, and have more meat on your bones, with your bigger chest, soft noticeable belly, and grabbable hips. Clearly, he requested a particular type of woman, and it doesn't appear you're it. Staring down at the tiled floor seems better than seeing the disappointment on his face when he gets to you. 

His sandaled feet come into view as he stands before you, and you can feel his eyes roaming over your bare body—golden snake bracelets coil around each of your upper arms, and at the unexpected gentle touch of his fingertips to one, you flinch. 

"Do I frighten you?" His voice is a low, deep rasp that shivers down your spine. 

"No, Sir," you answer.

His thumb strokes over the snake's head and along its body. "Why do you flinch?" 

Raising your head, you see he’s wearing a white tunic with a gold pattern lining around his neck, down his arms, and along the hem, a belt securing it at his waist; golden cuffs covered his wrists. You’re met with dark eyes, a furrow crinkling between his eyebrows—his brown hair with a kiss of gray, curls like waves on his head, his facial hair dotted with a few silvery strands. It takes you a second to answer his question because the glimpses of him you caught during victory parades and the marble bust didn't prepare you for his beauty. 

Mars and Venus have bestowed their blessings upon him. 

“My apologies, Sir,” you finally reply. “It was simply surprise at being graced by your touch.” His expression is difficult to read, so you continue speaking, “I’ve heard of your prowess in battle that inspires songs and how your enemies tremble before you, but I do not believe I have reason to fear you—unless that is something you wish. Do you wish for me to be frightened of you?” 

Some men liked it if you acted afraid of them to feel powerful. Some men, usually the big, tough ones, liked to bury their faces in your bosom while you held them. The slight show of relief on Marcus’ face when you said you had no reason to fear him made you suspect he’d be in the latter category. 

“No.” His eyes are locked onto yours. “I do not need another to fear me. I wish for you to want my touch.” 

“I wish for more than your touch,” you reply. “I wish to feel your lips on mine and your weight on top of me, I wish to feel your cock inside me and to hear the sounds you make when you peak, and I do wish for your touch; I wish to feel your hands claim my body as yours.” 

His gaze turns to one of desire, and it makes you smile. 

"You," he says. "Stay. The rest of you,” he announces, keeping his eyes on yours, “leave us.”

The invitation the messenger brought to your home the day prior did not state who requested your services; it simply said the person was a public figure, and the woman picked would be paid handsomely.

The servants, who stood as still as statues against a wall, scurried to assist each of the other women with redressing.

"Come," he orders, offering you a hand you accept. He leads you to a room you realize is his personal quarters when you spot his armor in a corner, Medusa's golden head on the cuirass shining in the candlelight—she wards off evil and offers protection. There's a bed against the wall opposite the door, and he lets go of your hand, slipping off his sandals by the doorway before walking over to a thin table laden with a jug, cups, and a bowl of berries and grapes. 

"Care for some wine?" he asks without looking at you while pouring himself a cup. 

His body is tense, and you’re assuming you’re here to help him relax—he arrived home only days ago from war, and you got a chance to see him rolling down the street on a chariot as he waved to the cheering masses. It would make sense that he could use somebody with your expertise to get him to unwind. 

“No, thank you, Sir,” you answer, and he faces you again, taking a drink. “It’s a great honor that you chose me, and I do not wish to forget a single moment.” 

His cup lowers, and you're surprised to find he’s wearing a little smile. He twists to set his wine down next to the jug, and removes the cuffs from his wrists, setting them onto the table then his eyes are on yours. 

"Marcus," he says, and it only takes a few strides to have him in front of you again. 

"I'm sorry?" you ask.

His attention moves to your body, and he’s not looking upon you like an object or something he’s just purchased as most men do; his gaze is appreciative, the same kind of look you could imagine was on his face when he stared at art that pleased him. Your figure isn’t the ideal for most Roman women—your hips are too wide, your breasts are too large, your ass is too big, your thighs are too thick, and your stomach is too noticeable—yet, there are many men who sought you out and paid well for your time, and it seems the General is one of them. 

"My name." He walks around you, his fingers sliding along your upper back from shoulder to shoulder. “Call me Marcus. I want you to be familiar with how my name tastes on your tongue.” 

The touch and his words cause your nipples to harden and goosebumps to rise on your skin.

"Marcus,” you say. 

He’s in front of you again, his darkened eyes on yours. His big hands grip your waist, pulling you into him, and he shoves his face into the crook of your neck, feeling him inhale deeply. “Gods, you’re the best thing I’ve smelled in months.” The words are said against your flesh. “Like a meadow of flowers in Spring, and I fail to remember the last time I felt such softness.” He squeezes the fleshy handles at your hips and goes lower to grab handfuls of your ass, then runs his hands up your back. “Upon hearing your description,” he says, “I knew you’d be perfect, but what I imagined has no comparison to seeing your beauty with my own eyes.” His admission catches you off guard as it sounds as though he always intended to pick you from the line of women. It’s curious that he even invited the others if his mind had been set beforehand. He straightens, meeting your gaze. “Take off my clothes.” 

There's no need to reply; you just do as he ordered, getting his belt undone, the leather falling to the floor, then pulling his tunic over his head, it meeting the same fate as his belt. 

He’s completely nude, standing at his full height before you. 

You expected the scars etched all over his body, the evidence that he'd lay down his life for Rome without hesitation. There's a long, jagged one across his right pec, silvered with age, that has you forgetting yourself and softly pressing your fingertips to it.

He snatches your smaller hand, pulling it away from his marred skin. 

"My apologies," you quickly say, bowing your head in submission. "I shouldn't have touched you without permission." 

"You may touch me." Once again, he surprises you by putting the flat of your palm against the scar, his other hand grabbing your chin to lift your face. 

From his reaction to your fingers on him, you think he hasn’t been with a woman in quite some time, and you hope you can make up for all the nights he spent alone. 

It seems he's done with the pleasantries when his lips crush into yours. It's all of the encouragement you need, kissing him back while rubbing your palms up his broad chest, feeling his warmth. You snake a hand down his stomach through the trail of hair low on his belly to take his half-hard cock into your hand—he groans and twitches in your hold.

He truly has the Gods' favor—a talented General, handsome and well-endowed. 

With his hands on your waist, he walks you backward to the bed, laying you on the mattress. He's on top of you, deepening the kiss with his tongue pressing into your mouth, his hand palming your tit, making you wet with arousal and your body heat. 

It's fascinating how he's defying all of your expectations. The men who seek you out after spending months fighting are often rough and brutish, using you however they want to release their tension. There's never kissing or offers of drink; it's orders to suck their cocks, or to get on the bed in their desired position—and here's Marcus kissing down your body, along the skin of your neck to your chest. Most of his weight is on his knees between your legs while bending forward over you, and the only word you can think of to describe it is he's worshipping your breasts. He has them in his hands, moving from one to the other, licking, sucking, and nibbling on your nipples and soft skin, the sensations making your pussy weep with need. 

“Gods, Marcus,” you moan. He has you squirming with how good it feels, your fingers pushing into his curls. He takes a pebbled bud between his teeth and gently tugs. “Oh,” you gasp, your hands tightening in the tousled waves on his head.

He releases your nipple. “Harder,” he rasps, then flicks his tongue against your stiff peak, and you do as requested, pulling his hair harder. A loud groan rumbles from his chest as he continues laving at your tits, skimming his hand down your stomach, your skin tingling under his fingertips, until he’s sliding two fingers through your wet slit. You tighten your hold on his head, your toes curling when he starts rubbing your clit, and the realization hits that he intends for you to have just as much enjoyment as him. 

"Marcus," you whine.

He’s one of those men who has you praying that he’ll wish for your company again, and you wouldn’t even make him pay if you got another chance to warm his bed. 

The push of his thick digit into your pussy makes your breath hitch at the slight stretch, his thumb pressing to your sensitive bundle of nerves, moving side to side—you know he’s going to make you come, and you silently thank the Gods.

His finger is pushing in and out of you, his thumb continuing its movements, and he lifts his face to look you in the eyes, his own are so black there’s hardly a sliver of brown remaining. "Come for me," he commands, slipping a second digit inside you—you’re so wet you can hear the slick slide of his fingers pumping into you. The muscles in your belly are tightening, and the fire in your core is building. "Come for me, sweet girl." His head dips to lightly bite your nipple before soothing it with his tongue. "Once you come, I'll do as you wish and sheath my cock into this perfect cunt." 

The hot heat of his mouth envelops your pebbled bud, and he sucks—it's your undoing; your eyes close as you fall over the edge, coming with a moan of his name. His digits and mouth continue to extend your ecstasy while your chest heaves with labored breaths and your heart pounds. 

He lets go of your nipple with a wet pop, his hand sliding from your pussy, up your stomach, leaving a trail of your release on your skin. His voice deepens, “You’ve done well for me, and I keep my word—turn over.” 

He helps you to roll onto your front, and you get up onto your hands and knees—a familiar position. He takes a moment to admire you in front of him, his palms feeling the thickness of your thighs and hips. His fingers dig into your plump asscheeks as he spreads them and dips his head, hearing and feeling him spit between them, the hot saliva dripping from your asshole down to your opening. He shuffles up behind you, sliding his cock through the wetness of your come and his spit to lubricate himself, then notches it at your entrance—you both moan as he slowly starts feeding himself into you. 

Gods, he’s big. 

There’s a slight burn with how he’s stretching you, your inner walls having to accommodate his ample girth, and once he’s pressed all the way to the root inside you, a breath leaves you that you hadn't realized you'd been holding in. 

He has a tight grip on your waist and pulls out almost all the way, immediately pushing back into you hard enough there's a clap when his hips hit your ass. This was expected, Marcus setting up a rhythm that punches the air from your lungs each time he thrusts forward—he’s working out what he doesn’t wish to feel, and with how slippery it is between your legs, he's moving easily, and the brutal pace feels amazing. 

Many times, you’ve had to fake your enjoyment to make those employing you think they’re talented lovers—the majority are selfish in bed and care little about your comfort but want their egos stroked. Marcus, on the other hand, earned your favor when he took the time to ready you with his fingers and allowed you to climax. 

He's pounding into you, the collide of his body against yours making your asscheeks shake, and with how his cock is pressing into something truly divine, he’s also earned your screams of his name and whatever incoherent words are babbling from your mouth—he has you dizzy with pleasure, heat coiling in your belly, and there’s no doubting the Goddess of Beauty and Sex has given him her blessing. 

Sounds are spilling unbidden from your lips, Marcus loudly grunting with each stroke, the wet slap of skin hitting skin echoing in the room, and you look over your shoulder—the candlelight around the room shows the glisten of sweat on his golden skin. His head is thrown back, his eyes closed, and his jaw slack. Hair is sticking to his forehead, and a beautiful rosy flush has begun on his chest, rising up his neck to paint his cheeks. You can't think of another you've laid with who looked so breathtaking while taking their pleasure, and you could only imagine how glorious he’d look on the battlefield. You don't know what comes over you, reaching your hand back to touch his hip, and suddenly, he’s looking at you, his eyes glazed with lust. 

It’s as though he’s been in a trance, losing himself in your body, and now he’s come back to be in the moment with you. He falls forward, his hands sinking into the mattress on either side of you, blanketing your back and slowing his pace. His chin is on your shoulder, and he bites the shell of your ear; all of his weight goes onto one arm to free up the other that roughly grabs your breast and plucks at your nipple.

“You take me so well,” he says into your ear, his cock continuing to slide in and out of you. “Your sweet little cunt will milk me dry, and then I’ll have you again and again after that to keep you full of my seed.” 

His words steal a moan from your lips. 

“Does that please you, my sweet girl?” he asks. “You wish for more of me? Has another ever fucked you so good?” He gets his hand between your legs to circle the pearl of your pleasure, and your jaw drops, eyes closing—he’s going to make you come again. “Answer me,” he growls, lightly slapping your clit, and you clench around him. 

It’s challenging to think, but you say, “No,” and push your ass back against him as he thrusts forward, fucking yourself on him to get closer and closer to your end. “I’ve never had such fortune.” 

“You do now—by morning, I’ll have you ruined for any other man, and your cunt won’t soon forget the shape of my cock.” 

He means every word that slips from his tongue, and it sets the fire in your belly ablaze. You’re holding yourself up on shaky limbs, the muscles in your stomach knotting up—you’re close.

“Marcus,” you moan. 

His warm breath tickles your ear as he speaks into it: “I love how my name sounds from your lips. I know you’re close. Give in so I can feel you ascend to the heavens.” 

His words, the fullness of his thick shaft moving in and out of you, and his fingers swirling around your sensitive bundle at the apex of your thighs has you shattering—stars burst behind your eyelids as white-hot pleasure erupts in your center, your pussy clamping down on him hard enough he slows to a stop, and groans in your ear.

You exhale panted breaths, your heart beating rapidly, and the blissful euphoria ripples through your body, slowly ebbing away. 

Somehow, you find your voice, "Allow me to ride you." 

He kisses your shoulder, his beard scratching against your bare skin. "You want to mount me?" he asks. 

"Yes."

"Then you shall." 

He pulls out of you, an achy groan leaving him as he lies beside you on his back, and you get up onto your knees. He draws your attention with how he’s splayed out on the mattress, his long legs slightly spread and arms crossed over his head. His cock is still hard, it shiny with your juices, and resting against his lower belly, cushioned by the tantalizing path of hair that led directly to it—and he’s looking up at you, his eyes dark with want that keep lowering to your bosom, and back up to your eye line, the pink of his tongue wetting his bottom lip, that you suddenly wish to bite. 

There’s the common knowledge about Marcus all of Rome is aware of—the family he comes from and the military achievements that have led to him being the victorious General the Gods have blessed the city with, and now you’re versed in his more private attributes—he likes his women to be sturdy with sizeable breasts, he enjoys the pleasurable pain of his hair pulled, he’s a generous lover, he prefers to be in control unless you can tempt him enough to hand over the reins. It’s quite tempting for him to lie back and watch your tits bounce as you ride him. 

Shuffling in place to face him, taking his hard length in hand—he didn’t ask, and you didn’t offer, yet you want to take care of him like he took care of you, so you scoot back enough that you can bend down at the waist, wrapping your lips around the tip of his cock.

The sound of Marcus’ loud moan and the way his back arches as if it were the string of a bow shoots straight to your cunt—you can taste the mix of your essence and his arousal that’s steadily dribbling from the sensitive head that you lick and suckle; your hand easily stroking up and down the sheath of skin on his shaft. The muscles in his thighs and stomach have tensed like it’s taking everything in him to hold back and not fill your mouth with his come.

“Enough,” he grits the order through his teeth, and his palm lands on the side of your ass with a hard slap that echoes against the walls, the sharp sting getting a moan out of you—your head lifts off of him to see he’s scowling. “I’m not spilling down your throat,” he continues and smacks your ass again. “Ride me, or I’ll have you under me.” 

“Apologies, Marcus,” you reply demurely and sit up on your knees once more. Quickly, you move, throwing a leg over his waist to have your thick thighs hugging his hips. You rise, grabbing his cock, you press to your entrance, and you watch his face as you slowly start to impale yourself on him, relishing in how his mouth falls open and the tight grip he has on the meat of your thighs, his fingers digging into them hard enough it bordered on painful. 

The fullness is incredible when you sit flush against him, and you love how he fills you. Your palms find purchase on his broad chest, and you rise until only the tip of him remains inside of you, and you drop back down—the rhythm you set has you moving in his lap, up and down in quick succession, Marcus groaning, his eyes locked on the jiggle of your breasts. 

Sweat forms on your skin, feeling it on your forehead and a single drop sliding down your spine, your eyes closed as you focus, your moans stuttering each time you sink onto him. 

His hands are resting on your backside, rising and falling with you, his voice rough with pleasure, “That’s it, ride me, bounce on my cock.”

This isn’t about you, and though it feels good riding him, your goal is helping him achieve his own high, and you’re determined to do so—your hands leave him to press your tits together, and you gasp in surprise when he sits up and shoves his face into them. Your pace doesn’t waver, and you look at him to see he’s keeping himself up with an arm braced on the bed behind him, the other hand grabbing a handful of your ass, and you know he’s not going to last much longer. 

Your fingers slide into the unruly curls at the back of his head, and you yank them hard to make him look at you, Marcus hissing while his cock twitches inside you. In this position, you’re taller, and he gazes up to meet your eyes. 

“I want you to come,” you pant, continuing to fuck yourself on him. “I want to feel you flood my cunt with your seed.” The noise he makes sounds like a whine. “Then I want you to do it again, and again after that—I want you to fill me to the point I’m brimming with you, and you’re in me for days.” 

He squeezes his eyes shut as he groans out a long, drawn-out Fuck

With his beautiful neck on display, you duck your head and lick up the taut skin of his throat, wishing you could suck a mark into it to remind him of you for a while after you part ways. His free hand roughly grabs your chin to pull you close enough for him to slot his lips against yours, and you have to slow to a grind as he messily kisses you, shoving his tongue into your mouth. 

He breaks away to fall back onto the mattress, his fingers getting a tight grip on your ass, the muscles in his arms flexing as he lifts you enough to start thrusting up into your soaked pussy rapidly—he’s grunting while baring his teeth to chase his high, and all you can do is press your palms to his chest for balance while keeping yourself raised enough for him to pound into you. 

The slick push and pull of him, moving in and out of you, has you chanting his name, and it sounds wet between your legs, hearing the clap of skin on skin of him plowing into you. Perspiration makes his tan flesh glint under the candle's light, his hair is a mess atop his head, and his expression is wild; it’s no surprise when his strokes get uneven and his eyes close. Marcus tugs your ass down to bury himself as far as possible in you as he gives in, coming with a guttural groan—you feel his cock jerk and the wet pulse as he paints your insides with spurts and spurts of his spend, wringing himself out until his body goes completely lax.

He pulls you forward to lie on top of him, wrapping his arms around your middle, and turns you both onto your sides. There’s a hiss that slips from his lips when he removes his softening length from your cunt, and you smile at Marcus sliding down the bed far enough for his face to nuzzle in your bosom while hugging you tight. Your fingers stroke through his sweat-damp curls, his hums of appreciation sounding like the purr of a cat. 

Minutes pass in silence as your breaths even out and your hearts slow. After some time, he says something you can’t make out.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you,” you reply. 

His head lifts, and he kisses under your chin. “Stay,” he says again. 

“I have no intention of leaving. I’m here until you send me away.” 

“And if I don’t wish to send you away?” 

His lips trail along your jaw. 

Your eyebrows pull together. “As I said, I’m here until you request my leave.” 

“And if I never request your leave?” 

He’s kissing your neck now, the question making your eyes round. “You intend for me to be your mistress?” 

It’s not uncommon for a courtesan to become one’s mistress. Some of you are from families of wealth and do this line of work for the powerful connections, while others are freedwomen who’ve worked their way up to earn their notoriety—either case, courtesans are respected and thought to make great mistresses. 

“That is all I can offer since I have no plans to marry,” he answers. “You can stay here with or without me when I’m ordered away, and whatever is left of my salary and spoils of war after the household debts are paid, you may keep.”

He makes you frown. 

“Why me?”

Marcus gets his arm out from under you and scoots up the mattress to look you in the eyes. 

“You’re everything I desire in a woman with your beauty and intellect, and you can sate my needs in bed—you’re perfect, and I want you all to myself. I do not wish to share you with anyone else.”

It’s in this moment you realize you’re the one in control here—you don’t need him, you’re self-sufficient, and there are many who’d eagerly take his place, but your looks are rare in your profession, and he needs his deal to be enticing enough for you to take it. 

“What if I decline your offer?” 

“Then I pray you’ll allow me to keep your company until I receive my next orders.” 

He seems to be a good, honorable man who wants to please you, and he had you tempted to accept on the merit of his skills in bed alone—there’s just something that won’t leave your mind. 

“Before I make my decision, answer this question: if you believe me to be so perfect, why were the others here?” 

He presses his large palm to your cheek. “It was in your power to deny me your company, and though the other women weren’t of my tastes, they were better than nothing.” 

You see no flaws in his answer. 

“I accept your offer on one condition.”

“And that is?”

You no longer find him intimidating, and you’re now comfortable brushing errant hairs off his forehead and sliding your fingers through the curls above his ears. 

Your eyes lock onto his. “You return home to me,” you tell him. “You fight with the might of Mars, and you always return home to me.” 

That earns you a small smile, and he takes your hand into his, kissing the center of your palm. 

“I will, my Dove.” 

Masterlist

Thank you for reading! If you’d like to be tagged in my fics, please fill out the form in my bio, on my masterlist, or just let me know!

[p-taryn-dactyl]

way down we go: the aftermath (i)

a/n: hi!! I love this AU and im so happy that y'all liked it!! i know i said that there wouldn't really be a long fic continuation but i think this AU has some real potential and so im back lmao, it's been a while

word count: 1.9k

warning(s): agatha is a serial killer - psychological manipulation (kind of) - 👀 🌶️ - i have no real clue how police and stuff works this is so fiction - rushed ending im sorry - this might be bad but hey! i wrote something (oh and, first time writing anything remotely spicy on this blog so please be kind)

pairing(s): serial killer!Agatha Harkness x forensic scientist!reader

way down we go & way down we go ii

The trial came and went, a passing memory in your mind, pushed away so you wouldn't see her eyes boring into your dreams. 

It didn't work. 

Every night since you sat as a witness against Agatha, blue eyes followed you to sleep, haunting you with their coldness. Every night you woke up in a cold sweat, a phantom knife held to your throat. 

This night wasn't different as you shot out of bed with a gasp, a sheen of sweat covering your skin. Checking the time, you allowed yourself a bit of gratitude at the amount of sleep you got this night. 

Deciding to get into work early to examine bone samples of a cold case that you had reopened, you stretched and walked to your bathroom to get ready. It was a numbing experience, Agatha's humming no longer filling the air to sooth your mind. Soon, you found yourself in your car on the road. As you pulled into the parking garage of the building, a feeling akin to dread pooled in your stomach. Never before did the cold, dark atmosphere of the garage haunt you, follow you, as it did right then. You parked, in your regular spot, a sense of normalcy that did little to calm your nerves. 

Agatha had claimed insanity, a response to the abuse and PTSD given to her by her own mother, a claim that had kept her off of death row. You would never admit to anyone that you were relieved, relieved that the woman you loved for so long wouldn’t meet her end in a dark room strapped to an inhumane device. However, unless you made the decision to visit, Agatha would spend the rest of her days in a federal prison. 

When you got out of your car, you had the feeling of being watched, a feeling you knew all too well. But when you looked around, no one was there. However, a fluttering noise caught your attention, drawing you to the concrete pillar next to your spot. A piece of paper, duck taped, fluttered in the small gusts of wind. You tore it off, opening the folded paper and promptly dropping it onto the ground below. 

You knew that handwriting. 

Before the note could be taken away with the wind, you crouched on the ground, picking up the paper and leaning against the pillar as you read. 

You won’t find anything with the bones, they’re old and dry: useless. Go back to where they were found, let’s see what you discover there. See you soon, my darling. 

~ A

It felt like years could pass and you were stuck in place. Millions of questions ran through your mind as your hands gripped the letter in a vice like grip. 

How did she know what you were doing?

How did she know about the bones?

How did she send this letter?

How, how, how?

No answers entered your mind, you could think of no way, no reason, that Agatha could’ve accomplished this. But curiosity prevailed and you stood up, making your way back into the driver's seat. 

This cold case has been the bane of your existence for far too long. Only bits of bones were found, a shallow grave that was old when discovered. No one had ever found the skull, let alone enough for a full skeleton. It was like the second the bones were discovered the case ran cold. Even if it was your wi- even if it was Agatha bringing to light new possible discoveries, you would take it. Solving this case could get you back on your feet, as you had been hiding in your lab in the months of Agatha’s trial. You entered the address of the crime scene, a long abandoned park and walking path thirty minutes away, into your GPS and drove away. 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The air was almost still with anticipation as you walked the path. The bits of bones had been found only a few hundred feet away and you felt a pull towards the spot. But as you got closer, you saw a stick standing straight up in the ground, marking the exact location of the shallow grave. On it was another piece of paper, with words that sent you falling to your knees, digging in the soft dirt with your hands, 

Here lies Evanora Harkness, first to die, the one with no regret. 

Dirt clung to your nails, roots stung against your skin as you clawed the ground away, making it past the spot where the initial grave ended. But as you kept going, you came across smaller bones. A body of a long decomposed rabbit lay in front of you, something to throw search dogs off their scent. You kept digging. You dug until your arms burnt with the strain, until your arms were covered in a thin layer of the earth. You dug until you found it. 

The skull. 

Its position in the ground told you how the body had been buried. Methodically, of course, but as if Evanora was standing up in the ground, arms stretched to the sky. The finger bones were what you had collected years previous. 

As you held the skull in your hands, you felt an indent on the jaw. A cut from her throat, sloppy with the hands of someone first committing murder. This really was Agatha’s first victim. But why had she led you here, how did she lead you here? One more body equaled another life sentence, no chance of ever seeing daylight again. 

Your phone started ringing, the horrible service on the walking path letting a stray call through. You answered, but Darcy’s voice barely made it over the static. 

“Turn on the news!” Was all you could hear before the call fell through. 

The panic in your colleagues and friend’s voice made you stand with haste, putting the skull back into the ground and frantically pushing the dirt back into the hole. You grabbed the stick, breaking it and throwing it off the trail as you crumbled up the note, stuffing it in your back pocket. 

There was a gas station almost right outside the park. You rushed in, your mind going a thousand miles per hour. Why would Darcy want you to turn on the news? You had your answer almost the second you crossed the threshold. A group of people stood in front of the cashier, who had a small TV hanging above their head. The news was playing, a somber looking reporter standing in front of a landscape covered with tape and police cars. 

“Earlier this week, a mass confusion occurred outside Salem Penitentiary. Law enforcement said that, at the time, they didn’t know how bad the damage was. But now, as reports flood in, they have no choice but to release what really happened. A prison break. Some two hundred…” 

Her voice trailed off in your mind, muffled by your shock. 

The notes, the feeling of being watched, the cold case. 

Agatha had escaped. 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The drive back home was loud. You blasted music, yelled at others on the road, honked at people to get out of your way. When you pulled into your driveway, it was like a wave of deja vu crashed over you. The car went silent as you turned it off, your eyes never leaving the shadow in the window. Slowly, you got out of the car, your heart practically beating out of your chest. You opened the front door, the silent aura of your home expectant as you walked further into your house. In the living room, it was like history repeating itself. Except this time, your wife held no wine and had no knife. She wore clothes from the closet you couldn’t bear to clean out, looked like she had recently taken a shower - something you were suddenly very aware you needed, but her eyes stayed the same. Cold and blue, boring into you. You steeled yourself, not letting your eyes fall from hers as you approached her. Agatha just watched until you were a foot in front of her, she uncrossed her legs and spread her arms out like she wanted a hug. You hated how fast you folded, rushing to straddle her lap and wrap your arms around her. Burying your face into her neck, you felt tears build up in your eyes. For a moment, you would let yourself pretend. Pretend that your wife wasn’t a serial killer, pretend that she hadn’t been in prison for months, pretend that it was all a bad dream and she was consoling you. 

“Oh how I missed you, darling,” her voice sent chills down your spine. It held overwhelming affection, but she spoke as if detached. It was then you realized the last time she had seen you was when you sat the witness stand, giving the evidence to put her away for lifetimes. You leaned back, letting your arms rest on her shoulders as you stared at her. Her eyes examined you, running over the bags under your eyes, the dirt layering the skin on your arms. Seeing the concern in her eyes made something in your mind crumble. 

Everyone makes mistakes sometimes, right? And honestly, her victims had no one to miss them so-

You internally shook your head at yourself. No, you couldn’t think like that, you couldn’t-

Your train of thought was interrupted by Agatha’s hands cupping your face. You brought up your hands to cover hers, tears now streaming down your face. 

“I-I’m sorry,” you choked out, noticing how something in Agatha’s eyes softened at your words, “I thought I was doing the right thing, I didn’t want-”

She cut you off with a light kiss, which deepened as her grip on your face grew tighter. Soon, your lips were crashing against hers with a ferocity you had missed. Craved. She leaned forward, wrapping her arms around you as she stood. Never once breaking the kiss. She brought you to the spot you stood all those months ago, pressing you against the wall as she kissed down your neck, sucking lightly at your collarbone. 

“Agatha-”

“Did you miss me?” She cut you off with a bite to your shoulder, pushing your sleeve down your arm with strength that almost tore the seams. You let out a breathy gasp, surprised. 

“I,” you swallowed, about to admit something out loud that you had only thought for months, “I did, I do, I miss you so much.” The tears came back, flooding your eyes and choking your words. Agatha looked up, slowly letting you down so you could stand as she put one arm by your head. 

“I’m right here, I don’t plan on leaving you alone for a long time.” 

The smile she gave you was shark like, all teeth. You were her prey and you fell right into her trap. Her free hand trailed down your body, coming to pause over the buttons on your pants. She circled the metal, tapping it as she spoke. 

“Now, after our last conversation, I don’t think you believe me when I say I missed you,” some part of you shuddered with guilt, she was right, you didn’t believe her fully, “And I can’t have that. Why don’t I show you how much I missed you?” 

You gasped as she unbuttoned your pants, trailing her fingers down to the place that had been abandoned since Agatha went behind bars. She crashed her lips into yours again, licking the seam of your lips, begging to be let in. You parted your lips, allowing your wife to consume you. As her fingers pushed your underwear to the side, you wrapped your arms around Agatha’s neck tighter, raising one leg to hook around her hip. 

Oh this was a bad idea.

a/n: hehe, hopfully this was ok?? my writing slump has been EVIL and im just now crawling out of it

[tinyshyteacup]

Tw: Cussing, sexual comments

Part 2

Gilded Façade - Part 3

"Loki," Frigga said softly, approaching her son who stood rigid by the window, staring out at the golden gardens with thinly veiled contempt.

The corridor around them hummed with distant activity as servants rushed to prepare for the evening's banquet.

Torches flickered along the ornate walls, casting dancing shadows across the polished marble floor as mother and son paused in their procession toward the great hall.

The ceremonial feast awaited them—She placed a gentle hand on his arm, feeling the tension beneath the leather and metal of his formal attire as the sounds of laughter and music drifted toward them.

"I know this arrangement was not your choosing, but I have glimpsed threads of possibility between you and this Midgardian. There is potential for something genuine, if only you would allow it." She searched his face, recognizing the mask of indifference he wore so perfectly, yet seeing beneath it to the turmoil he tried to conceal.

"Remember, my son, that sometimes the most powerful magic comes from unexpected places."

Loki's jaw tightened, though he did not pull away from his mother's touch. "You ask me to play the willing bridegroom to a mewling waif from midgard who will wither and die in what amounts to a heartbeat by our standards," he replied, his voice low and controlled.

"Tell me, Mother, what purpose does this serve beyond—Odin's political machinations?" Frigga smiled knowingly, her eyes reflecting ancient wisdom that even Loki could not dismiss.

"Your father sees alliances and power, as is his way. But I see a soul that might understand yours in ways none in Asgard have managed. You have always been different, Loki—perhaps what you need is someone equally out of place." She touched his cheek, turning his face toward hers.

"Make an effort, not for Odin, not for Asgard, but for yourself. You have spent centuries building walls— I merely suggest you create a single door."

The grand hall is a tapestry of light and noise—soaring columns of carved marble's, draped with silken banners in gold, reds, greens all the colours of the royal households of Asgard.

Torches flicker with enchantment, casting ethereal shadows that dance across the high ceiling. Laughter rings like chimes from the gathered nobility, their attire shining with embroidery and gems that look like stars set in velvet.

You sit near the end of the high table, amongst golden chalices and towering platters of Asgardian cuisine. The gown Frigga helped you chose is beautiful but heavy, the bodice tight against your ribs, making each breath feel shallow.

The platter before you holds unfamiliar delicacies—glowing fruits, slices of deep violet meat, a spiral of something iridescent that twitches faintly when your fork nears.

You hesitate, is that pudding —shit, is that alive ?

From across the table, a voice cuts through the hum of conversation. Smooth. Teasing.

“If it wriggles, it’s perhaps best not to poke at it.”

You look up sharply.

Loki, lounging in the next chair, has turned just enough to address you. He’s in ceremonial robes—deep green with intricate gold trim, his raven-black hair pulled half-back with an emerald clasp. His expression is wry, one brow arched.

You blink at him. "Pardon?"

He sighs—too dramatically—and rises, sweeping behind you. His movements are liquid, effortless, drawing only a few curious glances as he leans close enough for only you to hear.

“You’re meant to eat that one with the pale sauce,” he murmurs, gesturing gracefully. “Neutralizes the sting.”

You glance at the shimmering pool of sauce and then back at him.

“Sting?”

He smiles, sharp and mischievous.

“Only mild paralysis.”

You freeze.

He chuckles—softly, almost to himself.

“I jest,” he assures. “Mostly.”

Then, more gently than expected, he slides the correct items to your plate, adjusting the arrangement. A practiced motion. Like he’s done this before—for someone younger, maybe. Or someone he used to care about.

You whisper, “Thank you.”

He doesn’t respond. Not aloud. But his eyes flick toward you, unreadable—and he returns to his seat with a flourish of robes.

Midway through the evening, you reach for one of the crystal goblets filled with something that shimmers with a faint, swirling light.

Before the rim touches your lips, a hand closes gently—firmly—around your wrist.

Loki again.

His tone is quieter this time. Less mocking.

“That would be unwise.”

You blink at him.

“It’s wine, isn’t it?”

His gaze sharpens. “It’s Asgardian wine.”

You glance around—others are drinking it, laughing easily.

“Why—?”

“Because what one drop does to your kind,” he says, voice just above a whisper, “takes down soldiers twice your size. And because I would rather not have to carry you back to your chambers.”

He doesn’t let go until you lower the goblet. Even then, his hand lingers a second too long.

The corridor outside your chambers is quieter now. Moonlight filters through latticework windows, painting pale shapes along the marble.

You walk slowly beside Loki, who somehow ended up accompanying you after the banquet. You’re not sure why. He hasn’t said much. But he hasn’t left either.

You glance up at him. He’s staring forward, expression unreadable.

“Can I… ask you something?” you say softly.

He makes a vague noise of assent.

You look down at your hands. Then back at him.

“Your magic,” you begin. “Is it always offensive?”

He stops walking.

You do too, heart fluttering. You wish you hadn’t asked.

Loki’s jaw tightens. He turns his head slightly, but doesn’t face you fully. The torchlight throws half of his face into shadow.

“No,” he says at last. His voice is low, and this time, unguarded. “But pain… is what they remember.”

He turns to look at you now. Something flashes in his eyes—not anger. Not sarcasm.

Regret.

“I learned long ago that illusion is safer than sincerity. That power gets attention. Fear, respect—whatever you want to call it.”

He exhales through his nose.

“I could conjure flowers, tame fire to dance for children… and no one would notice. But one dagger—” he makes a subtle gesture, conjuring a flash of silver at his palm, “and suddenly, they see me.”

The blade vanishes.

You don’t speak. You just watch him.

Loki’s eyes lower to you.

The long corridor is dim and quiet, lined with heavy velvet drapery and flickering sconces. You walk beside Loki in thoughtful silence, your hands folded in front of you, clutching the soft fabric of your dress.

He strides with his usual grace—shoulders back, posture fluid—but there’s something almost subdued in the way he keeps pace with you, not ahead.

You hesitate before speaking. Your voice is soft.

“My Prince… why do the servants seem afraid of you?”

His step falters, so minutely you might’ve missed it.

He doesn’t answer immediately.

You continue, words tumbling out, fingers fidgeting nervously. “Liva… the one who helps me, she won’t even look you in the eye. She speaks kindly to me, but when she talks about you, there’s… fear. Like she expects you to… turn her into something.”

He scoffs, but it’s quiet—half-hearted.

“They choose to fear me,” he murmurs, eyes forward. “It’s easier than understanding what they don’t know.”

You stop walking. Loki takes one more step, then pauses and turns halfway to you. His silhouette cuts sharply against the light spilling from an open doorway down the hall.

“I don’t fear you,” you whisper. “Not exactly. But I’m more scared of—”

You swallow.

“The whole— Night of Convergence, thing.”

That gets his full attention. He turns to face you completely, dark brows arching. His expression shifts subtly from cool detachment to something softer. Cautious.

“I beg your pardon?” he asks, in that smooth, careful voice.

You look at the floor, cheeks warming. “Frigga said it’s part of the tradition. That the servants will prepare the bedchamber and… stand outside… after the wedding. To make sure it’s… done properly.”

Your voice fades to near silence.

“I’m not—” you shake your head, gripping your sleeves tighter, “its not like we know each other, I just dont want to—”

“Stop,” he says gently. His voice is lower now. “You don’t need to finish that.”

When you finally look up, Loki’s eyes are on you. Unreadable, yes—but not cruel. There’s no mockery there. Only a deep, guarded stillness. You realize he’s not angry.

He’s startled.

And before he can answer—before he can say something that might have shifted everything—

“Brother!”

The hallway echoes with the sudden boom of Thor’s voice, followed by the rowdy laughter of the Warriors Three.

You flinch at the sheer volume. Loki visibly stiffens.

From the far end of the corridor, Thor barrels toward you, arms open, a goblet already in hand. Fandral, Volstagg, and Hogun trail behind, flushed with drink and boisterous energy.

“There you are!” Thor grins, clapping a hand on Loki’s shoulder hard enough to jostle him. Loki scowls. “We’ve been wondering where you’ve hidden the lady bride!”

You blink. “I— not—yet—”

“But you will be!” Volstagg bellows with a jovial laugh, already swinging an arm around your shoulders. “And that means you must drink with us! A proper send-off!”

Fandral winks. “It is tradition, after all.”

Loki steps slightly between you and them—not obviously, but enough that you notice. He places a hand on your lower back, almost absentmindedly, like a tether.

His face is a mask of politeness, but you can feel tension radiating off him.

“She doesn’t drink,” Loki says evenly. “Asgardian spirits are a touch… overwhelming for her constitution.”

“Then we’ll water them down!” Thor declares, already ushering the group back down the corridor. “Come, Sister-to-be! You’ll sit beside me and tell me all the horrible things my brother has done to terrify you.”

Your heart skips at the way they all laugh again, unaware of how your nerves twist.

You glance up at Loki. He meets your gaze—his hand still resting lightly at your back.

“I’ll stay with you,” he murmurs quietly, so only you can hear. “If you wish.”

You nod.

The golden hall is alive.

Torchlight dances along high-vaulted ceilings, catching the gleam of silver goblets and polished armor. The scent of roasted game, honeyed mead, and spiced wine thickens the air. Laughter bursts and echoes off the marble columns like rolling thunder.

You sit— quiet, and composed—at a table too wide, beside men too loud.

Thor slams a goblet in front of you with a hearty laugh. “Drink up, Sister! It’s not a celebration without fire in your veins!”

You pick up the goblet cautiously, the ornate cup too large for your hand. The amber liquid inside glows faintly—ominous, heady.

Loki, seated beside you with his ever-watchful calm, catches your hesitation. Without a word, he leans toward you, long fingers brushing the edge of your cup. A shimmer of green magic dances along his hand—subtle, elegant.

The liquid darkens a moment, then clears.

"What did you do to it?" You ask eyeing it somewhat suspiciously

“It’s as potent as water now,” he says softly, his voice for your ears alone. “Drink without fear.”

You offer a timid nod, murmuring, “Thank you… My Prince.”

But the flicker of unease remains. The magic was beautiful, yes—but seeing it so close again, watching it alter something so effortlessly… your stomach knots. It didn’t hurt. But maybe it could have. You sip carefully, grateful—and still a little wary.

Loki sits back, his lips pressed in a faint line.

He noticed your reaction.

Thor throws an arm around Hogun and howls with laughter. Volstagg bites into a haunch of roast and talks with his mouth full. Fandral, ever the dashing fool, turns his full attention toward you.

“So,” he says, leaning in with a too-charming smile, “tell me, lady bride—what enchantment did you use to snare our elusive prince? Or was it a well-aimed apple to the head?”

“I—I didn’t—”

He chuckles. “Ah, modesty. Irresistible on Midgardian women. Truly, you must teach me the secret. Do you always blush so easily? Or is it simply the company?”

You blink, not quite understanding. “I’m not enchanted, I—I think I just fell asleep.”

“Fell asleep, she says!” Fandral grins, turning to the others. “So the little bird didn't ensnare him!”

Laughter erupts around the table. Your fingers tighten on your goblet, unsure if they’re laughing at you.

You glance at Loki.

His eyes narrow—not quite angry, but sharp. A quiet warning glints behind them. He doesn’t laugh. He doesn't join in.

Instead, he leans in close, resting his arm behind your chair as if casually.

“She doesn’t speak your language of idiocy, Fandral,” Loki says silkily. “Try not to confuse her kindness for consent.”

The table hushes for a beat. Thor breaks the tension with a loud bark of laughter, clapping Fandral on the back.

“Careful, old friend—my brother guards his prize well!”

You feel your stomach twist at that word Prize? You definitely don’t like that.

You try to follow the conversation, but the noise is overwhelming. Toasts are shouted, jugs are slammed, stories are boasted with grand hand gestures. You're dizzy from the scents, the flickering lights, the overlapping voices.

Volstagg leans across the table. “Tell us, Lady—how do Midgardians treat their wedding nights? Do you hunt first, or just surrender?”

You choke on your drink. "What on ear—"

Loki rises sharply. Not enough to draw attention from the whole hall—but enough that his presence cools the immediate air around your corner of the table.

“That’s enough.”

Volstagg raises his hands, still chuckling. “I meant no offense!”

“I’m certain you didn’t,” Loki replies, voice smooth and cold. “And yet here we are.”

He turns to you.

“Would you care for some air?”

You nod, grateful. Loki rises, extending a hand. You take it, your fingers disappearing into his long, cool grasp.

He helps you from the table with all the ceremony of a royal escort—but there's a protective tension in his arm now, a barely leashed restraint.

The halls of the palace are quiet this late in the evening, echoing with the soft tap of your shoes against polished stone. The marble walls, etched in gold and starlight, feel too tall, too grand. You walk beside Loki, his long strides shortened—barely noticeably—to match your pace.

You don’t know what to say. The silence stretches, awkward and heavy. Your hands are folded in front of you, fiddling with the edge of one sleeve.

In two days, you are to be married to a god who controls magic, whose own palace servants flinch from him.

You can’t picture what your dress looks like. You don’t know what flowers were chosen.

You don’t even know who planned it. You hadn’t dared ask Frigga after she mentioned the "convergence" with a serene, expectant smile.

The words tumble out before you can stop them, soft and halting. “I still… don’t know anything about the wedding.”

Loki hums quietly beside you, the sound deep in his throat.

“You needn’t concern yourself with the details,” he says at last, his tone even. “It’s being handled. All you must do is arrive.”

You nod, eyes cast downward. " and the convergence?”

Something sharp flashes in his eyes. Displeasure. Perhaps not at you—but at the topic.

“I will take care of it,” he says, his voice clipped, final.

There’s a pause.

“That sounds…” you murmur, fingers twisting nervously, “ominous.”

He stops walking. You halt with him, blinking up at his profile in the golden torchlight.

His jaw flexes. Then, quietly, “Yes. I imagine it does.”

You expect him to explain. He doesn’t.

Instead, he turns, offering his hand with a courtly gesture. “Come. I've seen enough marble for a lifetime.”

The garden opens like a breath of relief—lush, silent, moon-soaked.

The night air smells of night-blooming silverroses and deep green things. The paths wind through manicured hedges and ancient trees draped in ethereal moss, glowing faintly under the stars.

Here, Loki walks with more ease. His shoulders loosen. His voice drops in pitch, more gentle than aloof.

“You may prefer this part of the palace” he says, glancing sideways at you. “It doesn’t ask anything of you.”

You offer a small, grateful smile. “It’s beautiful.”

He watches you as you speak, like he’s measuring your honesty. Then—with a flick of his wrist—something green sparks at his fingertips.

You flinch before you can help it.

He notices.

Slowly, deliberately, he lowers his hand and holds it palm-up, as if asking permission.

You swallow and nod.

The light returns—gentler this time. It swirls upward from his hand like steam from a teacup, curling into the air until it blooms into a cluster of glowing butterflies.

Their wings shimmer like frost on glass as they flit around you, weightless and warm.

Your lips part in awe. One lands on your shoulder, vanishing with a sparkle as you turn to look.

Loki watches your reaction more than the illusion itself. There’s a softness in his expression now—guarded, but real.

“It doesn’t only harm,” he says quietly. “My magic.”

You glance at him.

“It can,” he admits. “When I choose. When I must. But… it also does this.” He lifts a hand, and the illusion shifts—now a tiny silver fox chasing its own tail in the grass, yipping silently, glowing at the edges.

You let out a small, surprised laugh. He glances at you, lips twitching faintly upward.

“I didn’t know it could be… gentle,” you whisper.

“No one ever asks if it can.”

[d8nielaa]

hello, can i request a Ponyboy imagine? it’s all based on the fact that i don’t think it’s talked about enough that Pony probably has ptsd from being drowned and i don’t it’s ever been addressed so he’s kinda just been silently dealing with it. So maybe a year or two after the events of the musical, Reader and Pony are in gym and it’s basically laps in the pool and Pony ends up having a panic attack because of the water, and reader is trying to help and Reader has to tell the school to call Darry or Soda or both have to come and get them and it’s really sweet.

yeah, yeah…thank you

Authors Note: yes ofc anon! I've seen a few post canon water trauma pony pics before, and they honestly make me shed tears because he's just a scared kid🥺

The Drowning

Ponyboy Curtis x fem!reader

The hum of voices echoed through the gymnasium as students gathered for their weekly swim class. It was a familiar setting—pools of water shimmering under fluorescent lights, the sound of water sloshing and splashing in every direction. The usual chatter of teenagers, the coach's whistle, the scent of chlorine… it was all so routine, but for Ponyboy, it felt like a weight pressing down on his chest.

He stood by the poolside, pulling off his sweatshirt and tying it around his waist, though his body felt frozen. The thought of getting into the water made his stomach churn in a way he didn’t fully understand. It wasn’t that he was afraid of swimming—it was the water itself. He couldn’t help but remember the feeling of it, the suffocating weight of it over his head, pulling him under.

Don’t think about it, Pony. It’s just swimming. It’s just a stupid class. You can do this.

But the words in his head didn’t stop the rush of anxiety that was growing with every passing second. His pulse quickened, and his hands felt clammy as his gaze flickered to the pool. He tried to focus on the task at hand, but the memories kept pushing through, memories of the night he nearly drowned, of the panic, the cold water seeping into his lungs.

“You okay, Pony?” You asked, noticing the stiff posture in his shoulders.

He blinked, trying to force a smile. "Yeah, yeah, I’m fine," he muttered, though he couldn’t quite meet your eyes. He didn’t want to worry you; didn’t want to show how unsettled he was. You had no idea how much that moment still haunted him, and he wasn’t sure how to explain it to you. He didn’t know how to explain it to anyone. It was easier to just pretend everything was fine, to bury it down deep where no one could see.

But that didn’t stop the knot in his stomach from tightening as the coach blew the whistle, signaling that it was time to start the laps.

"Alright, Curtis. You’re up first," the coach barked, his tone firm.

Ponyboy nodded slowly, trying to force his legs to move. You could see the hesitation in his steps, the tightness in his jaw, but you didn’t press him. Not yet. You had seen him struggle like this before, but never this badly. You hadn’t seen him act like this since… well, since the night he was nearly drowned in that church fire.

He stepped toward the pool, the cold air hitting his skin. His chest tightened, and for a moment, he almost froze, looking at the glistening water. Just get in. You can do this, Ponyboy. It’s just water. Just swimming.

But the moment he dipped his foot into the pool, everything seemed to go still. His breath hitched in his throat, and a sharp rush of panic flooded his chest. He tried to take another step, but his body betrayed him. The ground beneath him seemed to disappear, and all he could hear was the sound of rushing water, filling his ears like it did that night.

The panic set in fast, too fast. His breathing became erratic, shallow gasps escaping his lips as his vision blurred. His heart was pounding in his ears, and all he could think of was the cold water, the feeling of being dragged under, helpless.

Ponyboy staggered back, his hands pressing against the edge of the pool as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded. The pool around him was suddenly suffocating, and he felt the familiar weight of fear rising inside him.

“Ponyboy?” You called, rushing to his side. “Pony, hey, what’s going on?”

His hands trembled, his body shaking, and for a moment, he couldn’t find the words. His breath came out in sharp, ragged gasps, and his chest felt like it was being squeezed by an invisible hand.

“I—I can’t,” he stammered, trying to steady himself. His eyes darted around, his head spinning, his body fighting the panic that was threatening to take over. “I can’t do it.”

You immediately stepped closer, your hand resting on his arm, steadying him. “Hey, it’s okay,” you whispered, your voice soft and reassuring. “You’re okay. You’re here with me. Just breathe, alright? I’m here.”

But Ponyboy couldn’t focus. The world was closing in, the water like a weight pressing on him, and his mind was flashing back to the feeling of being dragged under the fire’s smoke, the choking sensation of water filling his lungs. His heart pounded faster, the room spinning as he tried to fight the suffocating feeling.

“Breathe with me,” you said, your hand gently cupping his face. “In and out. Just breathe, Pony. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

But nothing seemed to help. His hands were shaking violently, and his body trembled as if it were on the edge of a precipice, fighting to keep himself from falling into a panic he couldn’t escape.

“I can’t… I can’t—” he muttered desperately, his voice breaking.

Without hesitation, you turned toward the coach, voice steady but urgent. “Coach, I need you to call Darry. Or Soda. Please, they need to come and get him.”

The coach hesitated, glancing between you and Ponyboy, clearly unsure of what was happening. “Is he alright?” he asked, but you didn’t have the time to explain.

“Just call them. Now,” you urged, your voice firm.

The coach finally nodded and rushed off, leaving you with Ponyboy. You turned back to him, your hands gently holding his shoulders. He looked at you, his wide eyes filled with fear and embarrassment, but you didn’t let that matter. Right now, he needed support, not judgment.

“I’m here, Pony. I’m right here,” you whispered, your voice a steady anchor in the chaos of his mind.

He leaned into you, shaking his head, trying to control the rapid rise of panic in his chest. “I… I don’t want them to think I’m weak,” he confessed, his voice barely a whisper, vulnerable in a way you had never heard him before.

“You’re not weak,” you said firmly, looking him straight in the eye. “You’re human. And it’s okay to need help.”

Minutes felt like hours before the familiar voices of Darry and Soda filled the room. Darry’s eyes instantly went to Ponyboy, and he rushed over to him, his expression full of concern.

“Pony, what’s going on?” Darry asked gently, kneeling in front of him. Soda stood behind, just as worried but trying to keep his cool.

“I… I can’t do it,” Ponyboy muttered, his hands trembling.

Darry’s hand went to his shoulder, grounding him. “It’s alright, kiddo. You don’t have to do it. We’ll take you home.”

Soda looked at you with a grateful nod, acknowledging how you had stepped in. “You did good, helping him.”

You gave him a small smile, but your attention stayed on Ponyboy. Darry gently helped him to his feet, guiding him away from the pool, Soda walking beside them to give him support.

As they made their way out of the gym, Ponyboy’s head was down, but you could see the subtle relief in his posture as he leaned against his brothers. They were there for him, as they always were. And you would be, too. No matter how many laps around the pool he had to face, you knew he wasn’t alone anymore.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Authors Note: 😋

[cosmiclove-heavenstruck]

Did I just... rewrite Life Is Strange: Double Exposure? Not completely, obviously, but after watching game plays and reviews on the game I was just so unhappy that I had to put my thoughts down and it escalated a bit. This is really long (over 5000 words), but I remember watching the trailer for the first time and having such different expectations and such a different story in mind that I felt so disappointed when seeing what the game was actually about. This is a rant-turned-sorta-rewrite... so enjoy!

Quick disclaimer, these are just my ideas and opinions – if you enjoyed the game as it is, that's great <3

Okay look. There's dozens of people on YouTube and whatnot who've already laid out why Life Is Strange: Double Exposure feels lacking. The decisions made have no lasting effect and most times two decisions have the same outcome, even the “major” ones. The police officer/detective Alderman, who could've made for an interesting villain or at least an antagonistic force, dies either way and is then brushed off and forgotten. I remember somebody mentioned that those major decisions are also phrased in a way that pushes the player towards one, for example one time the two options on screen aren’t “Accept” and “Decline” but vice versa.

The dialogue feels off, the relationships are shallow and not developed, and the promoted murder mystery surrounding Safi gets abandoned for a cheap marvel-we're-all-superheros storyline. What I'm also missing is the atmosphere and the world-building. A comparison to the original is inevitable, so lets remember how much we could explore of the world of Arcadia Bay: Blackwell Academy with all the classrooms and the two outdoor spaces, the dorms, the junkyard, the swimming pool, the diner, Chloe's house, Jefferson's bunker... we were able to actually get to know the world and its people which are at the final moment put at risk. In the new game, Max runs around the abandoned bowling hall, the snowy campus, the bar and her house... and that's it. It lacks so much in places that when she is caught in her timelines shifting alternative nightmare reality, they used a motel she once stayed in off-screen. Honestly, at first I thought it was from LIS2.

It never feels like Max is actually part of this world. I so wish the game would've started out with Max actually teaching a class instead of just mentioning on the sidelines Oh yeah, she's a teacher now. It would've been a reasonable nod to the start of the original game and to show how far Max has come, how her art style has developed, the differences (and maybe similarities) to Jefferson's teaching. Have a callback to her selfie moment because one of her students takes one. When Max is done with her class, she could explore (a part) of the college/classrooms and then pick up Safi from one of her classes; maybe we even briefly meet Moses. Just so it's established from the getgo that they are part of the staff and not students/set a clear boundary, because that line is SO unclear in the current game. Sometimes the students address Max as “Ms. Caulfield” other times just as “Max” like they are friends and that's just weird to me. (I never went to college or uni, but I doubt it's normal to just address your teacher or professor with their first name, right?)

So, Max picks up Safi and they drive to the outskirts of town to that abandoned bowling alley. That way, we can see some parts of the town Max chose to stay at (plus some nice music)! Also, let us start on a parking lot outside, not directly inside.

But wait, you might say, what about Chloe? What about the endings of LIS1? Well, this came to me surprisingly easy when I thought a bit about the concept for Double Exposure, which is: timelines. Max no longer jumps back in time or through photos, but she discovers she can switch back and forth between two realities. The “real world” splits when Safi gets shot. So, to answer the question: How cool would the new Life Is Strange game have been if the players can start out in two possible realities depending on their choice of the first game? One reality similar to the one in the current game (storm was prevented, Arcadia Bay survives, Chloe isn’t there – because let’s be honest, the new game never intended to serve as a follow-up to the reality where Chloe lives) and then an opposite one. Instead of the two timelines being created through Safi's death, her death is what causes something to open between the worlds.

I understand bringing Chloe back would be too difficult but then you could argue she drove ahead to where Arcadia Bay used to be to visit her mother's grave over Christmas or something like that, and Max’ plan was to come too as soon as the term ends. They’ve had over fifteen years after the storm, I’m sure they have grown to be able to handle being away from each other for some time. Having them break up off screen just feels like a gut punch to most fans who decided to save her. In another scenario, the sequel would've picked up right after the storm, but that makes it even harder to respect both endings.

So, fast forward fifteen years to Caledon University, Lakeport, Vermont.

The realities can't be too different even though they surely would be, but it’s two possible futures to explore through Max and how she discovers these differences. That would require newspaper articles, text messages, diary entries, similar to Max' Arcadia Bay stuff box in Double Exposure.

When does Max realise she can switch between realities? Obviously, Safi's death still only happens in one and when it happens, realities glitch and overlap from Max (she sees everything in double exposure).

Would Safi die in the reality where Chloe lives or died? Personally I think the first option makes the most sense, putting Max on the spot whether she's going to let another town be destroyed or not. Most happening from the start of Double Exposure up until the glitch should in my opinion be the same, with my additions: Max teaching a class and then exploring the college, meeting with Safi and driving to the abandoned bowling alley, going to the Snapping Turtle, watching the meteors with Moses on the roof. Slight differences would include text messages from Joyce vs. from Chloe, etc. Let’s make it clearer which reality is which going forward:

A (Arcadia Bay survives)

B (Chloe survives)

On the roof, Safi acts strange and keeps staring at her phone – then the phone call. Max is worried and decides to follow Safi. When Max takes the photo of the owl, the realities begin to glitch. Max sees herself, hears the gunshot but sees Safi alive – she goes unconscious, wakes up with a bleeding nose, and runs up to the viewpoint to check on Safi.

Quick sidenote on why i really like the owl. Reddit user NihilistStylist put it quite nicely:

I love that! I think the butterfly in LIS1 was a very obvious but nonetheless amazing choice, and so is the owl, though I think it would've been cool to have anything on campus or in the library so Max (and the player) can learn about totem animals and what an owl may symbolise. (Hey, that would've been a great base for a conversation with Amanda. You know, the girl you're constantly told to snog on the bar counter or else...) 

Now it's important in which reality you began the story. If you started out in reality A, you are now in reality B, and vice versa. The A-to-B!Max finds Safi alive. Safi is confused why Max is making such a fuss and she's angry that she followed her even though she told her not to. As they are fighting, Max receives a text – from her dead best friend Chloe. The B-to-A!Max finds Safi's dead body; she was shot in the back. Max is utterly confused/crying and calls an ambulance. As she puts down her phone, she sees a new text – from Joyce (or somebody else from Arcadia Bay, though I suppose Max would have the most connections with Joyce because of her childhood friendship with Chloe). This establishes the two different realities. I like how in Double Exposure, they differentiate the worlds by coloring. When Safi is alive, the colors are warm, almost golden, uplifting the Christmas spirit. When Safi is dead, the colors are bluish-gray and washed-out. (It reminds me of Greta Gerwig's Little Women and her lighting/coloring choices to differentiate “childhood” and “adulthood”). That needs to be kept.

However, what I can whole-heartely go without is the social media app Crosstalk. It's very annoying and it often doesn't make any sense. Max takes a photo (on her instant camera?), somehow posts that picture on social media (that's the real mystery here, guys) and immediately, everybody and their goddamn dog have responded to the post. Also all the pseudo-deep text posts that serve nothing to the story except for me to roll my eyes at characters I don't even know are so useless. Burn it, I say.

Okay, maybe not burn it. But cut 90% of the rubbish that is posted on there. I doubt most people who just want to play the game don’t even read the posts, they are just annoyed by that red dot telling you eight more people have posted some vague shit in the last hour. I can go on Twitter if I want that.

Who should post on Crosstalk? Whose posts are necessary and interesting to the story?

1. Yasmin, as the head of Caledon, or maybe some official account, especially when it comes to official news about Safi’s death and all.

2. Loretta/GetAClue!. Yes, I know some people find her and her podcast annoying, but I think it could be interesting to read the crazy theories and that’s surely where they’ll be. I’ll get to Loretta in a bit. (Fun Fact: I just googled her character and her last name is ‘Rice’ – did anyone know that?)

3. Abraxas. Hear me out, in the current game, they are about as interesting and mysterious as Vinh is modest, but I think with a bit of work they could become some sort of Pretty Little Liars/Gossip Girl account that exposes secrets.

Otherwise I can’t think of anyone else whose posts I’d care about so… back to the story. 

You noticed I kept those first story points roughly the same. They work, they set up the first big questions: What happened to Safi? And what is happening with Max/the realities? What I disliked maybe the most about Double Exposure (apart from Crosstalk) is that it felt like a setup for another sequel, and not just any sequel, no, a Life Is Strange a là X-(Wo)Men or Marvel Infinity War. I was so confused by the last two chapters (if you can even call them that as they were so empty and short) and what Safi's intentions were, and judging by the stats on the “final” decision I doubt many players understood either. I do not want a power revelation, I do not want a team up against the evil, I do not want after credit scenes revealing the powers of a character you barely get to know.  What I wanted was to solve a murder mystery. Why don't we team up for that? I say Max teams up with Moses and Amanda to solve Safi's murder and for that, she tells them about her powers.

It would've been fun to see Max explore her powers when they get interrogated by the police (which the game either didn't show us or just glossed over like that's not something that happens) plus she could find out more about Maya Okada at the police station — the autopsy found traces of a drug in her blood (we’ll see why later). I wanted to see more of Alderman! He was an antagonist, accusing/judging Moses for having something to do with Safi's death, trying to sabotage the investigations, and to kill him off only shortly after he's introduced was so pointless. It felt more like a show-off, and never led to anything. No one was ever in danger of touching their other version ever again!

Why would Alderman sabotage the investigations/put it off as a suicide? Maybe because Safi's mother Yasmin told him to/payed him to. Caledon University doesn't have the best reputation as it seems, and maybe another suicide would look less bad than an actual murder. I think Max (as well as Moses and Amanda) are certain Alderman is trying to hide something, and maybe after overhearing a phonecall with Yasmin at the police station, they decide to break into Yasmin's office.

For that, they need to distract Vinh. Max can tell him the truth (depending on how well earlier conversations went, Vinh is willing to play along and let them in or threatens to snitch on them), lie to him or threaten to spill a secret she found out in the other timeline (that he and Safi dated but she broke up with him and he is therefore more likely to be a suspect in the investigations, that his election to become the head of Abraxas was manipulated, something like that...). The three get access to Yasmin's office. Moses is so nervous he decides to stand guard in case Yasmin (or Vinh, based on the earlier made decision) comes back. Max and Amanda find transfers from Yasmin to Alderman as well as Mails, confirming their suspicion.

And while we're talking about Vinh: His weird thing to turn every conversation with Max sexual needs to go. They work at the same place, he had something with Max' best friend, there's never any indication as to why Vinh does this in the first place and no, later revealing he has daddy issues or some shit does not explain that. The only time his flirty personality sorta works is during the smash/pass game but that also feels out of place. And by the way: Whether or not you are playing the B-reality!Max, I don't need her to have a love interest. This is about finding out who murdered her friend, not whether Max wants to smash the bartender or the cult leader. Back to the story.

They also find: A mail history of Yasmin and Gwen, arguing about Safi's failed book deal. Up til that point, they believed it was Gwen who sabotaged the book deal, but it seems like Yasmin was the one who did not want it to be published. Maybe Safi let some things slide when they were on the roof watching the meteors, which led to Max snooping around Gwen's office. I think that should take place before Max teams up with anyone. She finds mails in which Gwen first praises Safi's book to the publishers, then later cancels the deal. So it seems like Gwen let it fail, but Max doesn't know why until Yasmin's office.

When Max' leaves Gwen's office, she gets ambushed by Loretta. I like Loretta! She is interesting and not one of those polished, perfect characters. she is difficult and nosy and this pretend-detective, sticking her nose in other people's business (a bit like Max, only that she's less secretive about it). Loretta confronts Max about snooping. Max can either give her a satisfying logical answer as to why she was in Gwen's office (school work? picking something up for Gwen?), make a compromise that she gives Loretta a short statement for her podcast and therefore Loretta doesn't tell Gwen, or tell Loretta to stay out of her business which will lead to Loretta (maybe anonymously) telling Gwen. In that case, Gwen loses trust in Max and Loretta grows suspicious. If Max is nice to Loretta, she will later help them with the clues she found out when researching for her podcast.

Back to Yasmin's office. Amanda and Max find a phone locked away and manage to unlock it. There isn't much on there, except for an anonymous chat hinting at a love affair. They use nicknames. Max checks the phone in both realities. In A, the affair seems to have hit rock-bottom, Yasmin hasn't responded to the other person's messages within days; on the day of Safi's death, the messenger asked Yasmin to meet them at “their spot”. In B, the affair is apparently still going on. But who is the other person? Amanda says it sounds like another professor. Max checks Yasmin's calendar and notices most days have a few hours blocked around the afternoon. She takes a picture. 

Outside, someone's coming back. If Max talked to Moses before entering the office/made him more confident, he manages to distract the person and take them to his office. If Max didn't talk to him, she and Amanda have to escape through the window. I think it’d be funny if someone from Abraxas saw them and posted about it on Crosstalk.

Since the anonymous chatter seems to be another teacher, Max needs to check when which professor has their consultation hours and when they are out of the office. Max checks the calendars at the teachers lounge. Gwen and Lucas both regularly have afternoon hours blocked for private reasons, but since Max knows about Gwen's wife, she decides to go after Lucas. She finds out the nickname used in the chat also appears in Lucas' highly praised novel — Yasmin and Lucas have (or had) an affair.

The difference between the two realities:

A (Safi is dead): The affair is over. Lucas wears his wedding ring, but is fighting with his wife or his son over the phone, maybe even tries to get back with Yasmin. Yasmin tries to cover it up, further sabotaging the investigations since that would ruin Caledon's reputation even more.

B (Safi is alive): The affair is still going on. Lucas also still wears a wedding ring when Max sees him. He seems to be on good terms with his wife and son while juggling the affair.

In the game, if you look at the cherry blossom tree on campus, you find out about Maya Okada. It's established she was a writer, Safi's friend, and killed herself some time prior to the start of the game. But why? I like the idea that Lucas was her professor and stole her work, pretending to have written it himself. It’s just that Lucas being an asshole isn’t really enough of a reason to me to steal an entire manuscript and ruin his student’s life.

I think Maya found out about the affair, but before she could tell Safi, Lucas threatened her to stay quiet and stole her book. It broke Maya and then we all know what happens. Why is it so bad that Maya found out about the affair? Well, on one side, she is best friends with Safi and would’ve told her, and on the other side, I think she was part of Abraxas and therefore could’ve spilled the secret on Crosstalk.

In my mind, Safi and Maya were both part of Abraxas. Only that Safi was kicked out after her relationship/fling with Vinh. Maybe she broke his heart, maybe she was trouble, maybe they were afraid her mother would put a stop to it.

Safi doesn't accept that Maya just killed herself for seemingly no reason (they were best friends, she would've known if something was up) and when Lucas' book gets published, she immediately recognizes it as Maya's work. She confronts Lucas, she tells her mother, she even begs Vinh to post about it, but she has no real evidence. The only copy left of Maya's work is with Lucas'. Safi's only escape is writing; her work is very autobiographical though poetic, and Yasmin can tell what it's about. Gwen has had assumptions, too. Max finds Maya's old texts in Lucas' office, confirming that he did steal it word for word. She also finds a gun locked away in a safe alongside the documents.

I’ve been mentioning Abraxas here and there so maybe let’s talk about them now. In Double Exposure, they are blowing smoke. Max comparing them to the Vortex Club is laughable. So how about this: Max gets ahold of Reggie’s mysterious box and has to solve the riddles to get inside. It should be more difficult than just turning the box and pressing some buttons, which would be a great opportunity to explore the campus more. Now, what’s inside? A note with a place and a time for a secret Abraxas meeting for new members. Max tried to talk to Vinh about Maya but he rebuffed her, so she decides to go to the secret meeting to try her luck there.

Abraxas should be some sort of cult/secret society and really pretentious. I’m talking rituals, cloaks, matching tattoos, drug use. Maya was deep in that cult and when she was so upset and confused about Lucas’ stealing her book and all, she went to Vinh/Abraxas for help. During a ceremony/ritual, she overdosed and died. Vinh blames himself for Maya’s death and never told Safi. Caledon only ever officially stated that Maya killed herself.

At that point, Max, Amanda and Moses decide that Max needs to talk to the Safi who's still alive. Both Safis had a similar state of knowledge about what went on with Lucas and Maya. Max can decide whether she wants to let Safi know about the affair between her mother and Lucas AND whether she wants to tell Safi about what Vinh had to do with Maya’s death. This affects Safi's trust in Max but also her rage/longing for revenge. Still, they do not know who shot Safi. Safi points out that nobody's tried to kill her in this reality yet, so there must've been something her other version found out that made her the target. She says if she found out anything, she surely wrote it down or kept the evidence in her house (or apartment? We never even find out where she lives, Jesus.).

Max switches back and they search Safi's place. Turns out the Safi from reality A found out about the affair and, upon receiving backlash from her mother, wrote a mail to Lucas' wife with her evidence. But she didn't use her own name. She used her mothers, pretending it's Yasmin who wrote to the wife.

Max, Moses and Amanda gather all their evidence and review them at Max’ house. Loretta comes over because she saw the missing cat in Max’ living room and she’s investigating that case. She sees what they are doing and wants to help. They suspect her of only having her true crime podcast in mind, but Loretta says that the students deserve to know what happened and she has been secretly investigating Maya Okada’s case. She found out from whom Abraxas is buying their drugs and how they can reveal so many secrets.

Max confronts Yasmin, who didn't know until now who leaked the affair. She admits she told Vinh to help cover any rumors about it and to find out who might've gotten wind of the affair. Max digs deeper, wanting to figure out what Yasmin knows about Safi's death, but she says she doesn't know who did it. Max asks about the affair and the “spot” mentioned in the texts. Yasmin says she hasn't even looked at the phone since before Safi's death and breaks down. The last point of call is Lucas. Max, Moses, Loretta and Amanda decide they should lure him to the viewpoint (the alleged “spot”) via a message over Yasmin's secret phone.

Outside, a storm is raging. It’s snowing heavily. Max recognised it immediately, knowing she has once again gone to far with her powers. She wants to abort the mission (Moses and Yasmin are in favor of this), but Loretta and Amanda say they just need to find Lucas. Surprisingly, he comes to the viewpoint despite the weather.

At first, he’s defensive, then Lucas confesses he was the one to fire the shot, but he thought it was Yasmin. Because of the snow and the dark, he mistook the daughter for the mother. He wanted revenge on Yasmin for destroying his family (that’s his way of viewing it, saint Lucas of course never did anything wrong… ha ha) and thought if she was dead, Safi would stop trying to get the truth about his novel out. Max says they will call the police on him, but Lucas says they have no evidence and pulls out his gun. Loretta comes in and says that they actually got evidence of everything as well as his confession and reveals a recorder for her podcast.

Lucas points his gun at Loretta. Max rips up her hand to stop him and freezes time just like she did in LIS1 when Kate tried to jump off the roof. She manages to take the gun from Lucas’ hand, then the freezing stops. Loretta sacks the evidence, but Lucas is fighting Max, pushing her over the edge of the viewpoint. She can hear the others calling her name, but also the voices of other people like Chloe, Joyce, Jefferson, Victoria, etc.

Then she gets sucked right into the storm.

Okay, wait. Let’s pause for a second.

One big problem my version has that is also present in Double Exposure: What about the other Max? I think in Double Exposure, there isn’t even another Max. The doppelgänger turns out to be Safi, but I’ve cut out her superpowers because I don’t think they elevate the story in any way. I think Max creates these two universes because of her grief and so she is the one variable standing between the realities that later merge into one.

But in my version, there have to be two versions of Max. One from reality A and one from reality B. And which one you play with depends on what ending you chose in LIS1. Let’s try to make sense out of that:

In the beginning, I said: The A-to-B!Max finds Safi alive while the B-to-A!Max finds Safi's dead body. Both saw Safi die in the glitch before they were thrust into the other universe. The gunshot was heard in both realities, which is why the police is called in both realities. I think I mostly wrote from the perspective of the B-to-A!Max, because she witnesses the murder hand-first and is therefore in the midst of the investigations. She has to solve the murder. Meanwhile A-to-B!Max has to confide what she saw to someone, possibly Moses, first. She has to solve a murder that did not happen in this world, but did happen in the other. Both have to solve why they changed places. Both want to get back to their own world… right?

What needs to be established is that Max can run into her other self and that other characters will be confused, saying things like “Weren’t you just at the Snapping Turtle?” or “Didn’t you say you wanted to go home?”. That will lead to more mess/weird conversation. It would be so cool to have a task in the game where you have to hide from the other self in order to get somewhere, similar like Max and Chloe sneaking around the swimming pool to not run into David.

So, what happens in reality B? Yasmin and Lucas are still having an affair, so they cannot convince Yasmin to text Lucas to meet her at the viewpoint for a confrontation. Either way, Lucas is busy that night: He wants to make an announcement about the screen adaptation of “his” novel at the Snapping Turtle (similar to what happens in Double Exposure). Amanda, Moses, Loretta and Max want to expose him.

Now it matters what the other Max told Safi. If the other Max told Safi everything, Safi will not only expose that Lucas stole Maya’s manuscript, but also the affair and Maya’s overdose caused by Vinh and Abraxas. If the other Max didn’t tell her about the affair or Abraxas fault, Safi of course won’t mention it. Lucas and Safi have a back and forth conversation until Safi says that it was Max who told her everything. Lucas storms off stage, grabs Max’ arm and asks her to go outside with him to talk while he secretly shows her he has a gun. She has no choice but to follow him outside onto the terrace. Here, a storm rages as well. Lucas confronts her, wants to know how much she knows and pushes her up to the railing.

The others follow them outside. A close up shot on Max’ face, trying to get Lucas to put down his gun, until Safi interrupts her and points at the storm. It’s really close. In that careless moment, Loretta tries to get ahold of the gun. The gun fires. Lucas pushes Max over the railing. She, just like her other self, gets sucked into the storm.

We need a realities-glitching-nightmare sequence in the game and now it’s time for that. I don’t like that in Double Exposure, it takes place in a motel we have never seen before. Yes, Max has lived a life in those over fifteen years since the first game, but this has no meaning to the player. What I did like about that motel scene is how more and more stuff turned into paintings. It’s a nice illusion and when Max tries to find her way out of the following locations, those optical illusions should definitely stay: Max’ classroom, the bowling alley, the Snapping Turtle, the Abraxas’ location and finally (and here, I’m allowing myself to stray from what I just said) a mirror labyrinth. Max sees dozens of versions of herself in those mirrors until one doesn’t follow her movements. Say hi to your other self, Max! They talk for a bit until the other Max touches the mirror, saying they can make everything go back to normal.

I don’t know if this is big enough for a final decision, but it’s what I’ve come up with. Max can either switch back or stay. It’s a second chance so to say. She got a glimpse of the future she could have had if she decided differently back then in Arcadia Bay. Does she still stand with that? Does she miss [Chloe | Arcadia Bay] so much that she is willing to stay in the reality she previously gave up? Does she miss Safi so much she wants to stay in the reality she’s alive or can she leave her?

[ STAY ] or [ GO ]

[ STAY ] The Max you play doesn’t touch the mirror. She turns back. The Max on the other side is very upset (“NO! COME BACK!”) and hammers against the mirror, but it’s too late. The “portal” is locked, they cannot switch back and forth between realities anymore.

A-to-B!Max is now in the world where Chloe and Safi are alive, but Arcadia Bay got destroyed.

B-to-A!Max is now in the world where Chloe and Safi are both dead, but Arcadia Bay is alive.

[ GO ] The Max you play touches the mirror and through that contact, they get thrown back into their respective worlds. The “portal” is locked, they cannot switch back and forth between realities anymore.

Each Max is back in the world she belongs in. What happened while Max was inside the storm? What are the differences between the final confrontation?

First of all, the storm is gone. Everyone in the area has a headache and some memories are mixed up, just like in Double Exposure. No one remembers that Max switched between timelines and she does not tell anyone.

Universe A (Safi is dead): The confrontation happens at the viewpoint. Amanda and Loretta are holding Lucas to the ground; Moses is calling the police. Loretta has Lucas’ confession on her tape, has the murder weapon, and they all saw that he tried to kill Max as well.

Lucas gets arrested. They all have to testify. Yasmin dissolves Abraxas before having to resign from her post. Max can decide whether or not she wants to give the police the evidence on Vinh and Abraxas. If she does, the police decides the evidence not valid enough, but Vinh gets suspended*. Loretta makes a long podcast episode and writes an article on the steal, earning an award. Alderman gets suspended for obstruction of investigations and corruption.

*The case will not be reopened. Owning the drug is not a direct indication that Vinh/Abraxas were the ones who gave Maya the drug. But the use of drugs on campus is still illegal, so he doesn’t get to keep his job.

Max celebrates an early Christmas with Moses, Amanda and Loretta at the Snapping Turtle before driving to Arcadia Bay.

Universe B (Safi is alive): The confrontation happens at the Snapping Turtle. If Max managed to talk Lucas into lowering the gun before Loretta grabbed it, the fired shot was aimed at Loretta. She dies. (Sorry! But somebody has to die!) If Lucas refused to lower the gun, his shot was aimed at Max but because of the storm, the bullet misses. Amanda and Safi are holding Lucas to the ground; Moses is calling the police. Lucas never confessed but they have enough evidence.

Only if Loretta was shot, Lucas gets arrested. In both cases, his awards get taken away, the book won’t be renewed and Maya’s manuscript gets published. Also his wife divorces him. If Loretta lives, she makes a long podcast episode and writes an article on the steal, earning an award. Max can decide whether or not she wants to give the police the evidence on Vinh and Abraxas. If she does, the police decides the evidence not valid enough, but Vinh gets suspended. (Reasoning explained above)

Max celebrates an early Christmas with Safi, Moses, Amanda and Loretta at the Snapping Turtle before leaving to meet up with Chloe.

I don’t know if this story is enough to split it into five chapters, scrolling back I think it might be four:

Chapter One: Introduction to Max’ new life, ending with Safi’s mysterious death / cliffhanger: Max noticing she must’ve switched realities Chapter Two: Investigations at the police station and at various offices / cliffhanger: Yasmin and Lucas have or had an affair Chapter Three: Maya Okada and Abraxas / cliffhanger: Abraxas killed Maya Chapter Four: Confrontation, Nightmare and End

Splitting them further would make them feel shorter and more empty.

Let me know what you think!

[knowlsey]

Injury Writing Prompts pt.4

For @ofrevival I’m sorry this took me forever. Original post by @promptsbytaurie

8. “You dumbass. Don’t do that. Ever again.”

CW: Chest binding and discussions around dangerous binding methods.

Some quick disclaimers: (Personal thoughts at the end of the story) THIS IS NOT A SHIP FIC! I’ve mentioned once before that Tarquin was Ambrose’s guide when it came to chest binding but I wanted to go into a little more detail about how one of their conversations went. I did as much research as I could about Tarquin and his gender identity but as far as I could find the only mention of him being trans is a single codex entry which states that he’s open about it so I kinda had to make up how I think he'd respond in this situation based on my interpretation of him as a character. Also, I want to reiterate that everyone's experiences are different and you aren't any less trans or non-binary for choosing not to bind. Ambrose chooses to bind because I based their gender identity off of my own but they are not meant to be a representation of all non-binary people.

Ambrose's breathing was quick and shallow, their lungs fighting for space against the restraints under their shirt as they dashed into the Shadow Dragon safehouse. They had to reach the infirmary. It was the only place they could determine would give them the privacy they needed to release themself from the wraps binding them.

The den was mostly empty, only a couple of agents solitarily working by candlelight at the wooden tables. Their eyes rose to acknowledge the young dragon's entrance but did not linger for long, too engrossed in their report writing. Ambrose pressed a hand to their chest, as if the touch could ease the tightness there, and attempted to walk with purpose towards the stairs so as to not raise concern.

"Ambrose. What happened?"

Ambrose stopped abruptly and turned to meet the voice that addressed them. Tarquin was rising from his seat and the elf could see the worried expression warping his features in the low light.

"I'm fine." They returned quickly, their voice was a groan, then quickly turned on their heel to continue towards the stairs.

"Hey! What's going on?" The man took chase, calling out to them and following all the way into the infirmary.

"Please leave." Ambrose wheezed out as they sat down violently on one of the cots and began fumbling with their leather armour, fingers struggling with every strap and buckle as their vision started dizzying.

Tarquin strode towards them on heavy footsteps and sat down on the cot behind them, hands moving over their armour and helping them to undo the clasps.

“Tarquin-”

“Let me help! You’re no good to anyone if you pass out.” His voice was firm, as if he were scolding a child.

Ambrose fell into a silence, accepting the man's help but unsure what to say to him as the pieces of their armour were shed one by one. They tried to focus on breathing, a task that was becoming harder by the second.

As soon as they were free to do so they removed their undershirt in one swift motion, revealing the tight bindings wrapped around them that compressed their chest. They pulled at the quick release knot on the side with urgency until it liberated the bandages from them, falling down their torso to pool at their hips.

Air filled their lungs in a deep gasp as they gripped the mattress either side of them to hold them steady. The dizziness in their head settled with each heavenly breath, and as it did they became more and more aware of the situation they were in.

They weren't ashamed to be this way in front of Tarquin, half naked, exposed, vulnerable. The two of them were the same after all, they both knew this. The Shadow Dragons were always open about gender identity- they accepted you as you were- none of them had ever been anything other than supportive. Rook was even more thankful for that fact now, having someone here who would understand the desire to hide his chest the way they did and would see them no differently for that fact was a comfort.

Tarquin remained still and quiet for a few moments longer than Ambrose expected him to be. He sat there, and while the elf stared down at the stone floor solid beneath their boots, the human could not remove his eyes from Ambrose's back and the bruises flowering around their ribs.

“What the fuck-?” Tarquin's voice came loud and angry from behind Ambrose.

“What?" They snapped their head round to face the man, shocked by the outburst. This was not the reaction they had been expecting, Tarquin was supposed to understand, to support them, but he was angry.. Why?

“Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? Binding across like that? Do you want to break your fucking ribs?" He paused to huff out a breath, then added, "You dumbass. Don’t do that. Ever again.”

Ambrose put their undershirt back on and turned fully to meet Tarquin's eyes. Now they we're angry.

"I thought you of all people would be supportive of this! I thought you'd understand!" they snapped.

"I do understand, and I've been through this shit before. That's how I know that wrapping your chest like that is a recipe for disaster. Trust me." He took a breath, tried to calm himself.

Ambrose considered this, that Tarquin was angry because he'd been through this before, because he cared, and because he wanted them to be safe. Without looking him in the eye Ambrose quietly asked, "how do you do it?"

"I don't anymore. Don't need to." He let out a sigh. "But- when I did, I used something called a binder. It's like a leather breastplate but you wear it under your clothes and it keeps everything flat without restricting your breathing or movement. It's a hell of a lot safer than wrapping yourself up with bandages."

Ambrose studied him. They'd known Tarquin was trans ever since they'd met him, just like he knew about them, but this was the first time the two had ever had a conversation that wasn't related to the Shadow Dragons or the Venatori or the Magisterium or-

They'd never conversed personally like this before. What did that mean?

"I didn't know you could get things like that." They said, finally agreeing to meet his eyes again.

"No I suppose you wouldn't, its not something the tailor advertises. I can show you where to get one, if you want."

"I'd really appreciate that, thank you Tarquin." They spoke as a smile lit up their face.

"Get those bruises treated." Tarquin said with a quick nod as he stood up to make his move to leave, deciding the conversation had ended. Ambrose supposed there wasn't much else that needed saying, but they couldn't shake the feeling the two of them had grown a little closer during the exchange.

"Does this make us friends now?" Ambrose teased.

"Don't be an idiot."

Personal thoughts for those who are curious: When I was originally given this prompt I was torn between two ideas for what I wanted to write; one was a more generic story about Rook doing something stupid and self sacrificing in the heat of battle and then getting scolded by one of their companions, the other was what I ended up writing. I was initially hesitant to put this story on paper as I know binding and gender identity discussions can be a sensitive subject, and more than anything I didn't want to get anything 'wrong'. My personal experience with chest binding is not the same as Ambrose's, I did not have someone there who could relate to my dysphoria or teach me safe practices (the most I had was a supportive cis friend who I was comfortable enough with to let her help me measure for my first binder purchase) and I've never bound with anything other than a binder which I'd done all the research for to ensure I wore it safely. My lack of a 'bad' binding experience and personal conversation about binding meant that I couldn't draw from personal experience when writing, and given that that's what the whole story was about you can understand why I feared writing it 'wrong'. I ended up drawing back to what I already knew about unsafe binding, and doing some additional research, and decided to just write the story anyway. It felt like something I needed to do for me. I wanted Ambrose to have something I never got to have, that person who could relate to them and help them. I overcame the worry about the conversation being 'unrealistic' by just imagining I was both characters. How would I react now if I was in Tarquin's position? And how would I react back then if I was Ambrose? All in all I'm happy with how this story turned out and I'm glad I wrote it, even if it did take me ages because I kept going back in to make it perfect, and I hope you all like it too. If you ever need a friend to talk about these kinds of topics with, or anything really, please don't be afraid of messaging me, my inbox is always open to you. Thank you @ofrevival for submitting this prompt and giving me the okay to pursue this story, and thank you everyone for reading!

[brainmaggotzzzz]

☆Little AK47☆ Hwang Inho x reader

part 10

cw: death, violence, grief

story masterlist:

You lay motionless on the floor, your breath shallow, your body limp—playing dead. The cold ground pressed against your skin as you waited for a guard to check your number, every muscle coiled, ready to strike. You had to follow Gihun’s plan. It was the only way. The only path to justice—to make them pay for your brother’s demise.

A gunshot shattered the tense silence. It was Gihun. He had ambushed a guard, wrestled their weapon away, and fired without hesitation. The body collapsed with a dull thud. This was your moment.

A guard crouched over you, distracted by the chaos. Without hesitation, you kicked them with all your strength, sending them stumbling back. Your hands shot out, ripping the gun from their grasp. For a moment, your finger hovered over the trigger. But then it all surged forward—the anger, the grief, the seething hatred. You pulled the trigger without a second thought. The shot echoed, and the guard crumpled instantly, his hot pink jumpsuit greedily absorbing the spreading pool of blood.

Youngil, Jungbae, and Daeho moved swiftly. Youngil shoved you behind the steel barricade—makeshift protection built from bunk bed scraps, once meant to shield your team from the other players.

Gunfire erupted from both sides. The remaining guards unleashed a hail of bullets, while your team fired back. You peered out, aiming precisely, and pulled the trigger in rapid succession.

"Stay back!" Youngil shouted.

You ignored him, continuing to fire at the masked figures. They didn't feel human. Just faceless, soulless obstacles in your way.

"Retreat," the female automated voice announced over the speakers. The remaining guards turned and sprinted toward the steel gate. One wasn't fast enough. The gate slammed shut behind him, trapping him inside.

"Hold fire!" Jungbae commanded.

You stopped instantly, but your focus had already shifted. The lone guard wasn’t your concern. Your eyes locked onto the O players—the very people responsible for your brother’s death. And one player in particular. The one who had pushed your brother to his doom.

Weapon in hand, you strode toward him. He raised his hands in surrender, his eyes wide with terror.

"Please, I have a family," he pleaded, his voice cracking.

"So did I," you growled through clenched teeth.

You knew why he did it. He wanted to survive. He needed the money. It was self-preservation—such a human instinct. But you didn’t feel human anymore. Not since Ewan died.

"A public execution is fitting for a fucker like you," you spat, all traces of empathy obliterated by grief.

"No!" Gihun's voice cut through the tension. He rushed toward you, desperation in his eyes.

"Don't you see it, Gihun?! He's not even human!" you screamed, your hand tightening around the gun.

"That’s not why we took the guns! If you do this, you’re no different from them!" he yelled back.

The player trembled under your aim, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Your grip wavered. A long, suffocating silence hung between you. Then, finally, you lowered the gun, your gaze cold and unforgiving. Without another word, you turned away, joining Gihun as he approached Jungbae and the others.

Youngil’s eyes never left you, watching your every move.

Gihun stepped forward, addressing the stunned crowd of players. "We’re going up to the masked men’s headquarters. We’re going to capture the ones who captured us, end this game, and make them pay. If you know how to use a gun and want to fight, step forward."

The players murmured among themselves. You spotted an elderly woman clutching her son’s wrist, stopping him from joining.

Jungbae stepped in, his voice steady yet urgent. "I know you’re scared. I am too. But this might be our only shot at getting out of here alive. Fight with us, so we can go home together."

A few men hesitated before stepping forward. You watched them all closely.

One by one, they were armed. Player 120 stepped up to instruct them. "This is the MP5, a submachine gun. Press this lever here, pull the magazine out—like this. The selector switch—down for full auto, up for single-fire. We don’t have many magazines, so keep it on single-fire. Insert the magazine, pull the handle back, release. That’s how you load it. Got it?"

"Yes!" you and the others responded in unison.

You scanned their faces—some pale with dread, others steeling themselves for what was to come. It was madness, taking on an army with nothing but a handful of players.

But you? You weren’t afraid. Your face was unreadable, void of emotion. But your eyes burned with something far more dangerous. Vengeance.

Youngil saw it.

Without warning, his fingers wrapped around your sleeve. You turned to face him, meeting his intense stare. He had always tried to stop you from reckless choices, from walking straight into the fire.

"Y/N," he said firmly, his grip tightening. "Don’t get involved in this."

A bitter chuckle escaped your lips. This was never about you. This was for Ewan. For your team, even in a twisted way for Youngil, to show him that you're right here, by his side, wether he likes it or not. For every unwilling person trapped in this nightmare. Your safety didn’t matter.

"I’ll be fine," you lied, squeezing his hand in reassurance.

He didn’t believe you. Neither did you.

"Don’t throw your life away like this," he urged.

Your jaw clenched. "You can’t stop me. If I leave here in anything other than a body bag, I’ll spend my whole life hating myself for not doing something when I had the chance."

His eyes darkened.

But you had already made up your mind.

◇

You stared at the lone, unmasked guard. He looked young—your age. His hands trembled as he stood at gunpoint, his breath uneven. How does someone like him end up working in a slaughterhouse disguised as a game? Desperation? Greed? A twisted sense of amusement? It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was a cog in this grotesque, blood-soaked machine.

"Take us to your captain," Gihun commanded.

The guard nodded, his face drained of color. Did he get it now? Did he understand what it was like to be powerless, to have his life dangling by a thread?

Jungbae didn’t wait. He slammed the back of his gun against the glass window on the door, shattering it into hundreds of jagged pieces. With a swift motion, he reached inside and unlocked it.

You were about to step forward, but before you could cross the threshold of that mockingly pastel-colored doorway, Youngil’s grip tightened around your arm.

"Stay. Back."

The usual softness in his gaze was gone. No hesitation, no pleading—just cold, unwavering determination. He wasn’t asking. He was ordering.

Annoyance flickered in your eyes. You thought he had dropped this already.

"I don’t want to," you replied, your voice as icy as his stare.

He knew arguing was pointless. You were just as determined as he was, and words wouldn’t sway you. So, he didn’t bother trying. Instead, he acted.

Before you could react, Youngil grabbed you by the wrist and dragged you back to the bunk beds, shoving you down against the cold metal frame. You struggled, thrashing against his grip, making it as difficult as possible, but his strength overpowered yours with ease.

"Youngil! Ah—what the fuck are you doi—"

The sharp sound of fabric tearing filled your ears.

Your eyes widened as he ripped a bedsheet apart. You tried to stand, but he pressed you down—not harshly, but firmly, with just enough force to keep you in place.

"Stop it! Untie me now! Don’t do this—I need to go!"

Ignoring your protests, he worked quickly, binding your wrists to the bed frame with precision. The knots were tight, secure enough that no amount of struggling would loosen them.

Once he was sure you couldn’t break free, he straightened up, towering over you.

"I’m sorry, Y/N," he said, his voice firm but heavy with something unspoken. "I did this for your own good."

Then, turning to the remaining players, he called out, "X players! Watch over her. Make sure no one hurts her."

Without another glance, he spun on his heel and walked back to join the others.

You fought against the restraints, your body jerking against the bed frame, your voice raw as you screamed his name.

"Youngil! Youngil, untie me! Let me go!"

But he never looked back. He didn’t falter.

◇

You worked tirelessly at the binds, rubbing them against the rough metal of the bed frame, hoping friction would wear them down. But it was useless. No amount of struggling would set you free.

Tears welled up in your eyes, frustration and helplessness knotting in your chest. Every distant gunshot made you flinch, each one a brutal reminder of the fight happening without you. Your team. Youngil. Were they safe? Were they still alive?

"Kid," a gentle voice called.

You turned to see the elderly woman from the mingle game approaching, her son trailing behind her. She was the one who had been so protective of him, just as Ewan had been of you. Your bloodshot eyes met hers as she crouched beside you, her expression kind yet sorrowful.

She reached out, wiping the sweat from your forehead with the sleeve of her jumper. "You don’t know me, but I can see the pain in you," she murmured. "Aigoo… if something like that happened to my Yongsik, I don’t know what I would do."

She covered her mouth for a moment, as if trying to steady herself, but you just stared at her coldly.

"I’m sorry," she said softly. "I mean… I can’t imagine what you’re going through."

She reached into the folds of her clothing, pulling out an unopened glass bottle she had  from dinner. Gently, she set it beside you.

"Here, have some."

You glanced down at it before lifting your gaze to your bound hands, still stretched above your head. Your voice was flat when you asked, "And how am I supposed to drink this?"

"Oh! Of course, silly me." She let out an awkward laugh before twisting the cap off and lifting the bottle to your lips. You took a cautious sip, the cool liquid soothing your dry throat.

"Thank you," you murmured. Then, after a beat, "Could you untie me?"

She reached out, stroking your hair gently, before shaking her head.

"You’re young. You have parents waiting for you on the other side," she said with a warm, empathetic look. "It’s for the best… so you don’t go."

A bitter chuckle escaped you. "‘On the other side’ is a good way to put it."

Her hand stilled for just a moment before she resumed stroking your hair. You had no parents waiting. No family left. Your father was long dead—not that he had ever been much of one. And your mother… she was slipping away, lost in her own mind, unable to even remember your name. The future held nothing for you.

The old woman sighed. "I see… Well, if I were your mother, I’d be thanking that gentleman for keeping you here. It’s dangerous out there." Her voice was thick with sympathy, her touch tender, almost maternal.

"I’m sorry about your boyfriend, 111."

You blinked, your face twisting in disgust. "Boyfriend? He was my brother."

The same revulsion you felt when your friends used to gush over him, calling him handsome, having crushes on him—it crawled under your skin now.

The woman cupped your cheek, her palm warm and comforting. "Oh, you poor thing. That’s even worse." She let out a weary sigh, shaking her head. "You know, boys are like taxis—they come and go. But a brother…"

Her son nudged her lightly, signaling for her to stop with the odd comparison. But you barely noticed. Watching them interact—just a mother and her son, teasing and nudging each other like it was any other day—made something in your chest ache.

◇

You stayed with her like that for a while, her presence strangely soothing. There was something so maternal, so nurturing about her that it comforted your strained soul in a way you hadn’t felt in years. Every time a gunshot erupted in the distance, she reassured you that your comrades would be okay, her voice gentle yet firm. She even loosened your restraints slightly to make them more comfortable, a small kindness in a cruel world.

Then, suddenly—

The door slammed open, and Daeho burst in.

"Ammo, ammo, ammo," he muttered under his breath, pacing like a man possessed.

"Daeho!" you called out, trying to catch his attention. "Are they okay? …Is Youngil okay?" Your voice cracked, the desperation evident.

But he didn’t respond. It was as if he didn’t even hear you. He moved in a trance, frantically rummaging through the pockets of fallen guards, searching for more ammunition.

"Please! Someone untie me! Let me help him!" you screamed to the crowd.

A player from the opposite team stood up, sneering. "Shut it, crazy bitch! You’re lucky we haven’t roughed you up for slapping one of us."

You clenched your teeth but said nothing. You knew better than to snap back when you were this vulnerable.

After stuffing his arms full of magazines, Daeho suddenly collapsed to the floor. His body rocked back and forth as he muttered something incoherent, gripping his head as if he were trying to hold himself together. The elderly woman rushed to his side, helping him onto a bunk bed, whispering words of comfort.

But you didn’t have time for this. You needed the ammo.

"Please, someone, I beg you! Untie me so I can help them!"

No one moved.

Your jaw tightened. Fine. If they wouldn’t help, you’d do it yourself.

You pushed yourself up as high as you could, twisting your body so your mouth could reach the binds. Then, you bit down. Hard.

The fabric was thick, but you didn’t care. You clenched your teeth and pulled, jerking your head forward with all the strength you had. Your neck screamed in protest, but you ignored the pain. Again. And again. Slowly, the fibers began to fray, to thin, until—

Snap.

The fabric tore completely, and your arms were free.

You wasted no time. Grabbing the gun from your lap, you sprinted toward Daeho, who sat curled into himself, knees to his chest, rocking back and forth.

"Daeho!" You shook him violently. No reaction.

"Where’s the ammo?!"

Nothing. His eyes were distant, unfocused.

Desperation flared inside you. Without thinking, you swung your hand across his face, the sharp crack of your palm against his cheek ringing through the room. His skin reddened instantly.

"Where’s the ammo?!" you demanded, voice raw.

Daeho blinked, dazed, then weakly pointed toward his crumpled jumpsuit on the bed. You snatched it up, unfolding it, and dozens of magazines spilled onto the mattress. Relief and urgency crashed into you all at once.

Then—

A voice crackled through the radio.

"The radio, of course," you muttered. You grabbed it and sprinted toward the pastel-pink door.

"Where’s the ammo?! Where’s the ammo?!" Gi-hun’s panicked voice burst through the speaker.

You pressed the button. "Don’t worry! I’m on my way! Is everyone okay?!"

Gunshots were the only response.

Your heart pounded as you sprinted up the stairs, navigating the sickeningly cheerful maze, ducking low in hopes of staying unnoticed. The shots kept ringing—relentless, violent. Then, another voice came through.

"We almost reached the control room! We need backup! We need magazines!"

You ran faster.

More gunshots.

Then—

A voice that froze your blood.

"Gi-hun, I’m sorry. It’s all over. They got us too."

Youngil.

His voice was strained, weak.

Terror wrapped its cold fingers around your throat.

"Youngil, what happened? Are you all right?!" Gi-hun’s frantic voice cut through the static.

Two gunshots rang out.

Then—a sound that made your entire body go rigid.

A sickening, wet gurgle.

Your breath hitched. The world around you blurred.

"No—no, no, no—"

You sprinted, your feet barely touching the ground. Your pulse roared in your ears, drowning out everything except the deafening truth that threatened to break you apart.

He was gone.

Youngil was gone.

Not just your brother. Now him, too. The man who had slowly, without you even realizing it, become something more. A protector. A tether. Someone you could trust, rely on, even when the world had already taken so much from you.

And now he was just another body. Another casualty in this nightmare.

Your vision darkened at the edges, but you kept running, your body fueled by something beyond adrenaline now. It was rage. Cold, all-consuming rage.

Finally, you reached a corridor leading to a purple hallway. A steel door stood at the end, propped open by a single magazine, keeping it from sealing shut.

Bodies littered the ground.

Some were guards. Some were the players who had stepped forward, who had dared to fight back.

Your hands tightened around the gun, knuckles white.

You burst into the room.

Jungbae and Gi-hun were already there, positioned on either side, taking cover as they fired at the guards. Without hesitation, you passed them magazines and raised your own weapon.

Then, you fired.

The recoil slammed into your shoulder, but you barely felt it.

Your body moved on its own, your finger pulling the trigger again and again, each shot fueled by an unrelenting fury.

Youngil was dead.

Ewan was dead.

You had nothing left to lose.

And they—whoever they were—would pay for it in blood.

◇

There was no way in hell you’d win. Even with the extra magazines, you were simply outnumbered.

But that didn’t stop you.

You fired relentlessly at every pink figure that moved, your anger manifesting itself in your index finger, pulling the trigger over and over. The gun felt like an extension of your wrath, your grief, your utter refusal to go down without a fight.

You switched to full auto.

The gun roared, sending a hailstorm of bullets into the sea of faceless guards. But no matter how many fell, more kept coming. Like cockroaches.

Then, suddenly—

Jungbae stepped forward.

You instinctively halted your fire, watching in disbelief as he dropped to his knees, hands raised in surrender.

"I surrender," he said.

Your eyes widened.

Gihun, the mastermind behind this entire plan, hesitated for a moment before following his friend’s lead.

You just stood there, frozen.

What the hell were they doing?

Your grip tightened around the gun, unsure of what to do. Then, almost instinctively, you ducked behind the corner, hiding—like a coward. But your mind had different plans.

You peeked out, scanning the scene.

That’s when you saw him.

A masked man, dressed in black from head to toe. His suit was pristine, his eerie geometric mask void of emotion. But his presence alone commanded authority.

The Captain.

"Player 456," he spoke, his voice distorted just like the others, but with a chilling, deliberate calm. "Did you have fun playing the hero?"

Gihun inhaled sharply but said nothing.

"Look at the consequences of your little hero game."

You watched as he raised a gun, pointing it directly at Gihun and Jungbae.

Your blood ran cold.

They looked at each other, sharing what could very well be their last glance.

Then, the Captain spoke again.

"Find Player 111. She’s out here somewhere. I want her alive."

Your stomach twisted.

Alive.

Not to spare you. No, he wanted you alive for a reason—probably to make an example out of you. A public execution, a lesson for the rest of the players.

You heard footsteps approaching.

They were getting closer.

If they took just one more step forward, you’d be exposed.

Your breath came in shaky exhales, but your hands were steady. As soon as your eyes met theirs—eye to mask—you pulled the trigger.

Two shots. Straight to their guts.

The guards staggered back, collapsing before they could even react.

The Captain’s attention snapped to you.

Your pulse pounded in your ears as you turned the gun on him, rage fueling every fiber of your being.

This was the man.

The man who orchestrated this nightmare.

The man who ran the very machine that had stolen your brother from you.

And now, Youngil.

The man who could have been—

You pulled the trigger.

The bullet struck his shoulder, sending him stumbling back, gripping the wound.

But before you could finish the job—

Something hard and dull slammed into the side of your head.

Pain exploded through your skull.

Your vision blurred, darkening at the edges. The world around you swayed, the masked figures turning into smudges of black and pink.

The last thing you heard before everything faded to nothing—

"Bring her to a room and check for injuries."

The Captain’s voice, calm and composed, even as blood seeped through his gloved fingers.

◇◇◇

votes, reblogs and comments are appreciated ~ let me know what you think about the story :DDD

[forginglace]

24, Al and Charles please

Hippolyta would probably know what the beast was called.

Atom didn’t.

What he did know was that a swipe of its claws had sent Doctor Mid-Nite crashing into the ground. Left deep tears that went through his vest and into his skin.

There was a growing pool of blood.

No time to think about that now. Because the beast looked like it was heading in Doctor Mid-Nite’s direction to finish the job.

The beast was stronger than the doctor. Tougher. In better shape.

And Doctor Mid-Nite didn’t look like he would be putting up much of a fight anytime soon.

What the beast didn’t have was atomic strength. Or the sheer desperation that caused Atom to face it head on.

It also couldn’t think to avoid an Amazon queen piercing its side with a sword while Atom wrestled it into stillness.

As its entrails fell from the wound, the fight finally ended. Atom slowly let go in case it managed a dying blow.

Hippolyta swung her sword and decapitated the beast.

A gruesome end. But based on the damage it had caused Atom couldn’t mind.

It was just as well that that was the end of the fighting. Someone needed to put pressure to Doctor Mid-Nite’s wounds. Try to keep him from bleeding out before help could arrive.

Queen Hippolyta set to that while Atom sent out a distress signal to the rest of the JSA. The other Doctor Mid-Nite, along with Doctor Midnight, would be there soon.

Atom rarely thought much about the other doctors. Or at least not more than any teammate he didn’t know well. He had a clear favorite with his doctor. But he couldn’t help but be glad for the moment that Charles’ students had decided to follow in his footsteps.

Not that he spared more than a second to that. After he confirmed the doctors were on the way he kneeled opposite to Hippolyta. He took Charles’ hand into his.

“Come on, Doc, wake up.” Atom looked at Charles’s chest to confirm its rise and fall. That it wasn’t already too late.

It felt like too long before the other doctors arrived. Al was left with nothing to do but watch Charles’ breaths get shallower despite Hippolyta’s efforts.

But the doctors eventually did arrive. Pieter taking Hippolyta’s place applying pressure while Beth started treating the injuries.

Pieter looked up from Charles at Al. “Atom, you need to let go.”

Al hadn’t expected himself to be addressed. He just knew he didn’t want to leave. “What?”

“You need to let go of his hand so we can move him.” Pieter sounded impatient.

But Al hadn’t even realized he was holding Charles’ hand. He looked down at it, at Charles’ glove contrasting with his own bare skin, and let go startled.

He got out of the way when Beth moved in his direction. She had applied some temporary bandages. But they would need to be replaced quickly once they got back to the Brownstone.

Still, for the moment the bleeding was stopped.

Al relaxed slightly. Then he noticed Pieter giving him a considering look.

He raised at eyebrow at the doctor. He was pretty sure it wasn't visible through his mask. But some people could seem to pick up on it.

Apparently Pieter was one of them. Pieter took it as his cue to ask Al, or rather inform Al of what he had already decided, “You are going to have to move Charles. You should be able to do it the smoothest of us.”

“Sure.” Al nodded. He couldn’t disagree. Hippolyta had left to see how the others were doing once she wasn’t needed to apply pressure. Out of the doctors and Al, Al was the strongest.

He had to admit, to himself if nobody else, that he was glad he could do something to help.

As he picked Charles up, Al finally felt the adrenaline start to ease.

Everything was being taken care of.

He still didn’t fully relax until a few hours after the doctors finished in the Brownstone, when Charles squeezed his hand back as he woke up.

That time Al had been aware of holding it at least.

[resdraft]

Pool Plan Considerations before You Break Ground 

Building a pool is a big decision, and there are many things to consider before you break ground. Here are some of the most important things to keep in mind: 

Budget 

Pools can be expensive, so it's important to set a budget and stick to it. The cost of a pool will vary depending on the size, materials, and features you choose. It's also important to factor in the cost of ongoing maintenance, such as water treatment and cleaning. 

Size and Shape 

The size and shape of your pool will depend on the space you have available and your needs. If you have a large family, you'll need a larger pool. If you're on a budget, you may want to consider a smaller pool. You should also think about the shape of your pool. A rectangular pool is a classic choice, but there are many other shapes to choose from, such as kidney-shaped, L-shaped, and freeform. 

Depth 

The depth of your pool is another important consideration. Most pools have a shallow end and a deep end. The shallow end is typically 3 to 4 feet deep, while the deep end can be up to 10 feet deep. If you have young children, you may want to consider a pool with a shallow end that is only 2 to 3 feet deep. 

Features 

There are many different features that you can add to your pool, such as a spa, water slide, or waterfall. These features can add to the cost of your pool, but they can also make it more enjoyable. 

Location 

The location of your pool is also important. You'll want to choose a spot that gets plenty of sunlight. You should also consider the proximity of your pool to your home. If your pool is too far away from your home, it may be inconvenient to use. 

Permits 

In most areas, you'll need to obtain a permit before you can build a pool. The permit process can vary depending on your location. It's important to check with your local building department to find out what permits you need. 

Contractor 

It's important to hire a reputable contractor to build your pool. Get bids from several different contractors and compare their prices and experience. You should also check references before hiring a contractor. 

Insurance 

You may need to increase your homeowner's insurance coverage if you have a pool. Talk to your insurance agent to find out if you need to increase your coverage. 

Safety 

It's important to take steps to make your pool safe. You should install a fence around your pool to keep children and pets out. You should also teach your children to swim and never swim alone. 

Building a pool is a big investment, but it can be a great way to enjoy your backyard. By carefully considering all of the factors involved, you can build a pool that you'll love for years to come. 

Additional Tips 

Start planning early. The pool-building process can take several months, so it's important to start planning early. 

Get multiple bids. Don't just hire the first contractor you talk to. Get bids from several different contractors and compare their prices and experience. 

Ask about warranties. Make sure the contractor you hire offers a warranty on their work. 

Don't forget about maintenance. The cost of maintaining a pool can add up, so be sure to factor that into your budget. 

Enjoy your pool! Once your pool is built, be sure to enjoy it! 

To conclude, meticulous planning is paramount to a successful pool project. By thoughtfully addressing crucial aspects like budget, design, safety, and local regulations before breaking ground, homeowners can avoid costly mistakes and ensure their vision becomes a reality. Investing in a custom pool plan from experienced professionals like ResDraft guarantees a design that perfectly aligns with your needs, maximizes your space, and streamlines the entire construction process, ultimately leading to years of backyard enjoyment. 

[westrockpoolandspa]

How To Make Your Pool Safe For Kids

Having a pool can be great awesome for families and the kids; however, we need to prioritize everyone’s safety. A kid-friendly pool should have safety features while including some fun elements--this will make for an enjoyable experience while minimizing risks. There are different  ways in making your pool both safe and entertaining for kids, here are some reminders:

1. Installing Proper Fencing and Alarms

Your first step in creating a child-friendly swimming pool would be proper fence installation. To know the fence is up to standard, it should measure--at minimum--4 feet high, and should also have a self-latching gate to ensure it is out of a child’s reach. Having a barrier around the pool  helps prevent unsupervised access, and will reduce the risk of accidents. Additionally, you may want to consider installing an alarm that will alert you if someone were to enter the pool area. There are also pool surface alarms that detect water movement which could provide an extra layer of security.

2. Ensuring Slip-Resistant Surfaces

If you want to prevent slips and falls, installing a slip-resistant material around the pool deck can be helpful. With wet surfaces, there is most likely going to areas that raise concern and should be addressed. There are options for non-slip pool decking, which include rubberized surfaces or textured concrete. Since these materials will provide better traction, they will help reduce the likelihood of falls and injuries.

3. Adding Safety Covers and Drain Covers

Having a sturdy pool cover can be a literal lifesaver for when the pool is not in use. An automatic safety cover is a good investment because they serve as a double purpose--keeping debris out of the water, while preventing children from falling in. Also, it is important to ensure your pool has an anti-entrapment drain cover to prevent accidents related to suction. 

4. Shallow Play Areas

Having a shallow end in your pool is great for younger kids to also enjoy swimming--while making your pool more kid-friendly. Shallow play areas will let children enjoy the water in a safe way as they build the confidence and skills necessary to venture into deeper water. There are also features you can add such as built-in steps or tanning ledges, that can double as a way to provide more control for parents.

5. Supervision and Swimming Lessons

The most important safety element is constant and attentive adult supervision. There is no other safety feature that can replace supervision when kids are in or around the pool, although enrolling your kids in swimming lessons as early as possible can help them gain safety and swimming skills, which can make them confident and capable swimmers.

By implementing the safety measures mentioned, you can ensure your pool is a fun and safe environment for the kids, and allow them to enjoy the water while you can keep your peace of mind.

By partnering with Westrock Pools, you're not just investing in leisure but committing to a safe, clean, and enjoyable environment for your loved ones. Dive into safety, style, and unmatched peace of mind with Westrock Pools. For more information on their services, including pool and spa installation, visit their website or call 845-842-7392 today!

[turftown27]

Swimming Pool Rules and Regulations: Ensuring Safety and Enjoyment for All

Swimming pools are a source of relaxation, exercise, and fun, but they can also pose safety risks if not managed properly. To ensure a safe and enjoyable environment for all users, it's crucial to implement and follow comprehensive swimming pool rules and regulations. This article outlines essential guidelines and best practices to maintain safety, hygiene, and order in swimming pools.

Importance of Swimming Pool Rules and Regulations

Swimming pool rules and regulations are designed to prevent accidents, promote hygiene, and ensure that everyone can enjoy the pool safely. These rules cover a wide range of aspects, from general behavior to specific safety measures, and are enforced to protect all pool users.

General Rules and Conduct

1. No Running: The pool deck can be slippery when wet, making it hazardous for running. Ensuring that all users walk can prevent slips and falls. 2. No Diving in Shallow Areas: Diving in shallow water can result in serious injuries. Clear signage indicating the depth and no-diving zones should be prominently displayed. 3. Supervision of Children: Children should always be supervised by an adult. Lifeguards are there to enforce rules and respond to emergencies, not to babysit. 4. No Rough Play: Pushing, shoving, or other rough behavior can lead to accidents. Encouraging respectful conduct helps maintain a safe environment. 5. Appropriate Attire: Swimmers should wear proper swimwear. Street clothes, especially those made of cotton, can contaminate the water and hinder swimming.

Safety Measures

1. Lifeguard Presence: Qualified lifeguards should be on duty during pool operating hours to monitor activities and respond to emergencies. 2. Emergency Equipment: Life-saving equipment, such as life rings, reaching poles, and first aid kits, should be easily accessible and regularly maintained. 3. Clear Signage: Rules, safety instructions, and depth markers should be clearly visible around the pool area. 4. Restricted Areas: Certain areas, such as the deep end or the diving boards, may be off-limits to inexperienced swimmers or during specific times. 5. No Glass Containers: Glass can break and cause dangerous injuries. Only plastic or non-breakable containers should be allowed.

Hygiene and Cleanliness

1. Showering Before Entry: Bathers should shower before entering the pool to remove sweat, dirt, and other contaminants. 2. No Food or Drink in Pool: Consuming food or drinks in the pool can attract insects and create messes. Designated areas for eating and drinking should be provided. 3. Regular Pool Cleaning: The pool and surrounding areas should be cleaned regularly to maintain hygiene standards. 4. Proper Use of Restrooms: Encourage the use of restrooms and discourage urinating in the pool to keep the water clean and safe. 5. Proper Waste Disposal: Adequate trash bins should be available, and users should be encouraged to dispose of their waste responsibly.

Health and Wellness

1. Stay Hydrated: Swimmers should drink plenty of water to stay hydrated, especially when spending extended periods in the pool. 2. Avoid Swimming When Sick: Individuals with contagious illnesses or open wounds should avoid using the pool to prevent the spread of infection. 3. Sun Protection: Encourage the use of sunscreen and wearing protective clothing to prevent sunburn and skin damage.

Compliance and Enforcement

1. Rule Enforcement: Pool staff should consistently enforce rules to ensure compliance. Warnings or temporary bans can be used as disciplinary measures for rule breakers. 2. Education and Awareness: Regularly educate pool users about the importance of following rules through signage, announcements, and staff interactions. 3. Feedback and Improvement: Encourage users to provide feedback on the rules and regulations. Continuously assess and update the rules to address new safety concerns or changing user needs.

Conclusion

Adhering to swimming pool rules and regulations is essential for maintaining a safe and enjoyable environment for all users. By understanding and respecting these guidelines, swimmers can help prevent accidents, promote hygiene, and ensure that everyone can make the most of their pool experience. Whether it's a public facility or a private pool, following these rules is a shared responsibility that contributes to the overall well-being and enjoyment of all participants.

Remember, the key to a safe and enjoyable swimming experience lies in everyone's commitment to adhering to the swimming pool rules and regulations.

[best-hotels-in-ottawa-with-pools]

Waterfronts Retreats: Ottawa’s Finest Hotels with Pools

When it comes to planning a perfect getaway, the allure of a luxurious hotel with a sparkling pool can make all the difference. Ottawa, Canada’s charming capital, offers a range of top-notch hotels with pools to make your stay both comfortable and memorable. Whether you’re traveling for business or leisure, these hotels have got you covered. Let’s have a look at the top 9 hotels in Ottawa with pools. 

Table of Contents

Delta Hotels by Marriott Ottawa City Centre 

Ottawa Marriott Hotel 

Lord Elgin Hotel 

Holiday Inn Express & Suites 

Novotel Ottawa City Centre Hotel

Homewood Suites by Hilton Ottawa Downtown 

The Westin Ottawa 

Fairmont Chateau Laurier

Fairfield Inn & Suites by Marriott Ottawa Airport

Delta Hotels by Marriott Ottawa City Centre 

For those seeking a comfortable stay close to Ottawa’s key attractions, Delta Hotels by Marriott Ottawa City Centre is a top choice. Just a 10-minute walk from Parliament Hill and a short drive from Rideau Canal, this 4-star hotel is perfect for all types of travelers.

The hotel’s indoor saltwater pool offers a delightful oasis, no matter the weather outside. The rooms come equipped with large flat-screen cable TV, free WiFi, a coffee maker and pay-per-view TV channels. Families will adore the kid’s play area and board games, making it a top choice for those traveling with little ones. 

Address: 101 Lyon St. N, Ottawa, ON K1R 5T9, Canada 

Ratings: 4.3

Phone: +1 613-237-3600

Ottawa Marriott Hotel

The Ottawa Marriott Hotel makes for the perfect luxurious hotel offering the ultimate level of comfort and convenience. 

The hotel boasts a fitness center, business center, and free WiFi throughout the property to keep you all on track at every front.

When the summer sun beats down, you can take a dip in the hotel’s cool indoor pool. And if you’re traveling with your family you’d love the game consoles, table tennis, and a billiards table to enjoy a good time. The hotel’s downtown location ensures you’re just minutes away from attractions like Byward Market and the Canadian War Museum. 

Location: 100 Kent St, Ottawa, ON K1P 5R7, Canada

Ratings: 4.2Phone: +1 613-238-1122

Lord Elgin Hotel

Nestled in the heart of Ottawa, the Lord Elgin Hotel boasts an unbeatable location. Situated across from the National Arts Centre and Parliament buildings, the National Art Gallery, and Byward Market, you’ll have a world of attractions at your doorsteps.

The hotel’s indoor swimming pool is a perfect place to relax, while the 24-hour fitness center caters to fitness-conscious travelers. The spacious guest room offers 49-inch TVs and top-notch amenities. Don’t forget to explore the Bywards market for some excellent shopping and dining. 

Location: 100 Elgin St, Ottawa, ON K1P 5K8, Canada

Ratings: 4.3Phone: +1 613-235-3333

Holiday Inn Express & Suites

Located just off Highway 174, the Holiday Inn Express & Suites offer comfort and value in one package. This hotel’s heated indoor pool is complemented by a shallow end perfect for kids to play safely.

Start your day with a complimentary hot buffet breakfast before exploring the city. The rooms come with air conditioning, WiFi access, a flat-screen television, and additional amenities for a comfortable stay. Plus, there’s free on-site parking, making it convenient for travelers with personal vehicles. 

Location: 235 King Edward Ave, Ottawa, ON K1N 7L8, Canada

Ratings: 4.0 Phone: +1 613-680-8006

Also Read Downtown Delights: 11 Must-Try Family Friendly Restaurants in Downtown Toronto

Novotel Ottawa City Centre Hotel

The Novotel Ottawa City Centre Hotel is a fantastic choice for those looking to stay in the heart of Ottawa. Just a 5-minute walk from the bustling Byward Market, the hotel offers modern guest rooms, an indoor pool and hot tub, free WiFi, and a range of other amenities. 

Workout enthusiasts can maintain their fitness routine in the 24-hour fitness center, while foodies can savor locally sourced dishes at the on-site restaurant, Albion Rooms. With a location that’s close to Parliament Hill and the National Gallery of Canada, this hotel is an ideal base for exploration. 

Location: 33 Nicholas St, Ottawa, ON K1N 9M7, Canada

Ratings: 4.2Phone: +1 613-230-3033

Homewood Suites by Hilton Ottawa Downtown 

Homewood Suites is your ticket to a luxurious and comfortable stay in Ottawa. Conveniently located near the Supreme Court of Canada, Parliament Hill, and the Canadian War Museum, this hotel offers a range of services and facilities.

Start your day with an American breakfast and enjoy room service, a restaurant, and a bar. The hotel’s fitness center and indoor pool are perfect for relaxation and workouts. Besides, the terrace provides captivating views of Ottawa’s cityscape. You can also find an on-site ATM for added convenience. 

Location: 361 Queen St, Ottawa, ON K1R 0C7, Canada

Ratings: 4.3Phone: +1 613-234-6363

The Westin Ottawa 

The Westin Ottawa stands out as one of the best hotels in Ottawa, thanks to its ideal location and outstanding guest services. Situated near the Rideau Centre Shopping Mall and the Shaw Centre, guests are mere steps away from shopping, dining, and entertainment options. 

The hotel’s rooms are well-furnished and equipped with all the required amenities. Fitness enthusiasts can hit the fully equipped fitness center and squash courts, and spend a good time unwinding in the indoor pool. The two on-site restaurants, Daly’s and the Shore Club offer delicious meals and make for the perfect dining spot. 

Location: 11 Colonel By Dr, Ottawa, ON K1N 9H4, Canada

Ratings: 4.4 Phone: +1 613-560-7000

Also Read Exploring Ottawa’s Best Beaches Nearby

Fairmont Chateau Laurier

Tucked in the heart of downtown Ottawa, the Fairmont Chateau Laurier offers a wonderful blend of modern comfort and charm. The highlight of your stay? An impressive indoor pool that is often praised as the best in Ottawa. After a long day exploring the city’s treasures, unwind with a relaxing swim. The hotel also offers complimentary access to its health club and spa.

Dining options at the Chateau Laurier are nothing short of impressive. Zoe’s Lounge calls for afternoon tea or evening cocktails while Wilfrid’s Restaurant offers fine dining with captivating views of the nearby Parliament buildings. Natural lighting washes the guest rooms, ensuring a bright, inviting atmosphere for the visitors. 

Location: 1 Rideau St, Ottawa, ON K1N 8S7, Canada

Ratings: 4.4Phone:  +1 613-241-1414

Fairfield Inn & Suites by Marriott Ottawa Airport

Get a front-row seat to watch planes come and go at the Fairfield Inn & Suites by Marriott Ottawa Airport. Offering comfortable high-end guest rooms, WiFi, and a pool, this is an excellent choice for business travelers. Start your day with a free breakfast and travel in comfort and style.

Location: 135 Thad Johnson Private, Ottawa, ON K1V 1A2, Canada

[apcthetics]

*˖ ⊹       “  how  long,  do  you  think,  until  someone  gets  stuck  out  in  the  water  ?  “  alistair  leaned  to  the  side,  addressing  the  person  to  his  left.  “  not  that  i’m  hoping  that  happens–  obviously  that  would  be  tragic,  and  someone  would  have  to  go  all  the  way  out  there  to  rescue  them,  “  raising  the  beer  he  was  drinking,  he  took  a  sip,  humming  thoughtfully,  “  but  mixing  alcohol  and  the  ocean  seems,  at  least  to  me,  like  a  kind  of  bad  idea.  don’t  get  me  wrong,  i’m  having  a  great  time,  “  his  hand  touched  his  chest  in  mock  sincerity,  “  but  surely  someone  else  is  not  going  to  be  by  the  end  of  the  night.  i’ve  been  to  parties  with  shallow  pools  where  people  don’t  know  how  to  act,  let  alone  the  whole  damn  ocean.  “  /  OPEN

[mackenzielovee]

ambivalence part fourteen: consume - rafe cameron

a/n: i'm so sad to see this coming to an end and i'm sorry i've kept you waiting so long :( i hope you love this! let me know what you think (p.s send me ideas for blurbs, i wanna keep writing this series!)

Summary: The return of Rafe means addressing concerns, and figuring out what really is behind your insecurities.

Warnings: swearing, kissing, brief? mention of sexual acts

Word Count: 6.6k

series masterlist

my writing

The warm sun heats your skin as you lay out, sighing contently as you adjust your sunglasses. You shift your head and watch Rafe as he stands in the shallow end, shirtless with soaking wet hair, playing basketball in the water with Scott's hoop he used when he was seven.

He'd driven both of you back to your house last night, not even bothering to sneak in anymore for your parents' sake. He hadn't seen you in two weeks, and he didn't care if they knew he spent the night or not. When you two had awakened this morning, Rafe danced around the idea of talking about everything, and so did you, which is how you ended up volunteering a pool day. It's a good enough distraction and keeps both of you occupied.

Rafe shoots and misses, the ball flying off the rim and rolling over into the yard. You bite back a laugh when he groans, then looks over at you, hands on his hips.

"You wouldn't mind getting that for me, would ya?" he questions, shifting in his stance so you get a full view of your shirtless boyfriend. He squints, shutting one eye and scrunching his face up in a way that tugs at your heart.

"You're serious?" you ask, lowering your sunglasses to the tip of your nose.

Rafe sighs, "No, I'll get it."

You laugh at him when he swims to the edge of the pool, then rise from your chair and start toward the ball. You hear him chuckle lowly when he sees you walking over to get it, breath hitching in his chest when you bend over to pick it up.

"Who approved this bathing suit?" he asks playfully.

You turn, meeting his broad, wet chest and shoving the ball against it. He smirks, tucking a finger underneath the tie of your bathing suit bottoms. You giggle, biting your lip to try and contain your wide smile.

"You don't like it?"

"Of course I do. That's the problem. Your brother is right inside," he practically groans, stepping forward and pressing himself against you.

"He's probably playing video games or something," you tease him, arms wrapping around his neck. He reaches up with his other hand and takes the ball between the two of you, throwing it behind him without a care where it goes. Faintly, you both hear it splash in the water.

"You think he's playing Madden?" Rafe tenses, eyes widening as he looks over to the house.

"Rafe," you whine.

"Kidding, baby," he grins, "Come in the pool with me."

"I'm enjoying the sun," you counter.

"Enjoy your boyfriend, instead," he proposes, "Come on. The water feels good."

"No," you whine playfully.

"Okay," he nods, "Scale of one to ten. How mad would you be, if, hypothetically, of course, I pitched you over my shoulder and jumped in?"

"Ten," you say instantly.

"Understood."

You raise an eyebrow at him, as if daring him to do it anyway. He shrugs easily, using the grip he has on your bathing suit bottoms to pull you in even closer.

"You sure that was a hypothetical?" you whisper, signaling for him to give you a kiss.

He leans in, his lips brushing yours, "Yes. This wasn't, though."

You furrow your eyebrows as if to ask what he means, and by the time you process his words, he lifts your hips up and grins when you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist. He smirks when he has to support you by resting his hand on your ass.

"Rafe," you warn when he starts backing up toward the pool.

"What?" he asks innocently.

"Don't you dare-"

Then, you're in the water. Rafe does his best to ensure that your hair doesn't go under, and when he gets a stance in the pool, he reaches up and pushes your sunglasses to the top of your head. He laughs, adjusting his grip on you and setting his hands on the bottoms of your thighs.

"Oops," he grins, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

You fasten your arms around his neck and shake your head at him, pretending to pout.

"I can't believe you just did that," you frown, watching him laugh.

"Come on," he groans, "Just relax. Doesn't the water feel nice?"

He attaches his lips to your jawline, slowly guiding the two of you over to the side of the pool, where he presses you up against it and leans into you, not bothering to take his hands off your legs even though he doesn't need to hold you up anymore.

"No," you huff, trying to suppress a groan, "This does, though."

"Mhm," he hums.

"I missed you so much," you tell him, one of your hands traveling up to his hair.

"God, baby, I missed you, too," he mumbles against your skin, "Y'almost broke my heart while I was away."

"Rafe," you say sadly, frowning when he pulls away from your skin and looks you in the eye.

"I just mean, I got scared. Scared that you were angry with me, scared that you'd find better, scared you'd give up on me-"

"Hey," you frown, rubbing your fingers against his scalp, doing your best to relax him.

"Scared of losing you," he finishes, staring at you like you're the most fragile thing in the world.

"You can't," you say simply.

"Easier said than done, sweetheart. Can't blame me for being afraid of losing the one thing I've wanted my entire life."

You smile sadly, giving him another kiss. He accepts it, running his hands up and down your thighs and pressing himself against you even tighter.

"I love you," you whisper against his lips, "I'm so happy you're home."

"Me, too," he agrees, "I love you so much."

"Can we just stay here forever?" you ask him, looking around the empty backyard, the sun, the cool water, and the beer bottles Rafe had brought out.

He smiles, "I wish. Do you think the real world's still out there?"

"Oh, yeah. It's plotting to ruin some part of this as we speak."

Rafe laughs, pulling himself back a bit to fixate his gaze on you. You peck his lips once, then twice, and give him a genuine smile.

"Was your dad mad?"

The question you'd been afraid to ask him, as you know the relationship between him and his dad hasn't always been the most simple. The last thing you'd want to do is be another reason why Rafe could lose his job. Not after everything.

"No, baby," he whispers.

"Are you lying?"

"No, baby," he repeats, "He actually thinks you're good for me. He understood."

You smile, "Good."

Rafe takes a deep breath, his expression changing. Your face falls, lips parting as you prepare to ask what's wrong.

"I think we should talk," he says, "Clear the air. About everything."

"Okay," you agree, nodding and trying to control your heartbeat.

"I just have a few things I want to say," he continues, stalling, then nodding as he encourages himself to start, "You are unbelievable for sticking by me the way you did with everything I've thrown at you the past few weeks. I know I should've told you about the trip, and I can't help but think the outcome would've been a little different if you'd known about it before you did. And, I also know that I wasn't the best boyfriend ever while I was away. I didn't call enough, I blew you off, and I'm sorry. You deserve better than that, and that's something I believe with all my heart. I'm not John B, okay-"

"Whoa," you stop him, bringing your hand down to stroke the skin on his cheek, "Stop. Never for one second have I compared you to him. Being with you is so different, Rafe, it's..."

You trail off, groaning lightly in frustration for not being able to find the right word. He waits patiently, staring at you, desperate to hear the rest of your thought.

"Different, good?" he clarifies after a moment of silence.

"Different, great," you nod, shooting him a smile, "My turn?"

Rafe nods, and you can't help but swoon at the concerned look on his face.

"I'm sorry that I was needy while you were away. I guess I just, I don't know, you're easy to miss. I've never felt this way about anyone. I think I just got really insecure when you started to pull away, I was afraid, maybe..."

You trail off, looking down in shame instead of at him. He starts to shake his head rapidly, but wants to give you time to finish your thought before he interrupts you. When you don't start again, he speaks up.

"Never," he says quietly, "Never, ever. You're it for me, you know that?"

You nod, finally dragging your eyes back up to him, "I do."

"Good," he says, his voice more serious than he had been this whole conversation, "C'mere."

You lean forward, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. He reaches a hand off your leg and out of the water, grabbing ahold of your chin and keeping you against him until he's satisfied. When you pull away, he shows you a cheeky smile.

"Love you," you whisper.

"Love you, baby," he replies, "Hey, guess what?"

"What?"

"Got you something."

You gasp, squirming in his arms, "A present?"

"A present," he confirms, "It's not wrapped or anything, so don't expect much."

"Can I have it?" you ask excitedly, watching him laugh.

"After the pool. I'm not done staring at you in this swim suit."

"Can I have a hint what it is?"

"No," he shakes his head.

You pout and squirm from his grip, falling only when he releases you with a sigh. You swim over and grab the basketball floating in the water, setting your sunglasses back over your eyes as you turn around to the hoop.

"If I make this, you have to give me a hint."

Rafe laughs, louder than he probably should have, "Okay, deal."

You take a deep breath and then pitch the ball toward the hoop, groaning when it reaches nowhere near the hoop. Rafe swims over and grabs the ball, then positions himself behind you to help you shoot.

"Okay, sweetheart, like this," he whispers in your ear, pressing a kiss underneath your earlobe as he wraps his hands around yours, which grip the ball.

"This is so cheesy," you mutter, listening to him laugh.

He guides your hands down and then back up, whispering something in your ear about 'follow through' as you release the ball. It doesn't go in, but it at least hits the rim.

"Better," he shrugs, wrapping his arms around your waist after, "D'you remember when we all used to play three on three back here? You always used to throw a fit when Scott would put you on a team with Wheezie and Sarah because we would always beat you-"

"That's because your dad played with you guys!" you protest, spinning around in his arms, "He was, like, so tall!"

"Well, you were ten. And short. Everyone was tall to you," he teases.

"I also didn't want to play," you remind him.

"You were terrible," he agrees, letting out a laugh. You whack him on the chest and sigh, trying not to laugh as well.

"You knew I wouldn't make that shot, huh?"

"Sweetheart," he grumbles, but when you raise a brow, he falters, "Yeah, I knew."

"Unbelievable!" you groan, playfully attempting to squirm from him.

"Stop," he demands, smirking when you can't get away from him because of his tight grip.

You give up, sighing and relinquishing yourself to him, locking your arms around his neck and clinging to him. The smirk on his face widens when you lean in, fully expecting a kiss. When your lips brush his, you pull back only slightly.

"Present time," you whisper, laughing when he swears under his breath.

"C'mon," he mutters, leading you both over to the stairs. He sets you down and lets you walk out ahead of him, fully enjoying his view, "Can you keep the swim suit on, at least?"

You laugh, "Maybe."

Rafe makes you shower, together, of course, then grumbles when you get dressed. He smiles when he sees that your outfit consists of his shirt and a pair of shorts, ones that he loves almost as much as your bathing suit.

"I wonder what it is," you say, grinning mischievously when he picks up his duffle bag to get the present out, "A souvenir from the Bahamas, yes?"

"It's not from the Bahamas," he says, "I was gonna give it to you when I got back. I had to run home last night before I came to the Club to pick it up. I meant to give it to you last night, but we ended up fu-"

"Rafe!" you stop him, cheeks flushing red, "Inappropriate."

He chuckles, flushing red himself as he remembers the previous night. Not having seen you for two weeks really had impacted him.

"Okay," he says, hands still in his duffle bag as they wrap around the object, "Close your eyes."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes."

"Rafe," you grumble, but do as he says.

You hold out your hands, smiling when you can hear his feet on the carpet as he rounds your bed and takes a deep breath, placing something in your hands.

"Open," he whispers.

You do, quickly, heart sinking when you see the book. The Velveteen Rabbit. The old cover you had when you were a kid, the one Rafe had ripped and ruined. Your lips part as you gasp, staring at the book with wide eyes. When you look back up at him, he looks nervous. You try to smile at him, but you can feel your emotions start to bubble up and you look like you're about to cry.

"Rafe," you say, voice cracking, "What..."

You trail off, knowing the right words will never come. He smiles a bit and then takes a seat on the bed beside you, placing a hand on your knee.

"Sorry I ruined the last one, sweetheart," he says quietly.

"I just-" you stop, looking down at the book again, "Where did you find this?"

"Oh, y'know..." he waves his hand around, "I found it at a bookstore. Made me think of you."

You stare at him, watching as his eyes avert from you to the book, staring at it with wide eyes. He bites his lip, which makes you smile.

"You're lying," you say, matter-of-fact. His eyes shoot back to yours, and you instantly know you're right.

"Doesn't matter where I got it," he shrugs after a second.

"I just can't believe you did," you swoon, and can't help but open the front cover. You intend to start looking through the book, but the hand writing on the blank front page catches your eye immediately. Rafe's cheeks redden when you see it, observing the messy, attempted neat, boyish hand writing.

Y/N,

Hope this makes up for how much of a dumbass I've been. Not just the past few weeks, but our entire lives. You mean everything to me.

I love you,

Rafe

"Rafe," you say, tears welling in your eyes, "This is perfect. Thank you."

"Mhm," he smiles, "Glad you like it."

You sniffle, nodding your head, "I love it so much. I love you so much."

"I love you, too," he smiles, leaning in and pressing a kiss to your forehead.

You start flipping through the book, observing the pages and remembering how it used to be your favorite book. The pages, the pictures, look exactly the way you remember them. Rafe watches you with admiration filled eyes, relieved to have finally given you the present he'd been planning for weeks.

His phone starts buzzing on the nightstand, but you don't think twice about it. You're too engrossed in the book, the perfectly preserved, old copy of this book, to notice Rafe's eyes sink when he sees his father's name on the screen.

"I'm gonna step out, sweetheart," he tells you, pressing his lips to your forehead before he exits the room, only answering the call once your bedroom door is shut again.

He's gone for about twenty minutes, which leaves you enough time to fully admire every page of the book. When he steps back into your room, he takes a deep breath and holds an apologetic look.

"I have to go," he tells you.

"No," you whine, giving him our best pouty look in hope you can convince him to stay with you.

"I'm sorry, baby," he says, stepping over and sitting beside you on the bed, "It's work stuff. Gotta charge my laptop, and the files are at the house, and-"

"Okay," you stop him, encouraging him to take a deep breath.

"I'm sorry," he repeats.

You lean up and press a gentle kiss to his lips, "It's okay. I knew what I was getting myself into."

"Yes, you did," he snickers, "Will you come over later? I should be done around six."

"I'll be there," you inform him, smiling and giving him another kiss.

"Counting down already," he mumbles, then stands after one last kiss, "Bring your swim suit."

"Rafe," you laugh, watching him point a finger at you as if to tell you he's serious.

He steps over to his duffle bag, folding his clothes from last night and setting them in the top. You lay in your bed and watch him, wishing silently that he was unpacking that bag to stay instead of packing it up to leave. You giggle quietly every time his eyes flicker to you; something about you laying in bed staring at him being hard for him to tear his eyes away from.

"Leaving my toothbrush here," he says as he zips his bag, "I'll pick up a new one on my way home."

"Okay," you grin, the thought of seeing Rafe's toothbrush beside yours every morning making your heart swell.

"Okay," he repeats, throwing his duffle over his shoulder and then stepping over for one last kiss.

You give it to him, holding onto his jaw as if to try and keep him close. He holds the kiss extra long, just for you, then pulls away after a minute.

"Thank you for the present," you whisper, stroking his skin.

"You're welcome. I love you. See you later."

"I love you, too," you say, watching him nod contently and step over to the door.

He slips through the door and closes it gently, and you laugh when you hear him run into Scott in the hallway. Scott teases him for a second about sneaking out of your room, and when Rafe denies it, Scott just snorts. They chat for a minute, you listening promptly at the door, then Rafe excuses himself and hurries down the stairs.

"You can stop listening now, Y/N," Scott calls when the front door closes, making your cheeks turn red.

At five-thirty, Rafe texts you and asks if you'd stop and pick up a pizza on the way over. He explains how, with Ward being out of town, Rose decided to do a juice cleanse, and Sarah's out with Scarlett for the night, so it will just be the two of you and Wheezie. You quickly agree, not surprised at all when he texts you back and says he called it in and paid for it, trying to make it as easy on you as possible.

You climb in the car and drive to pick it up, excited to spend the evening with Rafe and Wheezie. You're so wrapped up in thinking of movies to watch and things to chat with Wheezie about that, when you climb out of the car, you don't even see him standing there until he speaks.

"Hey."

Your eyes shoot up, meeting our ex-boyfriend's. You take a step back and swallow, not sure exactly what to say. With the way things had been the last time you saw him, you're not sure where you stand now. Where you want to stand.

"What are you doing here?" you ask him.

He frowns, then gestures to the pizza place, "JJ wanted a pizza."

"You drove all the way to Figure Eight for a pizza?"

"Well," he shrugs, "I was kinda already over here. Gave Sarah her stuff back."

You cross your arms in front of your chest, car keys dangling from your hands. He watches you do this, uneasy about the fact that you're so defensive with him now.

"I'm sure you'll find someone else in no time," you shoot at him, then start walking toward the building.

"I really am sorry for the way things went down, okay?" he calls after you.

You spin around, "Which part, John B? When you broke up with me for my childhood friend? Or when you showed up at my job and made a huge scene in front of Rafe and Topper? How about when you ratted Rafe out at the wedding in front of everyone? Or, my personal favorite, when you pushed my brother into a bar full of glass."

"Y/N," he sighs, "All of it. I'm sorry for all of it. But, the way I see it, you never would've gotten with Rafe if things hadn't gone down like that-"

"Don't you dare take credit for the relationship I'm in now," you step toward him, pointing a demanding finger his way, "You had no right to put your hands on my brother, no right to speak about Rafe, and absolutely no right to turn it all around to try and make yourself look good."

"You're right," he holds his hands up in the air, "You're totally right. I've made a lot of mistakes-"

"That's the understatement of the century," you snap.

"Can you let me finish?"

You look up at him, one raised eyebrow daring him to say that again, "Why? Because you deserve it?"

"No. Fuck, I know I don't deserve it, all right? But, y'know, I've just been thinking a lot and I wanted to get it all off my chest. You deserve to be happy, Y/N. Even if it is with Rafe Cameron."

"You don't know the first thing about Rafe," you say, clenching your jaw to hold yourself back from saying anything else.

"I know he risked his job to come back for you. I know that nobody is sure how your relationship is gonna work if you can't be apart for four weeks."

You shake your head and exhale loudly, not letting his words bother you. John B and Sarah being broken up means John B no longer has any sort of insight into the Cameron family, and he can't threaten you with his words anymore. If Rafe says everything is fine, you'd believe him until you have a reason not to.

"Again, you know nothing about it. Our relationship is nobody's business except for mine and Rafe's. Goodbye, John B."

You push past him and attempt to walk away, walking fast and staring at the door with wishes to just be inside.

"Y/N, wait," he says, grabbing ahold of your elbow.

You pull away immediately, spinning around and leveling him with a glare, "Don't fucking touch me, John B, or I swear-"

"I'm sorry," he says quickly, holding both of his hands up, "Look, I'm sorry. I've made a mess of this. I shouldn't have said that."

"There's a lot of things you shouldn't have said. Just go back to the Cut. There's nothing over here for you, anymore."

You turn from him, drawing your elbows closer to your sides and shoving your hands in the pockets of your jacket. He doesn't call after you this time, doesn't make any attempt to reach for you. He lets you go, which is exactly what you want him to do.

Quickly, you pick up the pizza, breathing out a sigh of relief when John B's not standing in the parking lot near your car. Even though you try not to, you replay the entire interaction in your head on a loop as you drive.

You'd told yourself his words held no stock, that it didn't matter what John B thought. But, you couldn't help the sinking feeling in your gut at his words. Had you been holding on to Rafe too tightly? Had the insecurity of John B leaving you for someone better come out in your new relationship, in places you never expected?

You put the car in park once you reach the driveway, taking a deep breath and shutting it off. You need a moment before you go inside. The selfishness and the guilt swirl in your stomach, making you nauseous. The smell of the pizza doesn't help.

You see the front door open out of the corner of your eye and Rafe steps out, walking up to the passenger door and pulling it open without hesitation.

"Hey, baby," he greets, wide smile plastered across his face, "Thanks for picking it up."

"You're welcome," you force a smile, undoing your seat belt.

Rafe grabs the pizza from the passenger seat and then rushes over to the driver's side, opening your door and leaning down to give you a kiss once you're out.

"Do anything after I left?" he asks, guiding you up toward the house.

"No," you reply.

He looks down at you, eyebrows furrowed and sporting a puzzled expression. You don't look up at him, fear that he'll notice or, God forbid, call you on your tell, overwhelming you. He doesn't speak again, just opens the front door for you and leads you to the kitchen.

"Y/N!" Wheezie cheers when you both enter the kitchen.

"Hey, Wheeze," you smile.

"Nice to have dinner at our house for a change, huh?" she teases you, watching you do your best to laugh genuinely. You feel like a rock is resting at the bottom of your stomach.

"Most definitely."

"Wheeze, get me some plates, okay? And drinks from the fridge," Rafe says, opening up the pizza box.

"I'll get the drinks," you say quietly, stepping over to their fridge.

You're not at all surprised when you feel Rafe's hand snake around your hips, pressing your back to his front as you browse the fridge for soda cans.

"You okay?"

"Yes," you say evenly, passing him a soda and then grabbing two more.

He turns you around, shutting the fridge behind you and staring at your eyes, taking in every single facial feature you possess.

"Are you okay, sweetheart?" he repeats.

Wheezie sets the plates down on the island, and you know you can't talk to him about this now. You take a deep breath, then do your best to give him a smile.

"I'm good, Rafe."

"You're lying," he teases, pulling you closer.

"Talk about it later," you say, making him tense.

You pull his hands off your waist and step to Wheezie, handing her a soda. She thanks you, popping it open and taking a sip.

"So, Y/N, I have to tell you about this guy in my math class."

You raise your eyebrows at her, tearing off a slice of pizza and putting it on a plate for her.

"Please do," you press, "A guy guy?"

"Well, I don't know, yet. He's really nice and, like the other day, we were passing notes. He sits beside me, so it's easy, you know? And the note said-"

"Wheezie," Rafe stops her, picking up the plate full of pizza and handing it to her, "Go find a movie to put on, all right? We'll be in in a minute."

"Rafe," Wheezie groans, but does what he says when he narrows his eyes at her.

You glance at Wheezie and give her a look, as if to say, 'we'll finish this later'. She nods and then rises from her barstool, soda in one hand and plate in the other.

"And, no dating!" he calls after her, "You're too young. Guys your age aren't nice."

"Stop," you swat his chest.

He sets his hands on your hips again, pulling you close to him. You accept his movement, running your hands up and down his arms.

"Talk to me," he insists.

"Rafe, it's dumb."

"Not dumb," he shakes his head, "Not if it's upsetting you."

"No, I-" you stop, shaking your head before you regroup and continue, "I ran into John B when I was picking up the pizza."

"What? What did he say to you?"

"He was trying to apologize in his own twisted way, I think," you frown, "But, I don't know. He said some shit about people thinking we'll never make it if we can't be apart for four weeks-"

"Who said that?" he clenches his jaw, fingers tightening their grip around your waist.

"I don't know," you shrug, "Probably no one. I think he was just making up shit to get under my skin. It worked."

Rafe frowns, then leans down and presses a comforting kiss to the top of your head.

"What else did he say?"

"You risked your job to come home for me."

"What the fuck," Rafe mutters under his breath, pulling back and tipping your chin up so he could look at you, "That's not at all what happened. That stupid motherfucker doesn't know anything-"

"Okay," you stop him, "I already know that. I trust you when you say everything's okay."

"Everything is okay," he nods, "Baby, me coming home had nothing to do with me thinking we couldn't handle four weeks apart. But, it's a new relationship and I hadn't told you I was leaving until a few days before, and a lot of things went into that decision."

"I know that, Rafe," you nod, "I just... I don't know. I feel like, maybe, I was selfish and didn't really help the situation. I'm sorry about that-"

"I'm not," he says instantly, "I mean, shit, do you know how good it felt to get a call from your brother, telling me you missed me so much? After I've spent most of my life trying to get you to acknowledge my presence at all, the fact that you felt lost without it kinda stroked my ego a little bit."

"Shut up," you laugh, making him laugh, too.

"Kidding," he smiles, even though you both know he's not, "No, seriously. You were not selfish at all. I would've come home early regardless, I think. Once I found out you couldn't visit, I started to arrange a fight home just for the weekend. Then, Scott called, and Sarah talked to my dad, and everything worked out. John B doesn't know shit, baby. Trust me on that."

"I trust you," you whisper, "But, I'm still sorry."

"Shouldn't be," he shakes his head, giving you a quick kiss.

"You're everything to me, you know," you say, quoting what he wrote in the front of your book. The comment makes his cheeks go pink.

"That's a cheesy line," he remarks.

"Yeah, some guy who's had a crush on me forever said that. Might blow him off. Let him try again in thirteen years."

"Excuse me?" he teases, pinching your sides.

You squeal and try to squirm from his grip, but he's too strong for you. He continues tickling and pinching, making you laugh.

"Say that again, sweetheart," he jokes.

"Stop," you say through your laughter, still squirming, "I'm sorry."

Rafe halts his motions, burying his face into your neck instead and pressing a gentle kiss to your skin.

"Better be."

You let him get his kisses in, gasping only when he starts sucking on your skin, biting gently. You want to remind him his sister is in the other room, it just feels too good. He eventually trails up your neck and to your jawline, kisses peppering every inch of skin.

"Rafe," you say, grinning when he doesn't even falter in his motions.

"Mhm?" he hums.

"How d'you know when I'm lying?"

He smirks against you skin, pulling back after a minute and tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, staring at you.

"Baby," he whispers.

"Tell me," you whine, watching him shake his head at your antics.

"Will that make you feel better?"

"Yes," you nod, "Please."

"Fine," he sighs, pulling his hand off your waist. The movement makes you frown at first, until he lightly presses his fingertip to your forehead, to the spot right between your eyebrows, just above your nose, "You always scrunch your eyebrows when you're lying. You get this little crease right here. First time I noticed it, you were, shit, ten, I think? You broke your mom's favorite mug, and you lied about it. I had to test it out a few times after that, and then I figured it out."

You bite your bottom lip to hide the smile forming on your lips, pulling his hand from your face and into yours.

"Test it out?" you clarify, raising an eyebrow.

"Mhm. It's not like you were a big liar, so it took a long time for me to be sure."

"So, you were just being all creepy, staring at me all the time? Monitoring my every move?" you tease him.

"Come on, now," he laughs, "Y'know I was crazy about you. Course I paid attention."

"All while I was being the biggest bitch to walk the face of the earth," you sigh, cursing yourself for your past behavior.

"Not a bitch. Stop," he shakes his head, "Just a little blind."

He smiles at his last comment, which makes you smile, too. You lean forward, signaling for a kiss, which he gives you.

"Pizza's getting cold," you whisper against his lips, watching him smile.

"Don't care."

He presses his lips to yours once more, breaking away only when his thirteen year-old sister's voice rings through the air.

"Are you guys coming in, or what?"

Rafe groans quietly, dropping his head to your chest in frustration. You smile, bringing a hand up to stroke through his hair.

"Be right there, Wheeze," you call.

"Hurry up," she presses, "I put on Fast and Furious."

"I hate that movie," Rafe grumbles into your chest.

"No, you don't."

"I do right now," he grunts, "Rather just go upstairs with you."

"Come on," you sigh, pulling his head up so he looks at you, "She wants to hang out with us."

"Y/N-"

"Be nice to your sister," you say to him, turning back to the pizza box and plates.

"Fine."

You laugh and shake your head at him, then place pizza on the plates for both of you and lead Rafe into the living room.

After you all eat, Rafe lays himself down beside you, cuddling his head into your chest and ignoring Wheezie's comment about him looking like a four year-old. You just laugh, running your hands through his hair in the way you know he loves. His grip tightens around you when the movie ends, and he presses a kiss to your cheek.

"Can we go in my room, now?"

You laugh and nod, letting him pull you up from the couch. Rafe picks up the plates and carries them to the kitchen while you step over to Wheezie, sitting down beside her.

"So," you start, "A boy."

"Don't tell Rafe," she insists, watching you nod, "He's nice. And, he asked if I wanted to go to the movies next weekend."

"What did you say?"

"I said, I will think about it," she says firmly, "I just don't want parents to drive us, you know? It would be awkward. I can't ask Rafe, because he'll just interrogate us, and Sarah's mean sometimes-"

"I can do it," you volunteer.

Wheezie's eyes go wide, staring at you like you just solved every problem in her life.

"Really?"

"'Course, Wheeze. Won't even tell your brother."

"Won't even tell her brother what?" Rafe leans against the doorway, eyebrow raised.

Wheezie tenses, but you set a hand on her knee to calm her.

"What she's getting you for your birthday," you say without missing a beat, doing your best to relax your eyebrows.

Rafe smirks, biting the inside of his cheek as he considers what to say.

"My birthday's two months away."

"Takes a lot of planning," Wheezie speaks up.

"Mhm," Rafe hums, clearly not believing you, "Whatever you two are plotting, I'm not sure I wanna know about it. C'mon, pretty girl, let's go upstairs."

You shoot Wheezie a wink, then stand and walk to Rafe, taking his hand when he holds it out for you. He leads you up the stairs, and when you reach the top, Rose calls out from her office.

"Rafe? Is that you?"

"Yeah," he calls back.

"Oh, good. Your frames came in. I set them on your bed. The prints are in the envelope. Show me when you get them all set!"

Rafe's cheeks burn as you look up at him, trying to decipher what she's talking about.

"Okay," he calls back sheepishly, then drags you to his room.

Once you two are inside, he hurries to his bed and looks at the frames. You stand beside him, noting silently how they perfectly match the ones already up on his wall.

"What are these for?" you ask him.

He sits down on the bed and picks up the yellow envelope, then moves his glance up to you.

"I, um, asked Rose to get me copies of the pictures she took. Figured, maybe, I could replace that picture of us on my wall."

He points over to the old cruise photo of the two of you hanging up, then opens up the envelope and pulls out the copies. He flips through them quickly, finding the one he wants and then reaching for a frame. You don't push to see it until he's done, then turns it around to show you.

"Rafe," you smile.

You hadn't seen the wedding photos until now. Rose had promised to send them, but had been too busy with Rafe's demands to do so. The picture he picked out is perfect, it's everything. You're smiling at Rose, and had been assuming Rafe was doing the same. Instead, he was looking down at you, expression on his face making you melt.

"My favorite one," he mumbles, "You look so happy."

"I am," you nod, watching his eyes melt as he stares up at you.

He stands, pressing a kiss to your cheek as he passes. He steps to his wall and removes the old picture, hanging the new frame in its place.

"You can throw that one away," you tease, pointing to the old photo.

"No way!" he protests, holding it in his hands and staring down at it with somber eyes, "Wish I could tell this little punk he'll get the girl eventually. He just has to grow two feet and get his ass to the gym."

You laugh, stepping over to him. He turns and sets the picture down on his desk, where he can still look at it every day. When he turns back to you, he instinctively pulls you into him.

"I love you," you whisper.

"I love you, too."

He leans down and kisses you, kisses away all your doubts that John B had planted in your stomach. This boy, this man, standing in front of you, who'd been begging you to love him all his life, making you feel ways you'd never felt before.

You'd never been sure of anything in your life. Not of your Midsummers dresses, not what you wanted for dinner, not if you were ever really worthy of a good type of love after John B left you. Now, with him, you're sure of one thing and one thing only. You need Rafe Cameron the same way you need air to breathe and water to survive. And you're sure, out of everyone, that it's him, forever.

Tags: @hollandsour @flowerkidlxrry @kookkyra @pogueslandia @sarahwasfound @fuzzyhumanpersontrash @rafecameronn @rafeswh0ree @outerbankies @morganwilliams @lilgoddesshines @proactivetypeofperson @abrunettefangirlnerd @the-chaotic-cow @absolute-fcking-chaos @dontstopxx @kaatelyyynn @hayley1623 @riseabovetheexpectations @divanca2006 @jordynsharum @dudinhahoff @anonymousobxfan @blue-4-55-readinglist @premixed-margarita @444f4iry @alularae3 @toolateformcrtooearlytoleaveemo @hopebaker @welcometomyworldwithoutrules @sk8rcal @ims0golden @princesspogue @gasolinesavages @outlaw-abby @samcaniglia @marveloussensations @igotmajordaddyissues @babeyglo @dr3aming0utl0udx @beskar-boba @billowingbanshee @thisisthewayrose @iammirrorball @layazul @cremextart @thesimpletype @fashphotolife @notdisneychannel @gillybear17

[waywardstation]

WIP WEDNESDAY SUNDAY

I CANNOT believe I had a poll done and everything for WIP Wednesday, and then entirely forgot to actually post something for it!! I entirely blame the sexyman polls haha, it really took all my attention!

ANYWAYS! Fluff won over angst in the polls, but I decided since I didn’t post on time, I’ll put out one for both.

Fluff is first, then angst. Both are from upcoming chapters in HFBE

Enjoy! wording is apt to change.

————

FLUFF

“Yeah!” The teenager hiked the backpack up a little higher by its straps, unable to help a proud smile from making its way onto her face - he could tell she was excited to be a part of it. “The professor asked me to come with them! We’re leaving right now, but I had to come and say goodbye first! It’s going to be a few days, and I gotta make sure you’ll be fine without me around!”

Her joking tone hid it well, but Ingo could still identify the concern lurking beneath the surface, and it pained him that she felt like she had to worry so.

“Well, bravo! I’m sure you’ll do a fine job in assisting them. And I can assure you, I will be alright; I will eagerly await your return to Jubilife. But until then,” Ingo turned to address his coworker, with a more jesting tone. “I have Miss Zisu to keep me company. She won’t leave me alone until I can run my laps faster than her, it seems.”

“Oh, let's not get ahead of ourselves now!” Zisu laughed heartily at his exaggeration.

“If you say so,” Akari quipped with them, but Ingo could tell the hidden pool of worry didn’t grow any more shallow. She took a look back at the expedition group, to see they were already passing through the gates into the fieldlands. “Ah! They’re leaving! I gotta go, but I’ll see you first thing when I get back! But before I go-”

Arms were held out wide, waiting for Ingo to copy her.

“Hug?”

Ingo halfway opened his arms out of reflex before he stopped himself. “Er, Miss Akari, are you sure? I mean, I just finished running our laps. I admit I’m a little sw-”

Akari wrapped her arms around him in a hug before he could even finish the sentence, laughing against him. “I don’t care, I’m not gonna see you for two days! I need a hug before I go!”

————

ANGST

“So, the blood from earlier..?” A sideways glance at Ingo’s red-stained tunic, soaking in the bowl.

“Yes.” Ingo swallowed down any other words, his head dipping forward. It was clear he didn’t want to talk about it.

“And this is also from, um…” Akari held up Ingo’s hand, pausing the wrapping. His desire not to talk about it suddenly made the whole subject a strict taboo of sorts to her, making her hesitant to even name it. “...what you were doing with the Pearl Clan?”

“Yes. It is simply a rope burn.”

Akari continued to wrap up his hand, concealing the friction burn under thick bandages. The irritated chafing on his palm was slightly warm with the heat collecting under the skin. It was a contrast to the rest of his hand; cold radiated from the surrounding muscle, the freeze collecting in the ends of his fingers.

Akari just kept wrapping, hoping the bandages would insulate his hand; it trembled as he suspended it for her. She moved to support his hand with one of her own, so that it would not be unsteady with such effort. But even as frozen as it was, Akari worried that the tremors weren’t entirely from the cold. She was aware of what else would make his hands shaky.

“Ingo, were you able to-”

Answering Akari’s question before she could even finish it, Ingo’s stomach rumbled vehemently. It was a terribly unpleasant noise, comparable to a wounded luxray. Wounded indeed - Akari could see visible discomfort in the way Ingo shut his eyes, and how his features tightened with a grimace.

[crossbowking]

Honey & Whiskey

Summary: (Set throughout series) When the world ended, everything good died along with it. At least, that's what Daryl Dixon thought. But then he met a stranger in the woods and his entire world turned upside down.

A/N: HOLY MOLY. I can't believe it's here! I've been working on this story since October and I'm so excited for y'all to finally read it. This story is absolutely my favorite of all time and it's 20,835 words of pure Daryl POV (which is just *chef kiss*) — that being said, it’s also a slow burn...and I mean an entirely self-indulgent SLOWWWW burn. So strap in, y’all.

PSA: There are mentions of 'Dog' in this story that are sort of non-canon, especially now that we've seen a backstory as to how Daryl actually found him in the show...so for the sake of the story, let's just pretend 10.18 doesn't exist :)

Anywho, please be sure to share your thoughts with me afterward!

Happy reading!

xx Jess

Masterlist

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The sun dipped below the horizon, the sky alight with brilliant orange and yellow rays.

Daryl tilted his head back, glancing up at the shifting colors as night drew near. The air was crisp, a welcomed change from the usual summer heat. The streets of Alexandria were fairly empty, most already settling into their respective homes before nightfall. Though the unusual silence was near deafening, the archer paid it no mind.

He appreciated the quiet these days.

The grass poked and prodded beneath where he sat, but he simply shifted, drawing one knee to his chest, the other leg splayed out in front of him. He picked absently at one of the holes in his worn jeans, tugging at the string hanging off the fabric.

And then he thought of her.

Leaves and twigs crunched beneath Daryl’s boots as he traversed through the otherwise silent woods.

The farm was destroyed, winter was approaching, and there seemed to be an ever-looming pang of hunger in the pit of his stomach. He pushed away any inkling of weakness, forging ahead with determined strides. His people were waiting for him, hunkering down in an abandoned diner less than a mile East, hoping he’d bring back something to dull the growing ache inside all of them.

Daryl’s steps faltered — ‘his’ people.

The thought had come so naturally it nearly took him off guard. The feeling of community, of belonging, was something he’d never felt in his entire life. It was a strange notion, but that drive, that need he felt to provide, pushed him further out into the forest.

The archer kept his footsteps light, practically imperceptible, listening for noises only a seasoned hunter could distinguish. When a twig suddenly snapped off to his left, he froze, scanning the stillness around him. He raised his crossbow, the weight familiar in his grasp as he took a small step in the direction the noise had come from.

A moment later, Daryl spotted it — a lone raccoon just a few yards ahead.

The archer felt a rush of adrenaline, a tingling sensation in his fingertips as they hovered over the trigger. He exhaled a soft breath, focusing all his attention on the animal. But with his concentration elsewhere, it wasn’t until after he’d pulled the trigger that he’d realized he was no longer alone in the woods.

Daryl spun around, coming face to face with an incredibly grotesque-looking walker, teeth bared, arms outstretched, launching itself towards him. The archer braced his arm against the biter’s throat just in time, grunting under its weight as he stumbled backward.

“Shit,” he snarled through gritted teeth, tossing his unloaded weapon aside as he fought against the attack. Using his free hand, he reached for the hunting knife secured on his belt, grabbing onto the hilt.

But before he could yank it out, the world began tilting rapidly around him.

Daryl’s back slammed against the harsh wooded ground, his foot tangled up in an exposed root. He spat another vicious curse as the walker thrashed on top of him, snapping its mangled jaw closer and closer, growling in starved desperation.

Then suddenly, it stilled.

The archer froze, his gaze locked on the unexpected sight of one of his arrows now embedded through the biter’s temple. He snapped out of his reverie, shoving the dead off his chest and scrambling back to his feet.

And then he saw her.

She stood just a few feet away, her rapid breathing mirroring his own, looking as though she was seconds away from passing out. Her hair was matted by a mixture of blood and dirt, her clothes were torn and ratted, her wide eyes seemingly too big for her gaunt features. She had a nasty cut across her temple, blood dripping down the side of her face, past her neck, pooling at the collar of her shirt.

Daryl’s eyes bounced back up to meet hers — his guarded and calloused, hers unsure and fatigued.

“I’m assuming — this — is yours?” she spoke between heaving breaths, tossing something in his direction, the motion causing her to sway unsteadily.

Daryl glanced down, spotting the raccoon he’d shot earlier now lying at his feet — but the arrow he’d used to kill it was no longer there.

Now, it was lodged through the skull of the walker that’d attacked him.

The archer focused back on the stranger — but before he could respond, her skin was suddenly paling, her body crumpling to the ground like a paper doll.

Daryl stared down at her unmoving form in bewilderment. He could tell by the shallow rise and fall of her chest that she was at least breathing. The cut on her temple was still bleeding, the wound looking fairly recent — his best guess was a concussion or exhaustion. Most likely both.

He took a small step forward, almost hesitantly. But when his approach didn’t stir the stranger, he found himself facing an unforeseen decision.

He could leave her — he should leave her. She wasn’t his responsibility. She was a complete stranger. She chose to intervene, not him. She made that choice. Not him. Her.

Though as he turned to leave, as he scooped up the limp raccoon and shoved it into his bag, as he grabbed his strewn crossbow and strapped it across his back, one thing became startlingly clear.

He couldn’t do it — he couldn’t just walk away.

Daryl huffed a defeated breath. “Shit.”

He could’ve sworn that day in the woods was an entire lifetime ago.

Rick had nearly lost his damn mind when he’d returned to the diner with not only a small woodland creature in his pack, but a stranger slung over his shoulder.

“Is she dead?” Carl pressed nosily, hovering by the booth where the stranger was now laid out, still unconscious.

Lori quickly intervened, moving forward with one hand on her protruding belly, the other grabbing onto Carl’s shoulder. “Step back, baby. Give Hershel some space to work, okay?” she cautioned, pulling the inquisitive boy away.

“Oh, it’s quite alright — I’m just about done here anyways,” Hershel drawled, setting aside the blood-soaked cloth he’d been using to tend to the stranger’s head wound.

Daryl watched the exchange from across the room, arms folded tight against his chest, ignoring the stares coming from other group members.

The front door of the diner suddenly swung open as Rick marched through. He shot the archer a disapproving look before addressing the others. “I think we’re okay,” he finally spoke, re-holstering his pistol. “If Daryl had been followed here, I’m sure we would’ve known by now. We’ll keep somebody on watch — jus’ as a precaution — an’ get back on the road first thing.”

The archer gnawed on the inside of his cheek as the rest of the group began whispering amongst themselves, clearly distressed about the possible danger his decision may have put them in.

Rick approached a moment later, his steadfast strides immediately setting Daryl on edge. “Can I speak with you?” the sheriff hissed, glancing over his shoulder and locking eyes with Lori’s worried gaze. “In private?” he added in a hushed tone before turning around and storming back outside.

Daryl scoffed under his breath, pushing away from the counter he’d been leaning against and stalking after Rick.

The archer yanked the door open, the cool air biting at his skin as he followed suit. He spotted Rick pacing back and forth across the parking lot, surveying the surrounding woods warily before spinning around and facing him head-on.

“What the hell were you thinkin’?” Rick demanded, taking a step forward.

Daryl fought back the instinctual urge to be on the attack. Instead, he took a breath. “What was I supposed ta’ do, man? Jus’ leave her out there?” he countered, eyes narrowing.

“You don’t bring her here,” the sheriff snapped before pinching the bridge of his nose, attempting to collect himself. “We — we have ta’ look after our own, Daryl — you know that. We have no idea who she is, where she came from, who she’s with,” he specified sharply before shaking his head. “That’s jus' not a risk I’m willin’ ta’ take. Are you?”

Daryl held Rick’s gaze for a long moment before looking away, glancing towards the tree line. The sheriff had a point, he couldn’t deny that. But there was something inside him, a nagging sensation in the pit of his stomach that said otherwise.

Rick slowly nodded, interpreting Daryl’s silence as an answer. “When she wakes, she’s gone,” he finally resolved, stepping past the archer and back towards the diner without another word.

But Daryl couldn’t let it go. “Hey,” he called after Rick, the sheriff’s strides halting mid-pace as he glanced back, the harshness in his features fading, unveiling a man with nothing but the weight of the world on his shoulders. “Back when Carl got shot, if Hershel had turned us away, what’d ya think would’a happened?”

Rick paused before exhaling a long, heavy breath, some of the fight leaving him with it. “That’s not — it’s not the same —”

“It is,” Daryl interjected. “It’s the same damn thing.”

The air grew quiet as Rick’s shoulders sagged, one hand resting against his hip. “My family…” he suddenly murmured, shaking his head sadly. “I can’t risk it.”

Daryl nodded once. “I get it. After everythin’ with Shane an’ Randall, losin’ the farm the way we did, I get it, man,” he rasped, regarding him earnestly. “But m’ tellin’ ya…this’s the wrong call, Rick.”

The diner door suddenly flung open, interrupting the conversation and revealing a flustered-looking Glenn.

“Uh, hey guys,” he interrupted, sending the pair an awkward wave. “Just wanted to let you know that she’s, uh — she’s awake.”

Rick and Daryl shared a look.

“And kinda freaking out,” Glenn quickly tacked on at the end.

Daryl didn’t hesitate. He stormed past Rick and back into the diner, making a beeline towards the small crowd that had gathered around her.

“— okay, it’s okay. We’re not gonna hurt you, sweetheart,” Lori spoke softly, holding her hands out in front of her as though approaching a caged animal.

The archer pushed through the group, spotting the stranger a moment later.

She was still sitting in the booth he’d initially laid her out in — though now she was huddled away from everyone, back pressed up against the wall, knees drawn to her chest in a cowering stance. Her gaze darted frantically around the room, clearly confused and disoriented and overwhelmed.

Daryl couldn’t even begin to understand why, but he felt a wave of outrage course through him.

“C’mon, people. She ain’t a fuckin’ zoo animal,” the archer growled abruptly, taking a defensive stance in front of the booth and motioning for the rest of the group to move back. “Give the girl some damn space.”

The archer waited until everyone stepped away before turning back around and glancing down at the stranger. He was surprised to see her eyes trained on him — even more surprised at the flush of heat that spread across his chest. He held her gaze a second longer before Rick appeared, parting through the crowd like Moses and the Red Sea.

The stranger shrunk away.

Daryl wondered why the sight bothered him so much.

Rick came to a slow halt in front of her. “What’s your name?” he finally asked, his tone measured and firm.

The stranger did another sweep of the room, as though surveying just how much possible danger she was in. But when her eyes flashed up towards the archer once again, some of her unease faded. “Y/N,” she spoke hesitantly.

Rick nodded slowly before extending his arm. “Rick Grimes.”

Y/N looked at the gesture cautiously. Still, she reached out and took his hand in hers.

She appeared composed but Daryl noticed the slight tremble in her grip.

After a brief shake, Rick grabbed an empty chair and sat down at the end of the booth, resting his forearms against the table. “So, Y/N,” he began, giving the archer a look of resolve. “What happened ta’ you?”

The time after the farm fell was foggy, each day blurring into the next, suffocated by a heaviness the unknown inherently brought. But that day, the day he met her, ran stark against the rest.

Y/N had told her story like Rick asked her to do. She spoke of the small group she’d been staying with and the refuge they’d built, ultimately destroyed by the dead. Everybody had scattered — and if they hadn’t…

Any previous hesitancies the group held melted into understanding and sympathy almost immediately.

Daryl had known Y/N would be accepted into the group. Rick had hardened since the farm, but he wasn’t heartless. He wouldn’t be able to turn her away, just as the archer hadn’t been able to leave her out in those woods.

Spending the winter season on the run had been difficult for everyone — constantly running from the dead, cold and bitter nights, supplies growing scarce. The road was unforgiving, proving time and time again how completely fucked this new world was, how things would never return to the way they were, how this was now the new way of life.

Though for Daryl, if he was being honest, it wasn’t all bad — not in comparison to what his old life had given him.

He’d choose a lifetime of running over the stench of whiskey and the sting of belt buckles any day.

The only other person who’d appeared unaffected was Y/N. Besides showcasing a natural skillset in survival, she’d found her place amongst the group with ease — so effortlessly that Daryl hadn’t been able to recall what life looked like before her. She exuded a warmth that people were drawn towards — that the rest of the group clung to during the darkest of days.

But not Daryl.

He’d kept her at a distance, kept her at arm’s length because he refused to let her in as everyone else had.

Little did he know.

Daryl swiped at the beads of sweat dripping down the sides of his face.

The Georgian heat was nearly suffocating, blanketing over his body and setting his skin ablaze. He pushed away the discomfort, bending down and grabbing the ankles of one of the many walkers spread out across the prison’s courtyard. He’d lost track of how many bodies he’d dragged out, his group working tirelessly to clean out their newfound home.

The archer had just pulled the limp body through one of the fences, nearing the pickup truck used for disposal, when he heard someone approach.

“Need a hand?”

Daryl stilled — he glanced up, his eyes locking with Y/N’s, a small smile tugging at her lips.

Her hair was pulled back out of her face, a thin sheen of sweat laid out across her forehead. One hand rested on her hip, the other hovered near her face, blocking the sun rays. The sleeves of her shirt were rolled up past her elbows, streaks of dirt and blood visible against her exposed skin.

He realized then that she was really rather beautiful.

The intrusive thought caught the archer completely off guard. He quickly turned his attention downward, grunting a half-assed ‘nah’ before continuing his trek to the pickup truck, determined to preserve some space between them.

But instead of leaving, as he’d assumed she would, Y/N remained rooted in place.

Daryl faltered, the expression that flickered across her face hinting that maybe she hadn’t come to just ‘lend a helping hand’. She had something on her mind — he could tell by the way she snagged her bottom lip between her teeth, gnawing absently as she shifted her weight back and forth.

The archer dropped his hold from around the walker’s ankles and straightened. “What?” he demanded gruffly, curiosity getting the best of him.

Y/N’s eyes found his as she took a small step forward — Daryl fought back the urge to back up. “I, uh —” she paused, her mouth twisting to the side as though fumbling for the right words. “Just — thank you.”

Daryl’s brow furrowed. “For what?” he huffed.

Y/N’s head cocked to the side, seemingly surprised. “I — I don’t know,” she murmured, a soft, sort of bewildered laugh slipping past her lips. “For bringing me here, for introducing me to your people — for everything, I guess,” she expressed sincerely. “You could’ve just left me out in those woods that day — most people would’ve.”

The archer chewed on the inside of his cheek, feeling incredibly exposed for some strange reason. “Was nothin’,” he finally grunted, ignoring the prickle of heat at the tips of his ears.

“It wasn’t nothing,” Y/N replied indignantly, like she was offended at the notion that he didn’t deserve her gratitude. “You saved my life.”

Daryl shifted uncomfortably, wanting nothing more than for this interaction to be over with — because once that happened, he could go back to maintaining his distance, he could go back to allowing the air between them to be just that. “Figured I owed ya,” he finally mustered, recalling the first day they’d met.

Y/N’s lips curled up into a megawatt smile and Daryl could’ve sworn he’d never seen anything so damn captivating in his entire life. “Okay,” she grinned, sticking her hand out in front of her. “We’ll call it even then.”

The archer glanced down at the gesture before warily reaching forward, taking her hand in his, and shaking once, twice, three times. Her grip was firm and she didn’t seem to mind the grime coating his skin.

When she pulled away, Daryl felt the empty spaces she’d filled set ablaze.

Y/N shot him one last smile before turning around and heading back towards the courtyard. But she’d only made it a few feet when she paused, glancing over her shoulder. “Make sure you eat something, okay?”

She didn’t wait for a response — instead, she narrowed her eyes, shooting him a look in mock-seriousness as if to say ‘I’m watching you’. Then her face broke out into another grin before she sent him a small wave — and she was gone.

Daryl watched her leave, unable to pull his gaze from her retreating form.

He tried to ignore the mess his mind was becoming, littered with confusion and insecurity, the nagging voice that lingered telling him he’d never be good enough, strong enough, brave enough for anything other than what he’d always known.

He wouldn’t let her in — he couldn’t let her in.

But as he bent down, grasping onto either ankle of the walker at his feet, he felt a tingling sensation in his fingertips he swore had everything to do with the Georgian heat and nothing to do with her.

A gentle breeze roused Daryl from his thoughts.

He shifted from where he sat, reaching into the pocket of his jeans for the pack of cigarettes he kept there.

The package was falling apart, half-crushed, half-wrinkled from everyday wear and tear, but the archer slipped one of the few remaining cigarettes out anyway and caught it between his lips.

It hadn’t taken long for him to realize that keeping Y/N at arm’s length was a futile attempt — he’d been naive to think it was possible in the first place.

Before he knew it, she’d wormed her way into the forefronts of his mind and found herself a nice, cozy corner to call home. She’d done it as effortlessly as the blink of an eye or the beat of a heart. It just happened — no rhyme or reason, no explanation or logic. It just happened.

Which made leaving that much harder.

“Daryl!”

The archer ignored Glenn’s shout, marching further into the woods and approaching a snide-looking Merle. “C’mon, bro,” the younger brother grunted, worried if they didn’t leave right then and there, he’d change his mind and return to the prison with the others.

Merle’s booming laugh sounded, drawing Daryl from his thoughts. “Well, I’ll be damned,” the man sneered, tossing an arm around the archer’s shoulders. “Looks like somebody decided ta’ grow himself a big ole’ pair a’ cojones while I was gone,” he snarked, pushing Daryl forward and falling in step beside him.

The archer pressed his lips together, swallowing his retort and focusing ahead.

“Hey, wait up!”

The voice that sounded halted Daryl in his tracks. He spun around, spotting Y/N making her way through the forest, her strides long and determined as she headed straight towards him.

“Well, would ya look a’ that,” Merle quipped under his breath, leering at her approach, his tone sending a swell of aggravation through the younger brother.

“Jus’ gimme a minute,” Daryl quickly waved him off, ignoring the prickle of heat creeping up his neck as he trudged towards her.

Y/N came to a stop in front of him, slightly out of breath, her eyes searching his for a long moment.

She seemed to have something to say, a reason for chasing after him — but it was as though she couldn’t get the words together. She glanced down, shaking her head slowly before taking a deep breath. When she looked back up, Daryl noticed a resignation in her gaze that wasn’t there before.

“Are you sure about this?” she finally asked, her troubled expression sending a pang of guilt through him.

Daryl looked away. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure — he wasn’t sure about anything anymore.

He shifted his weight, focusing back on her. “Ya watch out for yourself, ya hear me?” he rumbled, pushing away the unexpected worry gnawing at him.

Y/N’s shoulders sagged in disappointment, her defeated expression damn near changing his mind altogether. “I will,” she murmured, a bittersweet smile ghosting across her features.

Daryl held her gaze a moment longer before nodding once, turning without another word.

But he’d barely taken a step when he suddenly felt her grab his wrist and twist him back around.

Before he knew what was happening, Y/N was hugging him. She threw her arms around his middle and squeezed tight, leaving Daryl completely and utterly dumbfounded. His arms hung limply at his sides, caught off guard by the surprising gesture. Though as soon as it’d begun, it ended. Y/N unwound herself from around his body and took a step back, a pink tinge to her cheeks he hadn’t noticed earlier.

She whispered a somber goodbye — though Daryl couldn’t hear it over the sound of the blood rushing to his ears — and then she was gone.

The archer fought back the urge to follow, telling himself over and over again that he was making the right decision — he was choosing blood, he was choosing family, he was choosing —

“Hey! Where’s my hug at, sweet cheeks?” Merle’s suddenly hollered, calling after Y/N.

She didn’t look back and Daryl fought back the impulse to start swinging.

But Merle just laughed, the noise loud and boisterous as he sauntered forward. “Damn, lil’ brother. Didn’t think ya had it in ya! I was startin’ ta’ think ya played for the other fuckin’ team’,” he jeered, clapping the archer on the back with more force than necessary.

Daryl’s entire body tensed up, his darkened gaze snapping towards his brother. He noticed then that Merle was also watching Y/N — though his eye line was fixated on one specific part of her body…

“Let’s go,” the archer spat under his breath as he spun around and stormed off, his hands balling into fists.

He had to walk away. Otherwise, he’d lose it — he’d give in to instinct, he’d allow the rage coursing through him to take over, and all of this would’ve been for nothing.

So he took a deep breath, relaxed his clenched fists, and dismissed any lingering thoughts of her.

Daryl scoffed at the memory, an unlit cigarette still caught between his teeth.

He pulled out his lighter and flicked his thumb against the wheel, sparking a small flame before inhaling a deep breath. The familiar taste of nicotine and ash filled his senses as he drew smoke into his lungs, immediately feeling a rush of calm flow through him.

Daryl existed in the quiet, taking another long drag of his cigarette. He pulled his legs towards his chest, resting his elbows atop his knees, letting his hands dangle in front of him. He watched the lit cigarette butt dim and dance between his fingertips, the embers burning off and drifting into the grass.

It’d only taken a single day for the archer to come to his senses — to realize the mistake he’d made in leaving with his brother. And if he was being honest, it’d had nothing to do with Merle. He couldn’t blame his brother because his brother hadn’t changed — his brother was still the same brash, volatile, ill-tempered redneck he’d known his whole life.

No, it was him — he was the one who had changed.

“Would ya slow yer damn roll? I ain’t the athlete I used ta’ be, ya know!” Merle bellowed from somewhere behind Daryl, clearly struggling to keep up with the younger brother’s pace.

But the archer didn’t slow, his strides matching the beat of his pounding heart. He ducked under tree branches and side-stepped exposed roots, the prison growing nearer with each step he took.

It wasn’t until Daryl heard a sudden thud, followed by a viciously snarled curse, that he slowed. He spun around, spotting Merle pushing up off the forest floor.

“Ya good?” Daryl called out, crossing back and reaching down, offering his hand.

But Merle just swatted him away, his expression twisting in contempt as he staggered back to his feet. “Lemme ask ya somethin’,” he growled. “How the hell ya think this’s gonna go, huh? Ya think those assholes are jus’ gonna forget ‘bout everythin’ that happened? Ya think we’re jus’ gonna hug it out an’ sing ‘round the campfire like some kinda damn afternoon special?”

The archer fought back the urge to roll his eyes. “Ya —”

“This ‘bout that skirt from yesterday? Huh? That it?” Merle steamrolled over his attempt to interrupt, taking a step forward, the brothers now toe to toe.

Daryl felt a prickle of heat flush the back of his neck, his chest tightening. Merle was just trying to get a rise out of him — he knew that deep down — but damn, was it working. “It ain’t ‘bout her,” the archer growled defensively, fixing him with a glare. “It’s ‘bout survival, ’bout rebuildin’ — ‘bout tryin’ ta’ make somethin’ outta this shit world. It can’t jus’ be us out here, man — not anymore.”

Merle rolled his eyes. “Oh, c’mon, did Officer Friendly force-feed ya that bullshit?”

Daryl stiffened before huffing a breath and waving his brother off. He turned away, determined to continue his trek back home before it was too late — but he’d only made it a couple of feet when Merle called after him once more.

“It ain’t ever gonna work,” the older brother voiced, his usually brash tone dimming into something surprisingly vulnerable. “It — it jus’ ain’t. Not after everythin’ — not after what I did.”

The archer glanced back, watching Merle’s notorious bravado finally melt away, replaced with something he could’ve sworn looked like guilt. “We ain’t dead yet, man,” Daryl rumbled simply. “Still time ta’ make shit right.”

Merle considered his words for a long moment — but before he could respond, the sound of barraging gunfire exploded through the air.

Daryl’s head snapped in the direction of the noise, feeling his stomach drop when he realized where exactly it was coming from.

He took off into a sprint, Merle’s pounding footsteps echoing directly behind him.

Daryl lied to his brother that day.

In his defense, it hadn’t been deliberate. When Merle had questioned his intentions, alluding to the idea that Y/N was the main reason for his urgency to return home, the archer had denied it.

He hadn’t known it back then, but the truth became startlingly clear once he’d made it back to the prison, marched up the pathway leading to cellblock C, and laid eyes on her.

Daryl found Y/N crouched down beside Axel’s unmoving form, one hand resting on his shoulder.

His steps faltered, feeling as though he was intruding on a private moment — but he couldn’t help himself. The Governor had attacked the prison, his people were shaken, and damn it, he just needed to make sure she was okay.

She stood a moment later, turning to rejoin the rest of the group huddled by the fence, her despondent expression filling his bones with a red-hot rage.

But then her eyes met his.

Y/N’s footsteps stilled, her gaze widening in disbelief as she looked at him. A heartbeat passed between them before Daryl noticed how she was holding herself — hunched over slightly, one hand wrapped around the opposite arm, blood seeping out from between her fingertips.

He crossed to her in three long strides, ignoring the heat that flushed his chest the closer he neared.

Instead, he focused on the wound — that he could deal with, that made sense.

Unlike the unexpected and rapid thrumming of his pulse.

“Daryl,” she breathed in disbelief, her voice thick as though the word had gotten tangled somewhere in her throat.

His name sounded like honey the way it rolled off her tongue.

He shrugged off his crossbow and tossed it aside, wordlessly reaching forward and pulling her hand away from the injury. He examined the laceration carefully — which upon closer inspection appeared to be a gunshot wound — though luckily enough, the bullet seemed to have only grazed the side of her arm.

The archer reached into his back pocket, grabbed the red rag he kept there, and gently pressed it against the wound. “Jus’ keep pressure on it, alright?” he rasped, guiding Y/N’s limp hand to rest over the cloth, stalling the blood flow.

He glanced down at her, doing a slight double-take when he realized she was watching him, a slightly strained smile pulling at her lips. “You came back,” she whispered, her eyes warm despite the blood splattered across her cheek, the pallor in her complexion.

Daryl swallowed the lump in his throat, incredibly aware of how little space remained between them. He managed a stiff nod in response, his voice suddenly lost.

But Y/N’s smile merely grew, like the first hint of sunshine after a devastating storm.

And the tightness in his chest finally faded.

The archer inhaled another long drag from his cigarette, the smoke spilling past his lips and disappearing into the growing night.

Returning to the prison had given Daryl a sense of purpose, a sense of hope — he was back where he belonged and the threat of the Governor just didn’t seem so insurmountable anymore.

And then his big brother went and got himself killed.

Daryl stormed across the field that led to the prison’s courtyard, shoulders set, fists balled, eyes rimmed red.

The Governor would pay — he’d pay for what he’d done.

To Glenn, to Maggie, to countless others.

He’d pay for what he did to Merle.

The archer’s footsteps faltered, only briefly, when he spotted Y/N pacing back and forth behind the gate. Her head snapped towards him as he approached, her worried expression melting into relief as she quickly pulled the gate open for him.

“You okay?” she called to him, brow furrowing as she craned her neck, now looking behind him. “Where’s Merle?”

Daryl kept his gaze forward, digging his fingernails into the palm of his hand as he marched past her without a second glance. “Dead,” he grunted, ignoring the prickling sensation growing behind his eyes.

“What?” he heard her exclaim, though he didn’t turn around — he kept his momentum pushing ahead, hellbent on going after the Governor and taking him down once and for all.

No matter what the cost.

He stalked towards where he’d parked his motorcycle, slinging his crossbow over his back and mounting the bike in one swift motion.

But Y/N was just as quick.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” she jogged towards him, planting herself in front of the bike, an alarmed look in her eyes. “What’re you doing?”

Daryl felt a swell of anger wash over him, an unusual feeling when directed towards her. “Move,” he growled, using his heel to knock the bike’s kickstand up.

Y/N’s brow furrowed, his intent becomingly startling clear. “No.”

He was caught off guard by her protest, though snapped out of it just as soon — his scowl deepened, his eyes darkening, seeing nothing but redness and fury and Merle’s reanimated corpse flickering through his mind. “Move, damn it,” he snarled once more.

But Y/N stood her ground regardless of the wariness in her gaze. “No.”

The archer’s rage churned inside him, his grip white-knuckled around the throttle. “Ya —”

“Please, don’t do this,” she interrupted his brusque retort, shaking her head. “I promise — I promise — he’ll get what’s coming to him, but Daryl…this is not the way.”

He knew deep down she was right, but he didn’t want to hear it — he didn’t want to hear ration or reason or the pity in her voice.

He didn’t want to hear any of it.

“I’m sorry,” she suddenly whispered, emotion clouding her eyes. “God, I’m so sorry about Merle. I’m —”

Something inside the archer snapped. “Ya know what, ya can drop the damn act,” he hissed, springing off the bike and shoving it to the ground with a deafening crash. He ignored the way Y/N flinched as he barreled towards her like a surging storm. “Ya can stop pretendin’ like anyone in this fuckin’ place gave a single shit ‘bout my brother!” he fired back, his voice rising. “Or me, for that matter!”

Y/N recoiled away from him, eyes wide. “I’m —” she started, shrinking under his heated approach. “I didn’t —”

“Forget it,” the archer spat, unable to stop the fervor spewing out of him. “Ya don’t know shit.”

A beat of silence passed as they stared one another down — but the more the quiet stretched on, the more a different emotion began to seep through the archer.

Guilt.

Unable to watch the hurt settling across Y/N’s features, Daryl turned away, allowing his brewing vehemence to carry him across the courtyard and to the doors leading into cellblock C. He paused at the doorway, unable to stop himself from looking back.

He watched Y/N’s head lower, her shoulders drop, before she slowly reached down, grabbing his toppled motorcycle by the handlebars and propping it upright.

The archer swallowed his remorse, buried his instincts, and stalked inside.

Daryl hissed a breath as the burnt end of the cigarette singed his fingertip. He stubbed the flame out against the heel of his boot, flicking the butt away into the grass.

Still, to this day, he felt bad about losing his temper. The anger had clearly been misdirected, but in the moment, he hadn’t been able to get a handle on it — Y/N had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Despite the aftermath of his outburst weighing heavily on him, he’d kept his distance from her throughout the days that followed.

Old habits die hard.

Daryl woke with a start, his eyes snapping open, chasing away lingering images of the nightmare he’d found himself immersed in.

Sleep had never been kind to him, even before everything went to shit — tonight was no different.

He could still see flashes of redness and death, smell the scent of rotting corpses and bloodshed, hear the sounds of tormented screams and anguished whimpers —

Daryl’s thoughts faltered as he quickly pushed up onto his elbows, straining his ears.

He realized then that the whimpering wasn’t coming from just his imagination. No, it was real — and it was coming from somewhere inside the cellblock.

The archer sprang up, untangling himself from the bed sheet coiled at his feet before shuffling towards the doorway. He paused there, his senses on high alert, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end as he listened carefully.

When another soft cry sounded, he moved from the entryway, slowly slinking past cell after cell and following the noise.

It wasn’t long before he found himself standing outside Y/N’s cell.

Daryl peered into the shadowed room, just barely able to make out the shape of her beneath the covers. She murmured something jumbled and incoherent, her words muffled as though her face was pressed into the pillow. She tossed and turned for a moment before finally settling.

When she remained still, the archer nearly left for his own cell.

But then he heard a quietly gasped sob and began moving forward before he could think twice.

Daryl crouched down beside Y/N’s bedside, turning on the lantern she’d left sitting on the floor. He shielded his eyes from the light until they adjusted before focusing on her.

She was curled up, covers drawn to her chin, faint tear tracks marking the sides of her face. Her brow was knitted, causing lines to form across her forehead — he fought back the urge to reach out and smooth them away.

Apparently, he wasn’t the only one sleep was unkind to.

Another soft whimper blew past her lips and Daryl reached for her, gently shaking her shoulder.

Y/N immediately jolted awake, shooting upright, disoriented and alarmed as her bleary eyes darted around the cell.

“Hey, hey,” Daryl quickly rasped, holding his hands out in front of him. “It’s alright.”

“What — what happened?” she croaked, her voice thick with sleep, her wide gaze finally settling on him.

The archer shook his head, pulling back slightly, second-guessing his decision to wake her. “Nothin’ — nothin’, alright? We’re okay.”

“What —” she sounded, a bewildered look flitting across her face as she settled her hand against her undoubtedly racing heart. “Are you okay?”

Daryl’s brow furrowed at her question, confused as to why that would be her next question and not ‘what the fuck are you doing in my cell?’ Regardless, he nodded once. “Yeah,” the archer brushed off her concern, sitting back on his haunches. “Ya — uh, ya were cryin’,” he revealed hesitantly, scratching the back of his neck as he watched for her reaction.

Y/N straightened, the top bunk just grazing the crown of her head as she dabbed her fingertip at the corner of her eye, appearing almost embarrassed suddenly. “Oh,” she whispered, wiping away the tears that’d formed.

Daryl gnawed on the inside of his cheek. “Ya alright?” he rasped after a long moment.

She quickly nodded her head, waving off his worry. “Oh, no — yeah, no, I’m fine,” she replied flippantly, shooting the archer a tight-lipped smile.

Despite Daryl seeing right through her bullshit, he didn’t push.

Instead, he nodded once and clambered back to his feet.

But he’d just barely turned to leave when Y/N spoke up once more. “Hey, Daryl?”

The archer faltered, glancing back at her. “Yeah?”

Her demeanor appeared collected, though he could see her hands twisting nervously around the sheet splayed out across his lap. “I —” she paused, seemingly working up the nerve to say what was next. “Are we okay?”

Daryl felt his chest tighten, the heaviness that’d grown between them splintering in that moment. There was something about her words, the smallness in her voice, that had him kicking himself for being so damn stubborn, for not making things right sooner.

She raked a hand through her tousled hair. “I just — I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have — I mean, I wasn’t trying to —”

“Stop,” Daryl cut off her rambling, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I was actin’ like an asshole,” he grumbled admittedly, the shame he’d buried creeping back in.

The tension in Y/N’s features softened as she regarded him. “It’s okay.”

For some reason, her easy forgiveness made Daryl’s insides churn.

“Nah, it ain’t,” he shot back sharply, almost wishing she’d curse him out instead. “Wasn’t right ta’ take that shit out on ya.”

“You were grieving,” she justified, her explanation simple and understanding.

Daryl worked his jaw, clenching and unclenching as he stared at the far wall of her cell, his gaze darkening — he didn’t deserve her compassion. “Well, ya probably stopped me from doin’ somethin’ real stupid,” he muttered dryly.

She merely shrugged, still completely unfazed. “Grief makes us do stupid things,” she murmured, defending him yet again. “I am sorry about your brother, you know,” she whispered a moment later, the sincerity in her voice knocking down the wall Daryl had worked so hard to keep between them.

He nodded slowly, clearing his throat before speaking again. “Merle was no hero,” he finally rumbled. “But he died tryin’ ta’ make shit right,” he mustered, his eyes finding hers amidst the shadows of her cell.

Y/N shot him a small, somewhat sad smile. “Then he didn’t die for nothing.”

Daryl swallowed the lump that formed in his throat, feeling as though his heart was moments away from bursting out of his chest. It was as though the cell was shrinking around him, the walls closing in — and the only thing keeping him above the surface was her.

“Get some sleep,” he managed gruffly, turning to leave once more.

“Daryl?”

The archer stilled. “Hm?” he sounded, not trusting his voice.

“Can you stay?” she whispered, so softly he almost missed it entirely. “Just a little longer?”

Daryl shifted his weight back and forth, feeling the overwhelming urge to run, to retreat to his own cell and pretend he hadn’t heard her.

But the slight tremble in her voice, something others surely would’ve missed, pulled him right back in.

The air thickened as he walked towards her, every fiber of his being screaming at him to make a run for it while he still had the chance. Y/N watched him approach, slightly wide-eyed, his steps faltering the closer he neared. She maneuvered slightly on the bed, moving towards the wall as though making room for him beside her.

Instead, Daryl did the most rational thing he could think of — he grabbed the empty mattress on the top bunk, slid it off the frame, and dropped it onto the floor next to her.

Y/N’s brow furrowed. “Oh, you don’t have to —”

“G’night,” Daryl interjected abruptly, avoiding her gaze as he quickly turned off the lantern and laid down. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest and squeezed his eyes shut, his face surely on fire.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Daryl peeked an eye open, certain she could hear his thrumming pulse from where she sat. But a moment later, the bed creaked as she settled back down against the rickety mattress.

He released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

The archer wasn’t sure how much time passed before Y/N’s breathing evened out, the stranger from the woods all those days ago finally falling into a deep and restful sleep.

He, on the other hand, remained awake until morning came.

She’d asked him to stay and that was exactly what he was going to do.

Not even sleep could take him from her.

Everything changed after that night.

After the people from Woodbury moved into the prison, the demand for supplies nearly tripled. The archer found himself going on runs more often than not, hunting for game or scavenging local businesses — but the days and nights he was home were spent with her.

They fell into a routine of sorts. The days were spent working the fence or tending to things around the prison — but most nights, they’d sneak away from the others and spend hours sitting atop one of the unused watchtowers.

It became ‘their spot’, as Y/N had put it.

Some nights they sat quietly, existing in comfortable silence, watching the vast night sky. Other nights, Daryl would learn things about her — those were his favorite nights.

Y/N would talk about anything and everything — the mundane stuff, the deep stuff, the things in between — while Daryl would rest his head against the watchtower and close his eyes, listening to the way her voice rose and fell. She’d tell stories of her life before the end and her hopes for the future as though there still was one.

And over time, despite the world decaying at its very core, even Daryl started to believe that maybe, just maybe, there could be one.

She became his solace.

Hell, maybe she always had been, but he’d been too damn stupid to realize it.

“I’m sick of hearing myself talk,” Y/N suddenly spoke, a soft laugh following.

Daryl’s eyes snapped open as he glanced over at her, his brow furrowing.

She shifted from where she sat, the side of her face illuminated by moonlight. “Tell me something about you,” she said sweetly, her knee brushing against his as she rested one shoulder against the watchtower, giving him her full attention.

The archer felt his face warm under her curiosity. “Ya know plenty,” he grunted — and it was the truth. He’d told her more about himself than anyone else in his entire life.

“Oh, come on,” she countered and though Daryl couldn’t see it, he sensed an eye roll. “Just one thing? Something I don’t already know and then I’ll leave you alone.”

He huffed a breath. “Fine,” he grumbled, giving in.

Y/N waited patiently as the archer fell into thought, racking his brain for something to share — something even worth sharing. The silence that dredged on wasn’t helping either — if anything, it only added to the pressure. His life wasn’t all that interesting, never had been, never would be.

Daryl snuck a glance at Y/N — well, maybe that wasn’t entirely true.

“Uh,” he rumbled, scratching the back of his head. “I don’t know. Guess I always wanted a dog?” he mustered, the confession coming off more so a question than an actual statement.

Still, Y/N’s face broke out into one of her million-dollar smiles. “I can totally see you with a dog,” she beamed. “You never had one?”

Daryl almost shook his head, but then a faint memory came to mind. He looked away, propping his elbows against his knees and focusing straight ahead.

“When, uh —” he cleared his throat uncomfortably, picking absently at the skin beside his thumbnail. “When I was a kid, I was walkin’ home from school. Found this stray covered in mud, damn near skin an’ bones. An’ so I took it home,” he pressed his lips together before snorting a breath. “Even tied my shoelace ‘round its neck like a leash.”

“Aw,” Y/N sounded softly.

“Mhm,” the archer mumbled, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

After a stretch of silence lingered, she spoke up once more. “But you didn’t keep it?”

Daryl began picking at his skin a little more aggressively. “My old man — he was on a bender. Started screamin’ an’ hollerin’ when he saw me ‘cause he ‘didn’t wanna take care a’ no mangy mutt’,” he bit out, echoing his father’s words from all those years ago. “He threw somethin’ — don’t remember what. Maybe an empty whiskey bottle. Poor dog was scared outta its mind,” he murmured, shaking his head. “It pissed on the floor, right in front a’ him.”

Y/N’s expression turned troubled, her lips forming into a small frown.

Daryl ignored the tightness growing in his throat. “So he tossed the dog in his truck, drove off, an’ that was that — I never saw it again,” he finished, wincing as he ripped a small piece of skin off his thumb, drawing a drop of blood.

“What’d your dad do?” Y/N asked, her voice small.

The archer wiped the blood off onto his jeans. “Don’t know,” he shrugged, glancing over at her. “He never said an’ I never asked.”

She held his gaze for a long moment before letting out a soft sigh.

Daryl turned his head, staring out over the railing and into the darkened forest. He’d never told anyone that story — not even Merle, who’d been doing another stint in juvie at the time. The truth was, he carried a lot of guilt from that day. Sure, he was only a kid, but he was the one who’d brought the stray home in the first place.

Whatever happened to that dog…well, that was on him.

“Hey,” Y/N murmured, gently poking the side of his arm, drawing him back to her. “Maybe we’ll find you a dog of your own someday.”

Daryl quirked a brow, unconvinced.

“You never know,” she shrugged. “What would you name it?”

He scoffed softly in response, shaking his head.

“Come on,” she reached over and poked him once more. “Humor me.”

“How ‘bout this,” the archer relented. “If — an’ that’s a big-ass if — we ever find a dog someday, ya get ta' name it.”

Y/N’s face immediately lit up. “Me?”

“Mhm,” he nodded his head, feeling the corners of his lips twitch.

She exhaled a breath, her gaze widening. “This…this is a shit-ton of pressure, Dixon,” she whispered, the wheels in her mind, very obviously, turning.

Despite everything, a soft laugh rumbled from deep inside Daryl’s chest, the sound strange and unfamiliar. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d genuinely laughed — the noise got stuck in his throat, like his body was physically rejecting the sensation.

When he noticed Y/N watching him, a cheeky grin plastered across her face, his skin flushed.

“Okay, okay, let me think…” she grew serious, closing her eyes and resting her chin against her clasped hands. Not even a second later, her eyes shot open. “Got it!”

Daryl motioned for her to continue. “Lemme hear it.”

“Alright,” she shifted, facing him head-on. “Dog.”

The archer’s brow knitted together, his gaze narrowing. “Dog?”

“Dog,” she nodded resolutely.

“Ya — ya wanna name the dog ‘Dog’?” he questioned dubiously.

“Yup,” she grinned, popping the ‘p’.

Daryl rolled his eyes, fighting back a smirk. “Ya got a couple a’ screws loose, ya know that?” he teased, tapping the side of his head.

“Shut up,” Y/N laughed softly, nudging him with her elbow.

A beat of quiet passed between them before Daryl cleared his throat. “We ought'a head back,” he grumbled, starting to stand.

But then Y/N reached out, grabbing onto his hand. “Hang on,” she objected, looking up at him. “Just a few more minutes?” she asked, gently tugging his arm down.

The skin on his hand tingled beneath her touch as her gaze, warm like honey, melted further into his.

Before he could think twice, he found himself settling back down beside her, his hand still intertwined around hers.

Besides, when had he ever been able to say ‘no’ to her?

Daryl could’ve sworn those nights up in the watchtower were the best nights of his life.

Then the prison fell.

And destroyed everything good along with it.

“Do you miss her?”

Daryl’s eyes snapped open, just then noticing the quiet that’d settled over the funeral home. He glanced over at Beth, who remained seated in front of the piano, her kind gaze watching him curiously.

Settling further inside the casket he laid in, the archer turned to stare up at the ceiling, folding one arm behind his head, the other laid out across his stomach. He ignored Beth’s question — not because it wasn’t true, but because he knew if he spoke, if he started talking about her, the hollowness inside his chest would swallow him whole.

“I think she’s still out there,” Beth assured him quietly, steadfast in hanging onto whatever hope she could muster. “I think they all are.”

Daryl grunted softly in response, not trusting his voice.

He wanted to believe that — he wanted nothing more than to believe that Y/N and the others were out there somewhere, somewhere safe. But he wasn’t a foolish man — and he just couldn’t bring himself to feign the kind of certainty that came so effortlessly to Beth.

“‘And whatever you ask in prayer, you will receive, if you have faith’,” she suddenly murmured, her eyes glowing against the candlelight, a bittersweet smile tugging at her lips. “Daddy used ta’ quote scripture — that was one of his favorites,” she explained, her voice growing thick at the mention of her father. She pulled herself together before continuing. “I have faith,” her words were resolute, as though not only trying to convince him but herself as well.

The archer huffed a breath, crossing his arms over his chest. “Got enough for the both a’ us?” he muttered dryly, quirking a brow.

Beth laughed, breaking the heaviness that’d spread. “Sure do,” she beamed before shooting him a meaningful look. “You can thank me later.”

With that, she swiveled around on the bench and faced the piano once more, her fingers dancing along the keys, filling the room with a gentle melody.

Daryl wasn’t a religious man — never had been, never would be.

He didn’t buy into all that bullshit. If there was a God out there…what the fuck was he doing? Where was he? Why didn’t he stop the world from ending? Why did he let the bad destroy the good, time and time again?

He just couldn’t put his faith into something so cruel, so merciless.

Daryl wasn’t a religious man.

But for the first time in his entire life, he closed his eyes and prayed.

The archer felt his throat constrict.

He tilted his head back, looking up at the darkened sky. The sun had melted into the Earth, in its place thousands upon thousands of littered stars, surrounding a glowing crescent-shaped moon.

Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe there was a God out there — some higher power or greater being — who’d been listening that night in the funeral home.

Because somehow, someway, despite all the odds stacked against him…he’d found her.

Daryl felt his lip split beneath another vicious punch, his head snapping to the side.

He was losing strength, his bruised body slowly giving out on him as two of the Claimers continued to relentlessly beat him. It seemed like no matter how hard he fought back, he just couldn’t get the upper hand.

He was outnumbered and unarmed, but as long as their attention remained on him, he wouldn’t back down — because once they were done with him, they’d move on to the others.

They’d move on to her.

Daryl caught Y/N’s horrified gaze from the other side of the road — she was knelt in front of Tony, who had a fistful of her hair in his grip, simultaneously holding Michonne at gunpoint. Y/N was struggling against his hold, attempting to break free, her features twisted in pain.

A low growl rumbled from deep inside the archer, a red-hot rage coursing through his veins as he fought even harder against the two men.

He managed to dodge another punch, but in the process, connected with a swift jab to the ribcage. He exhaled sharply, losing his breath as the two closed in on him once more — though as the archer braced himself for the next strike, he noticed that the men had suddenly frozen in place.

Daryl followed their stares, finally understanding what had caused the abrupt standstill.

Rick was staggering away from the leader of the Claimers, red staining the bottom half of his face — the archer didn’t even realize it was blood until he saw Joe. The man swayed unsteadily on his feet, eyes wide, mouth agape, as his hands reached for where his throat should’ve been.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Michonne grabbed Tony’s gun and turned it on himself, shooting him once. Daryl followed suit, landing a solid hook against the side of Billy’s face. He heard another gunshot ring out but was too focused on the man at his feet to notice. Without any hesitation, the archer stomped the heel of his boot into the man’s skull, killing him instantly.

He backed away from Billy’s crushed form, stumbling over Harvey’s body, a bullet hole now between his lifeless eyes. He spun around, steadying himself against the hood of the car in front of him as he worked to control his heaving breaths. He’d turned just in time to see Rick mercilessly stabbing Dan, over and over again until the man’s center was nothing but a mess of blood and guts.

And then he saw her.

She was still on her knees, though now hunched over beside Tony, staring silently at his unmoving figure.

Daryl pushed away from the truck and rounded the hood, his heart leaping into his throat as he made a beeline towards her. His footsteps faltered the closer he neared, the sight before him suddenly registering — Tony had been shot through the neck by Michonne, but the front of his skull had also been caved in.

His gaze flickered towards Y/N, just then noticing the blood-soaked boulder clasped tightly in her hand.

It took every ounce of strength to not rush forward, to not pull her into his arms and hold her close because damn it, she was alive, she was okay, she was here.

The archer stepped over Tony’s body, slowly crouching down in front of Y/N — when his approach didn’t stir her, a jolt of unease shot through him. Her vacant eyes were trained on the dead man, her features expressionless and ashen. There was a cut just above her eyebrow, a small trail of blood trickling down the side of her face, but other than that, she appeared relatively unharmed.

Daryl gently took her hand in his and carefully unclasped her fingers from around the rock. He tossed the boulder aside before settling down, kneeling opposite her, his deep blue eyes maintaining a watchful look.

The archer brushed his thumb over the back of her limp hand, squeezing softly a moment later.

And then, almost hesitantly, she squeezed back.

Daryl held his breath as her eyes found his, welling with unshed tears, the helplessness in her haunted gaze twisting his insides. “I never killed someone before,” she whispered suddenly, choking on her words as though speaking shards of glass.

He wasn’t used to seeing her this way — she’d always been so steady, a light others were drawn towards, that he’d been drawn towards. And now…well, now he wished the Claimers would come alive so he could rip them apart all over again.

Unable to stand the sight of her broken expression any longer, Daryl reached for her. “C’mere,” he rasped, slipping his hand behind the back of her head and pulling her forward.

Y/N’s features crumpled as she fell against his chest, a hitched sob catching in her throat. She buried her face into the crook of his neck, gripping onto the front of his vest as though he was the only thing keeping her afloat.

He wrapped his other arm securely around her back, keeping her cradled against his body. “S’ alright,” the archer rumbled as she held on tighter to him, her frame trembling as she cried. “I got ya, Y/N, I got ya.”

Daryl wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, woven around one another, his pounding heart echoing hers.

But he didn’t mind — because he’d found her.

And nothing else seemed to matter much with her engulfed in his arms.

The weeks that’d followed nearly destroyed them all.

With unrelenting heat, dwindling supplies, and the hollowness of loss inside each of them, morale had been at an all-time low. The little amount of food they’d managed to scrounge up had been divvied into morsels — though not enough to soothe their aches of hunger. The water supply eventually depleted, leaving their throats raw and mouths like cotton as they walked — day after day, down winding road after winding road, searching for salvation that was nowhere to find.

The line that’d separated them from the dead had become alarmingly thin.

And it’d only been a matter of time before that line disappeared altogether.

Daryl roused from his sleep, somehow feeling even more exhausted than when he first closed his eyes.

He scrubbed at his face, wiping away the thin sheen of sweat that’d formed before huffing a breath. The sign of first morning light seeped through the canopy of trees above him, visible through the motionless overgrowth of leaves and greenery. The heat was already suffocating — his clothes stuck uncomfortably to his skin, his throat desperate for water he couldn’t afford to drink.

But focusing on that, focusing on the discomfort, was much easier than acknowledging the looming darkness that lingered.

The archer pushed up onto his elbows, the forest floor digging into his skin. He scanned the makeshift camp his group had set up, positioned just off the main road. Almost everyone was still asleep, curled up on the harsh wooded ground within the permitter they’d barricaded.

Except for Y/N who was nowhere to be seen.

Daryl felt his stomach lurch as he pulled himself off the ground and staggered to his feet, ignoring the wave of dizziness he felt — it’d been days since he’d eaten, since any of them had eaten. He grabbed his crossbow and slung it over his shoulder, tiptoeing around the others as to not wake them — they deserved a few more minutes in a reality that wasn’t as fucked as this one.

The only other person awake was Glenn, who’d volunteered to be on watch. He sat with his back against a large tree trunk, Maggie at his side, her head resting against his shoulder.

Daryl headed towards them, drawing Glenn’s attention. But before he could say anything, Glenn nodded his head towards something on the main road, careful not to jostle Maggie awake.

The archer followed his gaze, spotting Y/N through the trees. He nodded once in silent ‘thanks’, feeling the pit in his stomach loosen as he marched out of the woods and crossed over the asphalt.

Y/N was sitting on the hood of a long-since abandoned car, her feet perched atop the dented front bumper. Her eyes flashed towards him as he approached, prominent dark circles beneath a weary gaze, so unlike the warmth he was used to seeing.

Daryl felt his throat constrict — he could handle his own demons, the heaviness that’d latched onto his bones after the last few weeks.

But hers?

She needed to be okay — he needed her to be okay.

He slid onto the hood, the car dipping below his weight as he settled beside her. A comfortable silence stretched on as they stared down the long and desolate road ahead, each lost in their own thoughts.

“I miss ‘our spot’,” Y/N suddenly murmured, her tone wistful.

Daryl grunted softly in response, the nights they’d spent up in the watchtower flashing through his mind.

He missed it too — he hadn’t known peace like that before.

“God, we had it so good back then,” she exhaled a breath, lowering her head.

The archer peeked over at her, hearing the hint of emotion growing in her words, the sadness she tried to conceal. But she couldn’t hide it — not from him.

He could tell how she was feeling by the steadiness of her breath.

“We still had Hershel…” she whispered, clasping her hands together, her knuckles turning white. “Bob…Tyreese…” her voice cracked slightly before she glanced up. “Beth.”

It was Daryl’s turn to look away.

He couldn’t think about her — not without smelling moonshine and ash, not without feeling the weight of her lifeless body in his arms.

He never got to thank her.

When the prison fell, Daryl had been certain he’d never see Y/N again — that somehow, someway, she’d burned along with it. But Beth…she’d known — she’d known he’d find her again one day.

And he never got to thank her.

“I know you’re in pain,” Y/N’s voice broke through his guilt-ridden thoughts, drawing him back to her. “And I know how easy it is to just shove it down and push it away and pretend like it doesn’t exist,” she looked over at him then, her gaze steady and knowing — and despite the scrutiny, he couldn’t find it in himself to look away. “And I’m not asking you to talk about it. But please, just — just don’t pretend like it’s not there.”

Daryl gnawed on the inside of his cheek, his teeth breaking skin and filling his senses with the metallic taste of blood.

When Y/N reached towards him, he stiffened.

She slowly brushed away the hair that fell in front of his eyes, smoothing the strands back out of his face. “You’re not carved out of stone, Daryl,” she murmured gently before resting her palm against his flushed cheek.

The air suddenly thickened, the archer becoming painfully aware of how little space remained between them. There was a pull — almost magnetic — that urged him to lean closer, to draw nearer, to take her in his arms and shut out the rest of the world.

But before he could give into instinct, he pulled away and hopped off the hood of the car, landing on his feet with a huff.

Daryl looked anywhere but at her, ignoring the slight tremble in his fingertips. “M’ gonna —” he quickly cleared the thickness in his throat. “M’ gonna take a look ‘round — see what I can see.”

Y/N was quiet, though the archer didn’t dare look at her. “Okay,” she finally sounded — and even though Daryl couldn’t see her expression, he could hear the tangible defeat in her tone.

He clenched his jaw, kicking himself for being the source of her disappointment as he beelined towards the woods on the other side of the road, opposite the campsite.

But he’d only taken a couple of steps when he faltered, realizing then that he couldn’t just walk away — he’d never been able to just walk away.

Not from her.

“I hear ya,” he rasped, glancing back at her, the words tumbling from his mouth before he could stop them. “Ya know, what ya were sayin’ before an’ — an’ all that. I jus’ — I hear ya,” he mustered, the jumbled explanation all he could offer.

A tired smile tugged at Y/N’s lips. “I know,” she assured him softly.

Daryl held her gaze before nodding once, turning without another word, and disappearing into the trees.

A newfound determination coursed through the archer as he ventured further into the woods — there had to be something else out there, somewhere his people could call ‘home’. They couldn’t keep going on like this, fighting day-to-day just to survive — it couldn’t be them and the dead anymore.

There had to be something else, something more.

The world couldn’t be all bad.

Not the same world that’d given him her.

Daryl pulled his gaze away from the darkened sky.

His eyes trailed over the towering gates that surrounded Alexandria — sturdy iron sheets and impenetrable steel, the only thing keeping away the dead that roamed just outside them. He brushed his fingers over the ground, tugging at the overgrown blades of grass beneath where he sat as he fell back in thought.

Despite his initial doubt that Alexandria was all it promised to be, in time, the community had proven him wrong. Sure, there were fractures in its foundation, but it was better than nothing.

It was better than before.

And for the first time since the end of everything, there was hope for a future.

Smoke spilled past the archer’s lips, wafting in front of him before disappearing into the night air.

The streets of Alexandria were still — a welcomed change in comparison to life outside the walls. Daryl shifted on the porch steps, taking another drag from his cigarette as he rested his back against the railing. He tilted his head backward, blowing out a lungful of smoke, feeling his nerves calm in the process.

“Hey, stranger,” a voice suddenly called, breaking the quiet that’d stretched on.

Daryl knew that voice — knew it better than the back of his own damn hand.

He quickly shook away the hair that’d fallen in front of his eyes, watching as Y/N approached.

She looked different — her hair was washed, her clothes no longer blood-stained and tattered. The lines of worry that’d marred her features were smoothed away, replaced by a warm smile that only grew the closer she neared. It was strange — almost like getting a glimpse of her before the dead started walking.

Her footsteps slowed as she stopped in front of him, her head cocking slightly to the side. “What’s that look for?”

Daryl ducked his head down, his face feeling fuzzy — like a kid getting caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Nothin’,” he shook his head, inhaling another drag from his cigarette before stubbing the flame out against the porch steps.

Y/N plopped down beside him, propping her back up against the railing opposite his. “So,” she started, turning her attention towards him. “Deanna was asking where you were tonight.”

The archer scoffed as he flicked the cigarette butt away. “Aaron’s,” he rasped, pulling one knee to his chest, resting his elbow on top of it.

Y/N appeared surprised at his response but didn’t push further. Instead, she exhaled heavily. “This place is like the fucking Twilight Zone.”

He huffed a breath, nodding in agreement. “Ya headin’ back over there?” he rumbled after a moment, jerking his head in the direction of the welcome party.

“Oh, no,” she quickly shook her head. “I’m sick of people,” she admitted before glancing over at him. “You don’t count.”

Daryl snorted a laugh, rolling his eyes despite the strange sort of pride her words brought him.

A beat of silence passed before Y/N spoke again. “Aaron seems like a good guy.”

The archer grunted softly in response, their conversation from earlier coming to mind. “He wants me ta’ start scoutin’ with him — findin’ other survivors, bringin’ ‘em back.”

Y/N’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

“Mhm,” Daryl sounded, nestling the side of his thumb between his teeth.

“Is that something you’d wanna do?” she asked, leaning forward a fraction.

He paused, taking a minute to consider her words. If he was being honest, he felt more comfortable outside Alexandria’s walls than inside — and having a good enough reason to be back on the road didn’t seem like such a bad thing. But if he was being really honest…

Daryl’s gaze met Y/N’s once more — he hadn’t been away from her since the prison fell.

That wasn’t exactly a time in his life he’d like to revisit.

“I do alright out there, I guess,” he shrugged a shoulder up, dropping his hand back into his lap.

A look of amusement flashed over her features in response. “That’s quite the understatement.”

The corner of his mouth quirked, but he couldn’t seem to ease the sudden worry gnawing at him. “Ya gonna be alright in here?” he rasped, steadying her with a serious look.

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?” she countered smoothly — but Daryl could hear the hint of something in her tone, something he couldn’t quite place. When he remained silent, Y/N’s expression turned reflective. “I think it’ll be a good thing — you could help a lot of people out there who need it.”

The archer picked up on her deflection. “That ain’t what m’ askin’,” he retorted, calling her bluff.

Y/N looked as though she wanted to argue — but then her lips pressed together, forming a thin line. “I don’t know,” she finally said, avoiding his gaze. “I just — I don’t like being away from you, that’s all,” she admitted quietly, wringing her clasped hands together.

He stilled, never having been more grateful for nightfall — otherwise, she surely would’ve seen the sudden redness creeping over his cheeks.

“But, like I said,” she continued, exhaling a slightly awkward laugh. “It’ll be a good thing.”

He nodded once. “Mhm,” he sounded, not trusting his voice.

Her eyes softened before she began pulling herself up off the porch steps. “Well, I’m gonna get some sleep — see you in the morning?”

The archer cleared his throat. “I’ll see ya,” he rumbled.

A small smile tugged at Y/N’s lips as she headed up the steps, gently squeezing his shoulder as she passed.

He didn’t move a muscle, listening intently for the sound of the front door shutting before closing his eyes, ignoring the tingling sensation beneath where she’d touched him.

Daryl huffed a defeated breath. “Shit.”

Had he given into instinct that night, he would’ve told her the truth.

He would’ve told her that he felt the same way, that being away from her felt like losing half of himself, that nothing in his life had ever made sense until he met her. The words had toyed at the tip of his tongue, desperate to be heard after being swallowed time and time again — but he just hadn’t been able to do it.

He could almost hear Merle’s snide voice in the back of his head — taunting him, calling him ‘whipped’ and a ‘pussy’ and a ‘good-for-nothin’ redneck’, mocking him for even considering that someone like her could feel anything for someone like him.

So instead, he’d reverted back to what he knew best — shutting down and pushing away.

It wasn’t intentional, merely second nature after years and years of repetition.

But the wall he’d worked so hard to build stood no chance.

Not against her.

Daryl knew something was wrong the moment he crossed back through Alexandria’s gates.

And then the screaming started.

He took off into a sprint, his heart mimicking the echo of his footsteps pounding against the asphalt. He could hear Aaron and Morgan just behind, right on his heels, their heavy breathing mirroring his own as the sounds of anguish grew louder.

The archer felt his stomach drop the closer he neared, his mind repeating one, single phrase over and over again —

Just let her be okay.

When he and Aaron had gotten trapped in that car earlier, surrounded by walkers, he’d thought that was it for him. He was going to lead the dead away and give Aaron enough time to make it out, to make it back to Alexandria where he could continue doing what he did best — bringing salvation to those who needed it.

He’d made peace with his decision.

And as he’d grabbed the door handle, moments away from pushing into the raging swarm, he’d only been thinking one thing —

Just let her be okay.

For some reason, he’d been given a second chance and all he wanted was to see her again. It was nearly overwhelming, setting his nerves ablaze, sending his heart racing — it consumed him entirely, the thought of her.

He’d realized then what he should’ve known all along.

He’d never felt for anyone the way he felt for her.

Daryl finally found the others, all gathered in the center of town — but he barely had time to register what was happening when a single gunshot rang out.

Aaron and Morgan stood frozen beside him as they took in the scene — Rick had a gun in hand, the barrel pointed towards the ground, directly above Pete’s now-shattered skull. The crowd looked on in horror, huddled together near a dimly lit fire, eyes wide, mouths agape. Then he saw Reg — his throat sliced open, his body splayed out across Deanna’s lap, Michonne’s bloody katana lying beside him.

“Rick?” Morgan suddenly spoke, breaking the deafening silence that’d followed.

The sound drew Rick’s attention, his vacant eyes finding Morgan’s — but Daryl’s gaze drifted, meeting hers instead.

His stomach dropped when he saw her — she had one hand pressed against her cheek, blood trickling out from between her fingers, her face frozen in disbelief.

Daryl moved towards her, the rest of the world fading away.

Just let her be okay.

Y/N’s expression shifted as he neared, the apprehension that’d marred her features melting, turning into relief despite her ashen complexion and the chaos surrounding them. She absently shook her head back and forth, opening her mouth as if to say something, but no sound came out.

The archer came to a stop in front of her, his own voice lost somewhere deep inside his chest. So instead, he reached for her, very carefully, as though she’d been spun from glass. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and gently pulled her hand away from her face, revealing a gash that stretched across the entirety of her cheek.

The swell of rage that coursed through him felt red-hot, flushing his skin as he stared at the wound, his eyes glinting dangerously by the light of the fire.

“She caught the nasty end of Petey-boy’s backswing,” came Abraham’s gruff voice.

Daryl hadn’t even realized the man approached — he was too busy thinking up new ways to bring Pete back to life, all so he could shoot the dead prick dead all over again.

Abraham crouched down a few inches beside him, taking a closer look at Y/N’s injury before whistling softly. “Ya must be ridin’ the gravy train with biscuit wheels, lil’ lady. That sack a’ shit damn near took your eye out,” he drawled before glancing over at Daryl. “Don’t think she needs stitches — unless someone wants ta’ reincarnate Dr. Dickwad for a second opinion.”

Y/N attempted to huff a laugh, but the motion had her wincing, her features twisting in pain.

And Daryl had seen enough.

He grunted a gruff ‘I got it’, giving Abraham a nod of appreciation before taking Y/N by the elbow and maneuvering her away from the others, back onto the street.

She allowed him to guide her elsewhere, neither saying a single word.

The two houses Deanna had provided to the group had been split amongst the lot of them. Daryl chose to reside in the finished basement — it was small and dingy, but he didn’t mind. The room had a couch and a bathroom and was much nicer than any other place he’d ever stayed at — even before the end of times.

And right now, it was serving as a makeshift infirmary.

Y/N sat perched on the edge of the couch, her knee bouncing anxiously as she watched Daryl barrel around the space like a rampant tornado. He grabbed whatever he could think of — the first aid kit stored beneath the bathroom sink, a bottle of water, a clean t-shirt to swap out for her blood-spattered one — before making his way back to her. He set the items down on the coffee table in front of the couch and took a seat on the edge of it, opposite her.

Still, neither spoke.

Daryl kept his eyes focused on the slash mark — that was much easier than acknowledging the absence of space between them. He unscrewed the cap to the water bottle, emptying a small amount onto a dry piece of gauze before leaning forward. Ever so slowly, he dabbed at the blood that’d dripped down her face and onto her neck, ignoring the near-palpable tension.

Y/N sat still as a statue, tilting her head back slightly as he wiped away the redness. But when he moved further up, nearing the wound, she flinched, hissing reflexively. Daryl snatched his hand back as if slapped, his eyes meeting hers, quietly apologetic.

She nodded for him to continue, taking a deep breath and balling her hands into fists atop her thighs.

The archer worked his jaw, lightening his touch.

He wasn’t sure how long they sat like that — all he knew was that when he was with her, nothing else really seemed to matter.

Luckily, the wound wasn’t as severe as it’d initially appeared — it was fairly shallow, faint towards the edges, and in time would heal completely. He wanted to tell her so, but the words wouldn’t formulate — the silence that’d stretched on felt untouchable.

So instead, Daryl focused on her hands, wiping away the blood that’d stained the grooves of her skin — and although she tried to conceal it, he could feel the slight tremble in her fingertips.

After he was done cleaning her hands, he sat back, his knee brushing against hers. He glanced up, flicking his hair away and studying the cut on her face — it’d stopped bleeding, though the edges were an angry-red, spiking his own temper once more. The collar of her shirt was soaked crimson, the color more muted in areas that’d already dried.

He hadn’t noticed the way their hands remained intertwined until Y/N squeezed softly, snapping him back to reality.

Daryl pulled his hand from hers and stood, grabbing the extra t-shirt off the table and dropping it into her lap. He scooped up the first aid kit before spinning around and stalking back towards the bathroom, giving her privacy as she began to change.

The archer avoided his reflection entirely, certain he’d see nothing but flushed skin and remorseful eyes. He squatted down, yanking open the drawer beneath the sink and tossing the kit inside. He gnashed his teeth together and grabbed onto the counter, his grip white-knuckled around the edge.

He needed to get a fucking hold of himself, that was for damn sure.

After regaining his composure, Daryl slammed the drawer shut with more force than necessary and pulled himself up in one swift motion.

But his entire body froze, his blood running ice-cold, when he noticed Y/N in the reflection of the bathroom mirror, standing in the doorway behind him.

Their eyes met through the glass before the archer twisted around, facing her head-on.

Her brow was furrowed as she stared at him, her head tilting to the side, the wheels in her mind visibly turning though her expression remained unreadable. She looked like she wanted to say something but didn’t quite know how to say it. She inhaled a breath, opening her mouth, but quickly snapped it shut — and then something different flickered across her features, an expression he hadn’t seen before.

Daryl waited for her to speak, to finally break the prolonged quietness that’d carried on.

But then she was suddenly crossing towards him.

He didn’t realize what was happening until Y/N’s lips crashed against his.

It was as though a dam had broken open — every fleeting feeling, every moment of suppressed longing coming to a head after dancing around one another for so long. At first, Daryl’s entire body went numb, his brain scrambling to figure out just what in the hell was actually happening. His breath caught in his throat as he stiffened instinctually, years of touch deprivation and self-consciousness clawing their way to the surface, leaving him paralyzed against her.

But when Y/N pulled back, breaking away from the kiss, he found himself craving her in the spaces she’d filled.

Her eyes were wide, boring into his, her gaze a mixture of shock and awe that he was certain mirrored his own — like even she couldn’t believe what she’d just done. She clung onto the collar of his shirt, the material balled in her fists.

Daryl’s chest heaved beneath her touch, his breathing syncing up with hers as they stared at one another, their noses only a few inches apart, each soaking the other in for what felt like the first time.

Something inside the archer fractured, right then and there. The wall he’d created inside his mind, the one designed to keep everyone at arm’s length, began to crumble. His guard fell to pieces, brick by brick, shattering at the very foundation he’d built it on.

And in its place…her.

Without any hesitation, Daryl slipped a hand behind Y/N’s neck and surged forward, closing the gap between them and bringing his lips to hers once more.

A soft gasp escaped her at first — one of surprise — the feel of it against his mouth sending a tingle down his spine before she returned the kiss with equal fervor. Her hands slid down his chest, snaking around his middle as she pressed herself against him with similar desperation.

He slid his hand up the back of her head, holding her in place as their lips parted, exploring each other with a deeper intensity. His fingers tangled throughout her hair, desperate to feel her in all of the ways he’d denied himself of, his other hand rising to gently cup the side of her face.

But when Y/N inhaled sharply, suddenly jerking back a fraction, Daryl’s eyes snapped open.

“Ow, fuck,” she hissed, her expression pinched.

“Shit,” the archer rasped, realizing then that his hand had brushed up against the cut on her cheek. “Ya alright?” he rumbled, pulling back further to get a better look.

Y/N let out a breathy laugh, her face lighting up in a way he’d never seen before. “Yeah,” she whispered hoarsely, her cheeks tinged pink, her lips red and slightly swollen.

Once again, Daryl found himself fighting to catch his breath.

He swallowed the thickness in his throat, carefully reaching forward and picking at a strand of hair that’d been swept out of place, tucking it behind her ear instead.

Y/N leaned into his palm, laying her hands against his chest, staring at him like she thought he’d hung the moon and painted the stars.

The look shifted into something deeper as she stepped back, ghosting her fingertips down each of his arms, his skin catching fire beneath her touch. She intertwined her hands around his calloused ones and began inching backward, slowly leading him out of the bathroom without another word.

The archer felt something stir deep inside him, a warmth settling in the pit of his stomach as she guided him towards the couch. He was entranced — like a man who’d been lost at sea for far too long, finally catching a glimpse of salvation from a lighthouse, beckoning him home.

And for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t afraid.

Daryl flushed at the memory.

She still had that same damn effect on him. It didn’t matter how much time passed, how many years went by, he’d never tire of her. She was, without a doubt, the best thing that ever happened to him.

He’d always felt out of place — even before the end. It was like everybody who’d ever lived was somehow born knowing the same song and dance — and yet there he’d been, stumbling along, fighting to catch up and fall in step with the rest of the world. It’d isolated him, made him feel weak and undeserving — like no matter how hard he tried, he’d never truly belong.

And now?

The only comfortable place his mind seemed to know was her.

Daryl fought back a wince, his entire body tensing up.

“Almost done,” Denise murmured as she continued stitching up the laceration on his back.

“Ya said that an hour ago,” the archer grumbled in response, grinding his teeth together.

“It definitely wasn’t an hour and you’re the one who refused the numbing cream, remember?” she countered evenly, her tone unwavering.

The archer merely huffed in response, fighting back a scowl as he gripped tightly onto the edge of the metal table he sat on top of. He ignored the feeling of Denise’s needle digging into his skin, closing up the knife wound he’d received back on the road, surveying the quieted house-turned-infirmary instead.

Rick was in the next room over, not having moved from Carl’s bedside since the survivors had taken Alexandria back from the dead. Glenn and Maggie were huddled together on the cot across the room while Michonne rocked Judith back and forth, exiting the infirmary with her a moment later. The others were gathered outside, recuperating after the long and harrowing fight that’d taken place mere hours ago.

And then there was Y/N — she sat on the floor beside his dangling legs, her head resting against the side of his knee, his vest laid out across her curled form. He could tell by her steady breathing and the way her head lolled every so often that she’d fallen asleep against him.

The entire community was running on little to no sleep, having fought through the night, taking on the herd that’d invaded their home — now, hundreds of bodies littered the streets, the wall that’d collapsed needed to be rebuilt, and those they’d lost during the attack needed to be buried.

Daryl glanced down when he heard a soft sigh, feeling his chest constrict as Y/N nestled closer.

She hadn’t strayed far since he’d returned and honestly, he wasn’t quite ready to be away from her either — especially after what happened on the road. Over the two days he was gone, he’d nearly lost his life on more than one occasion — and from what he'd heard, she’d nearly lost hers when the Wolves attacked.

But they were okay — she was okay — and that was what mattered.

Michonne reentered the infirmary a moment later, the exhaustion on her face mirroring his own. Judith, on the other hand, had fallen asleep in her arms, curled up against her chest, dark blonde wisps of hair sticking to her forehead.

“How’re you holding up?” Michonne asked softly as she approached the table, not wanting to wake Judith — or Y/N, for that matter.

“Jus’ a scratch, is all,” Daryl rumbled in response, peeking over his shoulder at Denise who remained focused on the wound.

Michonne nodded, rubbing small circles against Judith’s back. “I sent everyone home — Rosita and Heath are keeping watch where the wall came down. We’ll clear the dead once everyone gets some rest.”

“Alright,” Daryl rasped, a bone-deep tiredness beginning to seep in.

Before leaving, Michonne paused, looking down at Y/N’s sleeping form. When she glanced back up, her expression had shifted into something softer, something less tense. “She’s good for you,” she suddenly murmured, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You deserve that,” she whispered, reaching out and squeezing his hand, still latched around the edge of the table.

Daryl’s hand flexed beneath hers as he glanced down at the top of Y/N’s head — did he really deserve someone like her?

He’d spend the rest of his life wondering that.

Michonne patted the top of his hand before pulling away, disappearing into Carl’s room without another word, Judith still fast asleep against her.

“Alrighty,” Denise exhaled, drawing him back to the present. “You, my friend, are free to go.”

The archer grunted a gruff ‘thanks’ as she began cleaning up the supplies she’d used to stitch him up. He bit back a grimace as he pulled his shirt over his head, feeling the stitches stretch as he moved.

He reached forward then, gently ruffling the top of Y/N’s head, stirring her awake. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes before craning her neck and looking up, her bleary gaze meeting his. “All done?” she murmured, her voice slightly croaky.

“Mhm,” he sounded, sliding off the table and offering his hand to her.

The corner of her mouth quirked up as she grabbed it, allowing him to pull her to her feet. She swayed, fighting back a yawn, Daryl’s hand finding the small of her back and steadying her. Wordlessly, she held out his vest, which he slowly slipped back on, grinding his teeth together as a sharp jolt of pain shot across his shoulder.

Y/N’s brow furrowed as she watched him, her eyes narrowing — but before she could comment, Denise approached once more.

“Change the gauze in a couple of hours and take two of these for the pain,” she informed, holding out a small bundle of supplies, including fresh bandages and pills. “Doctor’s orders."

But Daryl waved her off. “Save ‘em,” he grumbled, carefully adjusting his vest.

He saw Y/N throw him a glance from the corner of his eye, though she didn’t protest — instead, she stepped forward and held her hand out.

Denise passed the supplies to her before lifting her glasses and rubbing one eye with the back of her hand, her fingertips stained red with blood. “Make sure he doesn’t do anything strenuous for a few days or he’ll tear the stitches,” she continued, speaking solely to Y/N as she set her glasses back in place.

Daryl huffed a breath. “M’ standin’ right here, ya know.”

Y/N nudged him in the ribcage, giving him a look that clearly translated to ‘be nice’.

Denise directed her attention back to the archer. “Don’t tear my stitches,” she reiterated emphatically before her expression eased. “Rest, relax, sleep — both of you.” She shot Y/N a pointed look before shooing them towards the front door, heading over to check in with Glenn and Maggie.

Y/N glanced over at Daryl once they were alone, her eyebrow quirking playfully. “I like this new side of Denise.”

The arched scoffed in response, flicking the hair from his face. “I liked it better when she was scared a’ me,” he grumbled as they fell in step, making their way out of the infirmary and back outside.

A laugh slipped past Y/N’s lips as they crossed over the porch. “Sounds about right,” she grinned, thoroughly amused.

“S’ true,” he shrugged his uninjured shoulder up as they made their way down the stairs and back onto the street.

“You know, you really aren’t that sc—”

Y/N stopped mid-sentence, her footsteps halting abruptly. Daryl faltered as well, glancing back at her, his brow knitting together. Before he could ask what was wrong, he realized what she was looking at.

In the light of day, the aftermath of the attack was startling. There were more bodies than he could count, rotted and decaying, bones torn through skin, blood spilling out onto the street, stark against the asphalt. The carnage was overwhelming, the reality of what they’d accomplished, as well as what they’d almost lost, suddenly settling in.

“We’ll fix this place up — make sure nothin’ like this ever happens again,” Daryl rasped, not entirely certain if he was trying to reassure her or himself.

Y/N’s expression turned solemn. “It’s not the dead I worry about,” she fixed him with a stare, her gaze flickering towards the wound on his back before she continued surveying the damage done to their community.

There wasn’t anything he could say that would make her feel better — not in a world as dark and void and meaningless as the one they lived in.

The only thing he could do was just be there.

Daryl reached for her, slipping his hand around hers and squeezing softly, drawing her back to him.

Although Y/N kept her eyes forward, he felt the tension leave her.

And then she squeezed back.

The archer huffed a breath, nestling the side of his thumb between his teeth.

Well, maybe the world wasn’t entirely meaningless.

Daryl stood still beneath the shower head, warm water washing over his body.

But he couldn’t focus on that — all he could focus on was Y/N, standing behind him, her arms wrapped around his middle, her bare chest pressed against his back. He closed his eyes, committing the feeling to memory — her heart steadily pounding against him, her cheek resting against his shoulder as water continued to cascade down their bodies.

She pulled back slightly, gently pressing her lips against one of the scars on his back.

Daryl felt a chill run down his spine despite the steam around him, fighting back the instinctual urge to stiffen — and as she moved to the next scar and the next, softly kissing each one, he couldn’t help but melt beneath her touch.

He turned then, feeling the tips of his ear redden at the sight of her before he quickly averted his gaze.

Y/N laughed, soft and sweet, reaching towards him and brushing the hair from his face.

Daryl caught her hand with his own, pressing her palm flat against the curve of his jaw. The cut on her cheek had healed, leaving only a faint, thin line below her eye. His own knife wound was still fresh, but in time, would heal as well.

He brought his hand up and gently brushed his thumb across the length of the mark before tilting her head back, bringing his lips to hers.

He wasn’t sure where the sudden boldness came from — still, Y/N returned the kiss, her arms snaking around his neck, his around her waist.

It wasn’t until the water began to run cold that Daryl, begrudgingly, turned the shower off.

They moved about in comfortable silence — drying off, changing into clean clothes, completing eerily normal and mundane tasks that had the archer wondering if he’d somehow transported into an alternate reality without realizing it.

But the blood and muck that’d washed off their bodies and collected at the bottom of the tub reminded him otherwise.

It’d taken three whole days to clear Alexandria of all the walkers that’d infiltrated their walls. Now, they could start rebuilding, reinforcing, doing whatever they needed to do to make sure an attack like that never happened again.

Daryl climbed into the bed he shared with Y/N, having moved up from the basement and into her room after that first night they’d spent together. He winced as he rotated his shoulder — despite Denise’s instructions to limit arduous activity, he’d worked the past three days from sun up to sun down in removing all the bodies from within the gates.

Y/N had tried to get him to take it easy, but he hadn’t — that just wasn’t in his nature.

She crawled into bed after him, sighing softly as she settled by his side, sitting with her legs crossed beneath her. She held her hand out towards him and in her palm, two pills — he recognized them as the ones Denise had given her.

Daryl huffed a breath.

“Don’t make me say ‘please’,” she warned, raising her brow expectantly.

The archer fought back the urge to roll his eyes but took the pills anyway, popping them into his mouth and washing them down with the bottle of water he’d left by the bedside. Y/N shot him a cheeky grin as she laid down, curling onto her side, facing away from him.

He reached over, wrapping an arm around her middle and dragging her towards him, eliciting a surprised laugh from her. She nestled closer, her back pressed against his chest, one hand clasped around his forearm, drawing absent circles against his skin with her thumb.

Daryl felt himself fading, slipping into unconsciousness after a long, tiring day of survival.

But just before the world darkened entirely, a whisper broke through the quiet.

“I love you.”

The archer’s eyes snapped open. Part of him wondered if Y/N was sleep-talking. An even bigger part of him figured he’d imagined it because there was no way — no way in hell — she could’ve consciously and deliberately said that to him.

But then she was shifting, rolling onto her back and looking up at him.

He searched her gaze for something, anything — a punchline, an explanation, a ‘hah, fooled ya!’ — that would explain what in the fuck he’d just heard.

Except that didn’t happen.

Instead, Y/N slowly nodded, like she was finally coming to terms with her own blatantly impromptu confession. “Yeah, I-I do — I —” she fumbled slightly in her admittance before steadying. “I love you,” she murmured, blinking up at him.

Daryl swallowed the lump in his throat, his mind screaming at him to say something instead of just staring at her like he’d seen a ghost. He could feel the words toying at the tip of his tongue — he wanted to say it, he did, because…well, of course. Of course, he wanted to. But it was like his body was physically rejecting a response.

Y/N patiently watched him struggle, giving him a second to get his shit together, a small, knowing smile playing at her lips.

The archer pushed up onto his elbow, clearing his throat, his cheeks burning red. “I, uh,” he grumbled, shaking his head slightly. “Y-Yeah, I —” he faltered, clearly struggling. But when his baffled gaze met her kind one, almost instantly, his wall of insecurity diminished. “Yeah,” the single word came out resolute and sure, everything he needed her to hear.

Y/N’s smile grew, stretching across her face, bright enough to light the sky on fire. “Yeah?” she asked softly, reading between the lines.

Daryl nodded once. “Yeah,” he rasped thickly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world — because it was.

He’d felt that way since the day he met her, even if he hadn’t known it.

She reached up, twisting her fingers in his hair and bringing his face down to meet hers, pressing a gentle kiss against his lips.

Then she was curling onto her other side so they laid chest to chest, her head tucked beneath his chin as she snuggled closer, his arms wrapping around her instinctually.

Daryl wasn’t sure how long they laid like that, limbs weaved around one another like coiled rope. But when her breathing evened out, he pulled back and snuck a glance, tracing every inch of her face as though the first time and the last. He brought his hand to her face, carefully brushing back the hair that’d swept over her features before leaning in and pressing a kiss against her forehead.

Then sleep came for him as well.

Daryl dropped his hand back into his lap, drawing his legs to his chest.

Being with Y/N was effortless — as easy as breathing. It came, somewhat alarmingly, natural to him. He’d never pictured himself with anyone ever. Before the end, before her, he’d been content to sit on the sidelines and watch all the relationships around him undoubtedly burn — it was all he’d ever known, it was all he’d ever seen.

But then she came along and flipped his entire world upside down.

A love that came without warning.

“Let’s get this shit loaded up — looks like it’s gonna rain soon,” Daryl rumbled, peering up at the darkening sky, noticing a cluster of bulbous clouds rolling in.

Y/N tilted her head back, following his gaze before humming a breath. “I don’t know — the wind’s blowing East. It might just miss us,” she remarked, catching the archer’s eye, a mischievous look flashing across her features. “Wanna make a bet?”

Daryl scoffed a breath in response, shutting the car trunk filled with scavenged supplies and adjusting the strap of the rifle slung across his chest — he was still getting used to the weapon. It felt unfamiliar in comparison to the weight of his crossbow. The reminder of his stolen weapon sent a flush of anger through his veins. He’d find those assholes someday and get it back, that was for damn sure.

“Come on,” Y/N grinned, drawing him back as she hefted another box over to him, dropping it onto the ground with a huff. “How about this? If it rains…I’ll take your watch shift tonight with Elizabeth.”

The archer quirked a brow, suddenly intrigued. Elizabeth was one of the original members of Alexandria — and she was…chatty. “Fine,” he nodded, opening the car door and lobbing the box she’d brought over onto the backseat. “She’s always yappin’ ‘bout books an’ shit I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout. Damn irritatin’ sometimes,” he grumbled.

Y/N laughed at his aggravation, turning to pick up another box. “I like her,” she shrugged, making her way towards him.

Daryl huffed a breath, waving her off. “Alright an’ if it doesn’t rain? What’d ya want?” he questioned, taking the box from her hands and sliding it into the car.

Before she had the chance to respond, Rick suddenly appeared, pushing through the front doors of the high school they’d been scavenging — it’d been turned into a FEMA evacuation center right at the beginning of the end. It’d somehow, miraculously, been left untouched — the doors and windows had been barred and chained, but luckily they’d had the tools needed to break in.

It’d been a little over a month since Alexandria had been overrun with the dead — the wall had been rebuilt and fortified, but the survivors had been hesitant to venture outside the gates after what happened the last time. Regardless, supplies were dwindling and a run had to be made.

“How’s it comin’ along out here?” Rick called as he jogged down the front steps and into the parking lot.

“Filled up the trunk pretty good — gonna need another car or two jus’ ta’ fit the rest a’ this shit,” Daryl remarked as the sheriff approached, motioning to the rest of the unpacked boxes lying around.

Rick came to a stop in front of them, one hand resting on top of the handle of his pistol strapped around his waist. “This is good — this is real good,” a rare smile spread across his face, so unlike the usual tension in his features.

“Tara’s finishing up around back — she’s grabbing the rest of the stuff from the greenhouse,” Y/N relayed to Rick, sharing a hopeful look with the archer. “We’ve got enough stuff to last us, I don’t know, at least another couple of months — that’ll be enough time to get some crops growing, maybe even a garden or two.”

Rick huffed a laugh in disbelief, shaking his head. “Who would’a thought,” he mused to himself before taking a breath. “Alright, I’m gonna grab a few last things inside an’ then we’ll lock up — come back tomorrow with a couple a’ cars an’ clean this place out.”

The sheriff left without another word, leaving Daryl and Y/N alone once again.

He began rearranging the boxes in the backseat, making sure there was enough room for two people to sit there on the way back home.

“A date,” Y/N suddenly spoke, catching him off guard.

Daryl straightened, turning back around to look at her, his brow knitting together. “Huh?”

The corner of Y/N’s mouth quirked up as she took a step towards him. “If I win, if it doesn’t rain today…I want you to take me on a date.”

The archer tilted his head to the side, trying to distinguish if she was joking or not. “Ya serious?”

“Yeah,” Y/N nodded, a sort of awkward laugh slipping past her lips. “I know it’s stupid — and given the way you’re looking at me right now, I know you’re thinking the same thing,” she laughed again as he quickly erased the skepticism from his expression. “But that’s —” she shrugged a shoulder up, “— that’s what I want.”

Daryl scratched the side of his head, flicking the hair from his face as he studied her, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back against the car. “That really what ya want?”

“Mhm,” she sounded. “And it doesn’t have to be anything special — just us and, I don’t know…maybe Aaron can whip up some of his famous spaghetti,” a soft smile grew on her face as she looked at him. “I, uh — I just — I want to do this right, you know?” her expression turned earnest. “I want those moments with you, Daryl.”

The archer felt a swell of warmth spread throughout him as he looked at her, feeling his resolve give way. “Alright,” he managed to rasp, his throat tight with emotion.

“Alright,” Y/N reiterated with a nod, sticking her hand out, a playful look in her eye.

Daryl snorted a laugh as he reached out and grasped her hand with his own, shaking once to seal the deal.

Y/N shot him a cheeky grin as she pulled from his grip. “We should —”

“Guys?” Tara’s voice suddenly sounded, drawing their attention.

Daryl knew as he pushed off the car, as he turned around that something was very wrong — he could hear it in her tone.

It took a moment for him to fully register the scene before him — a wide-eyed Tara just a few feet away, standing straight as an arrow, holding her hands up near her head.

Then he spotted a man.

The stranger stood just behind Tara, one arm wrapped around her neck, the other holding a gun, the barrel pressed against her temple. He was young, maybe early twenties, though it was hard to tell with all of the blood coating his skin. He peered over Tara’s shoulder, his frantic gaze bouncing wildly back and forth between the archer and Y/N.

Daryl’s protective instinct kicked in as he took a step forward, drawing the man’s attention, keeping Y/N out of his line of fire. His hand automatically reached for the rifle strapped around him but his movements stilled when the man��s eyes widened, his arm tightening around Tara’s neck.

“Hey, take it easy,” Daryl held out his hands in front of him.

“Move,” the man growled, jerking his head to the side. “Away from the car.”

Daryl felt Y/N grab a fistful of material from his shirt, slowly pulling him back as the man moved towards them, keeping Tara in front of him to conceal his body.

A tense standoff of sorts stretched on as they maneuvered around, the man never taking his eyes off of Daryl. When the stranger made it to the driver’s side of the car, he unwound his arm from around Tara’s neck, using it to open the door instead — though his finger remained twitching above the trigger. Once the door was opened, he faltered, realizing he’d lose the coverage of Tara’s body if he tried to get inside.

“Take it,” Y/N suddenly spoke, stepping out from behind Daryl with her hands near her head, drawing the man’s attention.

The archer shot her a sharp glance. “Y/N —”

“Take the car, take the supplies, take whatever you need,” she continued calmly, ignoring Daryl’s growled protest. “Just let her go, okay? No one’s here to hurt you.”

The stranger’s expression shifted, the animalistic look on his face shifting into something that resembled more of a quiet desperation than anything else. “I —“ he shook his head quickly, shifting back and forth. “I just need — I just need to go — I need to go.”

Y/N took another step forward, the side of her arm brushing against Daryl’s. “Okay,” she nodded, exhaling a breath. “That’s okay — just let our friend go and —”

Her sentence was interrupted by the front door of the school swinging open.

Daryl whipped his head around, feeling his stomach drop when he spotted Rick walking out with a stack of boxes — but when the sheriff noticed the standoff happening just down the steps, the boxes came crashing down, falling out of his hands, and instead…he grabbed his pistol.

It was as though everything happened in slow motion.

The stranger’s expression twisted as his sights set in on Rick — he swung the barrel of his gun away from Tara, who instantly dropped to the ground as the man pointed the weapon up the steps, and then…

A barrage of gunfire sounded as Rick and the man began shooting at one another in rapid succession. The sheriff used the front door as a shield, attempting to fire from around the frame, the awkward angle throwing off his aim. The stranger, on the other hand, fired away in no particular direction — his aim was erratic and panicked as he tried using the car door as coverage.

When a bullet flew past the side of Daryl’s head, he dove towards Y/N. He knocked her off her feet and onto the pavement, attempting to take cover from the shootout. The archer flipped onto his back, fumbling for his rifle before finally getting a grip and pointing it at the man.

But before he could take a shot, the stranger threw himself into the car, slamming the door shut, bullets from Rick’s pistol embedding into the metal. He peeled recklessly out of the parking lot, still firing from out of the opened window as he made his getaway.

Despite one of the back tires exploding after getting hit with a stray bullet, the stranger kept driving, disappearing onto the main road and out of sight, leaving a wake of destruction in his path.

“What the fuck?” Tara called from where she’d taken cover.

“Is everybody alright?” Rick yelled back, coming out from behind the door and running down the steps.

Daryl twisted onto his side, looking over at Y/N. “Hey, ya alright?”

“Y-Yeah,” she murmured shakily, pushing up onto her hands and knees. “I’m okay.”

The archer let out a sigh of relief, climbing to his feet and surveying the damage done around them as Rick appeared at his side.

“What an asshole,” Tara swore, coming to a stand as her eyes bounced between Rick, Daryl, and Y/N. “Seriously, what kind of —”

Daryl looked over at her, waiting to hear the rest — but that was when he noticed her staring at something just behind him, the horrified expression on her face filling him with a vast and all-consuming sense of dread.

The archer spun around.

And that was when he saw her.

Y/N stood a few feet away, swaying unsteadily, her hand pressed tightly against the center of her stomach. Her head was lowered, bowed to her chest as she slowly pulled her trembling hand away, revealing a stark redness pooling from her midsection, staining the front of her shirt. She looked up then, her eyes meeting his, the shock in her gaze surely mirroring his own.

“No,” Daryl whispered, the word sounding strangled in his throat as Y/N’s knees suddenly began to give out. “No!” he roared, rushing forward and grabbing onto her before she could collapse.

His arms slipped around her middle before he carefully lowered her onto the ground, her head drooping down against his shoulder. His heart pounded so violently against his ribcage, part of him wondered if it was giving out on him entirely — maybe it was. Maybe this was what dying felt like. Maybe this was what it felt like to have your soul ripped straight out of your body.

Daryl cradled the back of Y/N’s head with one hand as he laid her down flat against the pavement, her eyes wide and unseeing, staring straight up at the sky. “Hey, hey, look a’ me, jus’ look a’ me,” he urged, brushing the hair back from her face, ignoring the blood now staining his hands — her blood.

“I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay,” she mumbled, repeating it over and over again as though she could will it to be true — though her skin grew more ashen with each minute that slipped by.

Rick suddenly kneeled on the opposite side of Y/N, taking a piece of cloth and holding it against the wound. “Keep pressure on it,” he instructed Daryl and although he tried to conceal it, the archer could hear the way his voice wavered. “You jus’ hold on, Y/N, understand? We’re gonna get you outta here,” he promised, reaching down and squeezing one of her hands before disappearing.

Daryl watched him leave, dragging a teary-eyed, slack-jawed Tara along with him as they began frantically searching the abandoned parking lot for any working vehicles — it was their only chance at getting her back to Alexandria.

And if they didn’t…

No.

No, he couldn’t go there.

Instead, he pressed the cloth against the gunshot wound, attempting to stall the blood flow, the pressure eliciting a pained whimper from Y/N that almost made the contents of his stomach reappear. “I got ya, Y/N, I got ya,” he rasped, grabbing her limp hand with his own and intertwining their fingers, holding his other hand firmly against her stomach.

His words seemed to bring her back to him, her hollow gaze shifting into one of panic — like she only just realized what was happening. Her features crumpled, a flash of fear skirting across her face as the shock began to wear off. “Am — am I dying?” she managed to choke out, her eyes filling with unshed tears as she looked up at him.

“No,” he shook his head resolutely, feeling moisture build in the corners of his own eyes. “No, ya ain’t goin’ nowhere, ya hear me?” his grip tightened around her hand — like his touch alone could keep her there with him. “We’re gonna get ya back ta’ Alexandria an’ — an’ get ya patched up, good as new, alright? Ya jus’ gotta hang on for me, girl.”

Y/N’s bottom lip quivered as a tear snaked down the side of her face. “I-I don’t want to leave you,” she whispered, a sob hitching in her throat.

“Hey, it’s gonna — ya gonna — jus’ — Rick!” Daryl suddenly bellowed, sitting back on his haunches and desperately scanning the area for any sign of him or Tara. He spotted them at the opposite end of the parking lot, running from car to car, searching for keys or at least a way to jumpstart one of the abandoned vehicles.

But luck was not seeming to be on their side.

Daryl let out a vicious string of curses before focusing back on Y/N. He’d never felt so helpless in his entire life — and God, if he could, he’d take her place in a second.

She was fading — fading so rapidly it made him dizzy. Her skin was cold to the touch, her lips tinged a disturbing shade of blue, her eyes lacking the warmth he was so used to seeing. He felt a swell of emotion rise in his throat, threatening to consume him, but he shoved it down.

“Hey, y-you were right,” she murmured weakly, the corner of her mouth twitching up as she tilted her head to look up at the sky once more. “I think it’s gonna rain.”

Daryl felt a tear spill down his cheek as he followed her eye line, the previously blue sky now blanketed with thick, dark clouds. He huffed a humorless laugh, their conversation from a few minutes earlier ringing through his mind, somehow seeming like an entire lifetime ago. “Guess that means ya — ya gotta take watch tonight, right?” he rasped despondently, keeping his gaze towards the sky.

He stilled when he was met with nothing but a deafening silence.

He felt his stomach roll as he squeezed his eyes shut, afraid of what he'd see if he looked down. “Y/N?” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

When she didn’t respond, Daryl knew.

She was gone.

His girl was gone.

And his entire world came crashing down around him.

Daryl forced his eyes open.

His body went numb at the sight of her, his mind refusing to accept the image before him — empty eyes, grey flesh, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. Her hand slipped from his grasp then, dropping onto the pavement beside her unmoving form as she continued staring vacantly up at the sky.

His brain couldn’t process what was happening — where he was, what he was doing, why he was there. It felt like a nightmare — a reality that wasn’t quite reality, warped and desolate and consuming him whole. The only tangible thing he felt was a sharp, physical pain in the center of his chest, his breaths short and hitched, causing black spots to dance in his vision.

Over the blood rushing to his ears, he could just barely make out the sound of a car engine, the noise muted and dull as it approached…

But it was too late.

They were too late.

Daryl reached for her hesitantly, hands trembling as he wound his arms beneath her back and carefully scooped her up off the ground, falling back slightly as he pulled her body across his lap. When her head lolled listlessly to the side, he brought his hand up, brushing his bloodstained fingers through her hair before cradling the back of her head, pressing his cheek against hers.

“Ya said —” he squeezed his eyes shut, rocking back and forth as his grip around her lifeless body tightened. “Ya said ya were okay,” he choked out brokenly, his own shock slowly wearing off as something deep inside his soul fractured.

Then he broke.

And the sky opened up and wept alongside him.

The sound of barking drew Daryl back to reality.

He glanced over his shoulder, quickly blinking away the tears that’d formed, spotting Dog trotting towards him. The German Shepard’s tongue hung lazily out of his mouth, his easy pace picking up the closer he neared, letting out another short bark.

Daryl rumbled a laugh as Dog came to a halt at his side, plopping down next to him. “Hey, boy,” he rasped softly, scratching behind his dog’s ear and earning a sloppy lick in return He wiped away the moisture from his cheek as the canine laid down beside him with a huff. “Good, Dog.”

The archer ran his fingers through his sleek fur, feeling his throat tighten. When he’d found the German Shepard a few years back, he’d remembered the conversation with Y/N from back at the prison — and it’d only felt right to name him ‘Dog’.

It’s what she would’ve wanted — and somehow, it made him feel just a little bit closer to her.

“Man, she would’a loved ya,” he whispered thickly, sighing a long and heavy breath.

Daryl looked forward once more, studying the small gravestone in front of him — her gravestone.

For a long time, he stayed away. He hadn't been able to go near where she'd been laid to rest, he just couldn’t — it was too fucking painful, like part of himself had been buried right along with her. But over time, the grief became easier to manage — it never went away, it'd never go away — but he found a way to exist alongside it.

Now, he found a strange sort of peace here.

It’d been years since he’d lost her — she’d been gone for longer than he’d known her. It was hard to keep track of time these days, they seemed to come and go without rhyme or reason. So much had happened since that day — the war against the Saviors, the looming threat of the Whisperers, losing friends, family, Rick…

Time seemed to move differently after losing the people loved most.

After that day at the high school, Daryl had tried to find the man responsible for what happened to Y/N — he’d gone back to the high school, wild and unhinged in his grief, hellbent on retracing their steps and tracking down the stranger. He’d needed revenge, bloodshed, he’d needed the man to know what he’d done, who he’d taken from the world.

Despite the improbability, the archer had no trouble finding him.

The back tire that had been blown out during the exchange of gunfire had sent the car careening down an embankment and into a large tree less than a mile from the school. One of the branches had broken through the windshield and punctured the man’s chest, most likely killing him on impact.

He’d reanimated still strapped in the driver’s seat.

Daryl left him that way.

It wasn’t the ending he’d hoped for, but maybe it was the ending he deserved.

He reached down, absently stroking the top of Dog’s head, and inhaled a deep breath.

Not a single day went by without the thought of her.

She came and went — like a flash of light or the beat of a heart. Daryl had barely had any time to hold onto her before she was gone — and he would’ve held her so much tighter had he known it’d be the last chance he’d have.

Some people were just too bright to stay, too good for what the world had become — at least that’s what he told himself on the really dark days.

The archer closed his eyes, imagining her at his side — sometimes if he sat like that for long enough, he could almost hear her voice, her laugh, he could almost feel her warmth, her touch — and it was like she was still there, sitting right beside him.

It wasn’t the same, but it was enough — at least until he could be with her once more.

Daryl opened his eyes, peering up at the vast night sky, and released the breath he’d been holding.

Someday, he’d find his way home again.

Fin.

A/N: ...hi...how y'all doin'? lol

So yeah, this is a lot to unpack. If you've made it to the very end, THANK YOU! I know this was a super-dee-duper-long oneshot but hopefully (heartbreak and all) it was worth it.

Most of this story was purely self-indulgent - I mean, come on, who doesn't want this kind of love? But aside from that, I also wanted to write a relationship for Daryl that felt authentic and true to his character (*cough cough* definitely not throwing shade at 10.18...nope...not at all...lol)

What also made this story super fun was the fact that I was able to incorporate other characters from over the course of the series! (Even though he's only in it for .2 seconds, Abraham is probably my personal favorite lol I'd never written for him before, and damn, is it fun!)

I also like the little 'twist' at the end when we realize that in the present parts of the story, he's been hanging out at the reader's grave the entire time, reminiscing. Ow, that hurts my heart.

After writing this for months, I was the last person who wanted to see the story end like this. I honestly grew super attached to this relationship and part of me contemplated ending it on more of a 'happy' note...or as 'happy' as you can get with a show like this one. But this was the ending I'd envisioned from the beginning. We got to experience a Daryl x Reader relationship from the very start to the very end. No open-ended questions, no 'what ifs'.

And I think that's sorta beautiful.

P.S. Feedback is incredibly important. I write for my own happiness, but I also write for YOU. So don’t be afraid to shoot me an ask or leave a comment with your thoughts! It truly motivates me and helps move along the writing process. Also, please consider donating to my Tip Jar. Every little bit helps!

P.S.S. I can no longer tag people on this account, so my tag list has been transferred to my side blog @crossbowking2. If you'd like to be added/removed, please let me know!