#hollow glen

[makinggingerbread]

Another wip from Hollow Glen. I keep building and deleting because everything i create sucks

[21deppstreet]

there’s this ridiculous SpongeBobs edit to this song I kept rewatching so I had to make my own version of it 💀💀

[island-in-ignorance]

How's everyone coping with the election results?

I bought tickets for Twisters in 4DX and have started rereading the Pixie Hollow books from my childhood.

[mattpresents]

Happy Pride Month! Who wants to see two queer people and their straight friend discuss two of the most infamous gay movies ever?

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Reference: Topographical Elements

Ideas for Naming your Fictional Places

Buildings and stones brough, burton, caster, church, cross, kirk, mill, minster, stain, stone, wark ⚜ Examples: Crossthwaite, Felixkirk, Newminster, Staines, Whitchurch

Coastline features ey, holme, hulme, hythe, naze, ness, port, sea ⚜ Examples: Bardsey, Greenhithe, Sheerness, Southport, Southsea

Dwellings and farms barton, berwick, biggin, bold, by, cote, ham, hampstead, hamton, house, scale, sett, stall, thorpe, toft, ton, wick ⚜ Examples: Fishwick, Newham, Potterton, Westby, Woodthorpe

Fields and clearings combe, croft, den, ergh, field, ham, haugh, hay, ing, land, lease, lock, meadow, rick, ridding, rode, shot, side, thwaite, wardine, worth, worthy ⚜ Examples: Applethwaite, Cowden, Smallworthy, Southworth, Wethersfield

General locations and routes bridge, ford, gate, ing, mark, path, stead, stoke, stow, street, sty, way ⚜ Examples: Epping, Horsepath, Longford, Ridgeway, Stonebridge, Streetly

Hills and slopes bank, barrow, borough, breck, cam, cliff, crook, down, edge, head, hill, how, hurst, ley, ling, lith, mond, over, pen, ridge, side, tor ⚜ Examples: Barrow, Blackdown, Longridge, Redcliff, Thornborough, Windhill

Rivers and streams batch, beck, brook, burn, ey, fleet, font, ford, keld, lade, lake, latch, marsh, mere, mouth, ore, pool, rith, wade, water, well ⚜ Examples: Broadwater, Fishlake, Mersey, Rushbrooke, Saltburn

Woods and groves bear, carr, derry, fen, frith, greave, grove, heath, holt, lea, moor, oak, rise, scough, shaw, tree, well, with, wold, wood ⚜ Examples: Blackheath, Hazlewood, Oakley, Southwold, Staplegrove

Valleys and hollows bottom, clough, combe, dale, den, ditch, glen, grave, hole, hope, slade ⚜ Examples: Cowdale, Denton, Greenslade, Hoole, Longbottom, Thorncombe

NOTE

These elements are all found in many different spellings. Old English beorg ‘hill, mound’, for example, turns up as bar-, berg-, -ber, -berry, -borough, and -burgh. Only one form is given above (Thornborough).

Several items have the same form, but differ in meaning because they come from different words in Old English. For example, -ey has developed in different ways from the two words ea ‘river’ and eg ‘island’. It is not always easy deciding which is the relevant meaning in a given place name.

This resource does not distinguish between forms which appear in different parts of a place name. Old English leah ‘forest, glade’, for example, sometimes appears at the beginning of a name (Lee- or Leigh-), sometimes at the end (-leigh, -ley), and sometimes alone (Leigh) (K. Cameron, 1961).

Source ⚜ More: Notes ⚜ Worldbuilding ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[rootedinrevisions]

Through the Dark

SUMMARY: You've been struggling with depression, but Glen doesn't know. You've done your best to hide it from him. Once he finds out, he helps you work through it - together.

WARNING: This story contains themes of depression, mental health struggles, and emotional vulnerability. While the story emphasizes love, support, and healing, some readers may find certain scenes emotionally challenging. If these topics are difficult or triggering for you, please take care of yourself and feel free to skip this story. You are not alone, and your well-being is what matters most.

A/N: Thank you to the Anon who sent this request in! I apologize for this taking longer than I would like to get it posted. But I really tried to put a lot of my heart into this one. I wanted to get this one right and make sure it was perfect! Thank you for trusting me with this request and trusting me to write about such an important but difficult topic.

WORD COUNT: 3.6k

TAGS: IN COMMENTS.

The living room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the television playing a rerun of some old sitcom you weren’t really watching. A single lamp cast a soft glow across the room, highlighting the blanket you’d cocooned yourself in. The evening had stretched on long after supper, and you’d succumbed to the weight of exhaustion, curled up on the couch as the muted voices from the TV blurred into the background.

You didn’t hear the sound of the key turning in the lock or the soft click of the door as it opened. It wasn’t until the warmth of a familiar presence stirred you from sleep that your eyes fluttered open.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Glen’s voice was soft, laced with affection.

You blinked up at him, his face illuminated by the dim light, that easy, boyish smile spreading across his lips.

“I’m home.”

A rush of emotions should’ve hit you right then—relief, excitement, joy. You had missed him so much these past few weeks, but instead, there was a strange hollowness. Like your heart was trying to feel something, but the connection wasn’t there. You smiled anyway, forcing it past the weight pressing down on you.

“Hi,” you murmured, voice hoarse with sleep as you sat up, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. “Welcome home.”

Glen crouched beside you, his hands resting on the edge of the couch. He smelled faintly of his cologne and the crisp winter air from outside, and just the sight of him—the messy hair, the slight scruff on his jaw—should’ve been enough to fill the emptiness. But all you could do was reach out and place a hand on his cheek, trying to summon a warmth you didn’t feel.

“I missed you,” he said, leaning into your touch.

“I missed you too.” And you had. But the words felt thin, like an echo of what they should’ve been.

Glen studied your face for a moment, his smile faltering slightly. “Were you waiting up for me?”

You shook your head, offering a small laugh. “Not really. I was just watching TV and must’ve dozed off.”

His brow furrowed, just for a second, as though he’d caught the slight edge of detachment in your tone. But then he nodded, standing and stretching. “Long day?”

“Something like that,” you replied quickly, standing and adjusting the blanket around your shoulders. You smiled at him again, too bright, too practiced. “Are you hungry? I can warm something up for you.”

He shook his head. “No, I grabbed something on the way. I just wanted to get home to you.”

His words should’ve made your heart race in the best way, but instead, you felt a pang of guilt. You let him pull you into a hug, his arms wrapping securely around you, his warmth and scent enveloping you. It was comforting, but even as you rested your head against his chest, there was a part of you that felt disconnected, like you were watching the moment from somewhere else.

He pulled back slightly, his hands settling on your shoulders as he looked down at you. “You okay?”

You hesitated, just for a second too long. “Yeah,” you said, forcing another smile. “Just tired.”

Glen’s lips pressed into a thin line as he studied you. He wasn’t the kind of guy to push, but you could tell he wanted to. Instead, he brushed a strand of hair from your face and kissed your forehead.

“Alright. Why don’t we head to bed, then?”

You nodded, relief washing over you at the thought of ending the day. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

As you climbed the stairs together, his hand lightly resting on your lower back, you tried to remind yourself that you were lucky to have someone like Glen. But as much as you wanted to feel whole again, there was something pulling you under, deeper and deeper, and no matter how hard you tried to mask it, part of you knew he could see through the cracks.

*****

The next morning sunlight that streamed through the curtains in the bedroom was soft, but it still made you wince as you stirred awake. For a moment, you lay there, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the day already pressing down on you. Glen’s spot in the bed was empty, and the faint clinking of dishes carried from the kitchen.

You dragged yourself out of bed, throwing on the nearest sweatshirt and shuffling down the hall. When you reached the kitchen, you found Glen at the sink, loading the dishwasher. His hair was still damp from a shower, the sleeves of his gray t-shirt hugging his arms as he rinsed a mug.

He turned at the sound of your footsteps, his face lighting up with that easy, charming smile of his.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” he said, drying his hands on a towel before crossing the room to meet you.

“Morning,” you murmured, letting him press a kiss to your forehead.

His warmth was comforting, but as you glanced past him toward the living room, guilt twisted in your chest. The room had been tidied—blankets folded, stray dishes cleared from the coffee table, pillows fluffed. You’d tried to keep up with things around the house while he was gone, but over the past few weeks, it felt like every ounce of energy had been drained from you. You were lucky if the dishes made it to the sink some days

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you said softly, gesturing toward the living room.

Glen shrugged, leaning against the counter. “It wasn’t a big deal. Just figured I’d tidy up while I was up.” He smiled again, but his eyes flicked over you for a moment, lingering as though he were trying to read between the lines of your expression.

You dropped your gaze, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

“I’ve got a busy day,” he said, breaking the silence. “A couple of Zoom meetings, some interviews, but I’ll be done by late afternoon. We could do something tonight—whatever you want. Dinner, movie, a drive? You name it.”

You nodded, forcing a small smile. “Yeah. That sounds nice.”

Glen tilted his head, studying you again. “You should text the girls, see if they want to do brunch or shopping or something while I’m working.”

Your stomach sank, and you busied yourself by grabbing a glass from the cabinet, pretending you hadn’t heard him.

“Babe?”

You turned, plastering on another smile. “Maybe. I don’t know. I might just stay home today. Maybe take a nap or something.”

Glen frowned, his brows knitting together. “You haven’t mentioned going out with the girls in a while. Everything okay with you guys? There wasn't some stupid fight I didn't hear about right?” He teased trying to make you laugh, get a smile...anything he could out of you.

You shrugged, avoiding his gaze. “Yeah, everyone’s just been busy, I guess.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice gentle. “You used to love brunch with them. And I know how much you’d all laugh and talk for hours.”

The knot of guilt in your chest tightened. You had loved those brunches—the bottomless mimosas, the laughter that left your cheeks hurting, the way your friends could brighten even the darkest days. But lately, even the thought of reaching out to them felt exhausting.

“I’m just tired,” you said finally, taking a sip of water to mask the shakiness in your voice.

Glen didn’t say anything right away, but you could feel his eyes on you. When you finally looked at him, there was concern etched into his features. He opened his mouth to say something but seemed to think better of it, instead giving you a small smile.

“Alright,” he said, his tone soft. “But if you change your mind…”

“I’ll let you know,” you finished for him, your voice lighter than you felt.

As Glen turned back to the dishwasher, you leaned against the counter, watching him for a moment. He was so attentive, so thoughtful, and it only made the weight on your chest feel heavier.

He deserved someone who could meet him halfway, someone who wasn’t sinking under the surface while pretending to float. Someone who had the same bubbly energy he always seemed to. But you weren’t ready to let him see that you were struggling. Not yet.

*****

The streets blurred past as you drove aimlessly that afternoon, the soft hum of your favorite playlist filling the car. You hadn’t planned on going anywhere in particular, but sitting at home felt unbearable, especially with Glen in the office doing work stuff. There was an ache in your chest that you couldn’t name, an emptiness that felt louder in the stillness of the house.

The music helped, a little. For a while, you let yourself get lost in it, the familiar lyrics and melodies washing over you. But no matter how far you drove, the heaviness didn’t lift.

Eventually, you pulled into a quiet overlook on the edge of town, the city lights stretching out below you. You turned off the engine and sat in the silence, the weight of everything pressing down harder now that there was nothing left to distract you.

You didn’t know how long you stayed there, but when you finally made it back home, the house was quiet. Glen was in his office, the door slightly ajar, his voice carrying down the hallway as he wrapped up a phone call. You slipped into the bedroom, hoping to avoid any questions, and kicked off your shoes before collapsing onto the bed.

A while later, Glen’s voice broke the silence. “Hey,” he said softly from the doorway.

You sat up, rubbing your eyes. “Hey.”

He smiled, stepping inside. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Your heart sank, but you forced yourself to smile. “A surprise?”

“Yeah.” He moved closer, his excitement evident in the way his voice lifted. “I made dinner reservations at your favorite place. Thought we could get dressed up and have a night out. I even picked out a dress for you—it’s hanging in the bathroom. And…” He held up a bouquet of your favorite flowers, a little sheepishly. “These are for you.”

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you didn’t know what to say. He looked so hopeful, so eager to make you smile, and all you felt was guilt.

“Glen…” Your voice faltered as you looked down at your hands. “Thank you. Really. But I’m not… I’m not really feeling up to going out tonight.”

The smile faded from his face, replaced by a flicker of hurt that he tried to mask.

“Oh,” he said softly. He set the flowers on the dresser and sat down beside you. “I just thought…”

“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, cutting him off. “It’s not you, I promise. I just…” You trailed off, not knowing how to finish the sentence.

Glen exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “You’ve been saying that a lot lately, you know? ‘It’s not you.’ ‘I’m just tired.’” He paused, searching your face. “But something’s going on, isn’t it? You’ve been distant. You barely talk to me anymore, and now… you don’t even want to spend time together. Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” you said, shaking your head quickly. “No, Glen, you didn’t. It’s not you.”

“Then what is it?” he asked, his voice quiet but firm. “Why are you pushing me away?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and unspoken for so long that it felt like a physical weight. You opened your mouth, but no words came out. The truth was there, clawing at the back of your throat, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say it. Not yet.

“I don’t know,” you whispered finally, your voice breaking.

Glen’s face softened, and he reached out, taking your hand in his. “Hey,” he said gently, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Whatever it is, you can tell me. I’m here.”

You looked away, blinking back tears. “I’m sorry,” you said again, your voice barely audible.

Glen didn’t press you further, but the hurt in his eyes was undeniable. He squeezed your hand, holding onto you like he was afraid you might slip away entirely.

“Okay,” he said finally, his voice tight. “Okay. But please… don’t shut me out.”

You nodded, but deep down, you knew that wasn’t enough. The cracks were starting to show, and it was only a matter of time before everything came spilling out.

Glen hadn’t said much since you’d turned down the date night he’d planned. He’d stayed close, though—lingering in the room for a little while, then quietly helping fold the blanket you’d draped over the couch earlier, and moving the flowers to a vase and placing them on the kitchen counter where they wouldn’t wither. The silence wasn’t tense, but it wasn’t comfortable either.

You could feel him watching you every so often as you moved around the house aimlessly, pretending to straighten things that didn’t need straightening.

Finally, he spoke. “Are you still happy with me?”

The words stopped you in your tracks. You turned to him slowly, your heart sinking as you saw the vulnerability etched on his face.

“What?” you whispered, unsure if you’d heard him right.

“Are you happy… with me? With us?” His voice was soft but unsteady, like he was afraid of the answer.

“Glen…”

He held up a hand, stopping you. “I’m just trying to understand. You’ve been so distant, and I don’t know why. Did I do something? Is it me? Or…” He hesitated, his eyes dropping to the floor. “Is..is there someone else?”

The room seemed to tilt as his words hit you.

“Someone else?” you repeated, your voice breaking. Tears sprang to your eyes, and before you could stop them, they spilled over, streaming down your face. “How could you think that?”

Glen stepped forward, alarmed, but you held up a trembling hand. “No, Glen. There’s no one else. There’s never been anyone else. How could you possibly think I’d want anyone but you?” You managed to get out as your voice cracked and tears started falling down your cheeks.

He reached for you then, his hands gentle as they cupped your face, brushing away your tears with his thumbs. “Hey, hey,” he murmured. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I just… I don’t know what’s going on, and my mind keeps going to all these places.”

The look on his face—the heartbreak, the worry—was too much. Your shoulders shook as sobs wracked your body, and Glen pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly as you cried into his chest.

“It’s not you,” you choked out between sobs. “It’s me. I’m the problem, Glen. You’re patient and kind and thoughtful and the best man I’ve ever met. You’re too good for me, and I…”

He leaned back, his hands still holding your face, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Stop,” he said firmly but gently. “Don’t say that. You’re not the problem.”

“But I am,” you insisted, your voice breaking again. “It’s my depression. I’ve been struggling so much, Glen. I can barely get through the day most of the time. Work has been a nightmare because I keep using sick days just to stay home and my boss is on me about being behind on a project and… and…”

You couldn’t finish the sentence. Your voice dissolved into a fresh wave of tears, and Glen pulled you back into his arms, his hand cradling the back of your head as he held you to his chest.

“You should’ve told me,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”

You nodded against his chest, your tears soaking into his shirt. “I didn’t want to worry you,” you admitted. “You already have so much going on, and I didn’t want to be a burden.”

Glen pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression a mix of heartbreak and determination. “You’re never a burden,” he said firmly. “Do you hear me? Never.”

You nodded again, but he wasn’t satisfied. He tilted your chin up so you had to look at him. “It’s okay to feel the way you feel,” he said softly. “And it’s okay to tell me when you’re not okay. I need to know when you’re struggling, so I can help.”

The tears came again, but this time they were different—softer, quieter, like the weight you’d been carrying was finally starting to lift. Glen brushed them away gently, his fingers tender as they traced the curve of your cheek.

“I should’ve noticed sooner,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m so sorry I didn’t. But I promise you, from now on, I’ll do everything I can to help. Whatever you need, we’ll get through this together, okay?”

You nodded, your throat too tight to speak. Glen pressed a kiss to your forehead, holding you close again, and for the first time in weeks, you felt like maybe—just maybe—you weren’t completely alone in this.

*****

The next morning, you woke up to find Glen already in the kitchen, laptop open on the counter. He glanced up when he heard you shuffle in, his face softening into a smile.

“Morning,” he said warmly, coming over to kiss you on the forehead. “I made coffee.”

“Thank you,” you murmured, still feeling the weight of last night’s conversation lingering in your chest. It wasn’t unpleasant—it was more like a cautious lightness, like the first crack of dawn after a long, dark night.

As you poured yourself a mug, Glen gestured to his laptop. “I was doing some research,” he said. “I found a few therapists in the area that specialize in depression and anxiety. I figured we could look through them together and see if any of them feel like a good fit.”

You froze, your hand gripping the handle of the mug a little tighter. “Oh,” you said softly. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he interrupted gently. “I know how hard it can be to take that first step, and if I can make it even a little easier for you, I will.”

The lump in your throat returned, but this time, it wasn’t from sadness. “Thank you,” you whispered, blinking back tears.

“Of course,” Glen said, his voice so steady and full of love that it made your chest ache. “We’ll take it one step at a time, okay? No pressure. Just… whenever you’re ready.”

You nodded, grateful beyond words.

As the day went on, Glen made it a point to celebrate even the smallest victories. When you managed to muster up the energy and do an "everything" shower - completely with shaving your legs and a sugar scrub - he kissed your cheek and said, “Proud of you.” When you sat down at the table and helped him look through therapist profiles, he squeezed your hand and smiled, saying, “We’re in this together, okay?”

By the afternoon, you’d made a tentative first appointment with a therapist. It wasn’t for another two weeks, but it was a start.

That evening, as you walked into the bathroom to brush your teeth, you noticed a bright yellow sticky note stuck to the mirror.

“You’re stronger than you think. And I love you. –G”

Your chest tightened as you plucked the note from the mirror, running your thumb over Glen’s handwriting.

The next morning, you found another note on the coffee maker: “One step at a time. You’re doing great. –G”

By the end of the week, the notes had multiplied. They were tucked into your book, slipped into your wallet, and even taped to the fridge: “You’re not alone. I’m always here.” “Bad days don’t last forever. Neither do bad feelings.” “You are loved. You are enough.” Each note felt like a tiny lifeline, a reminder that you weren’t facing this battle on your own.

*****

It had been a few months since that night—since the tears and the honesty and Glen’s unwavering support. In that time, you’d started therapy, taken baby steps toward feeling like yourself again, and slowly but surely, things began to change.

This morning felt different, lighter. You walked into the kitchen, the smell of coffee wafting through the air as Glen stood at the counter flipping through emails on his phone. He glanced up when he heard your footsteps, his smile bright and warm.

“Good morning,” he greeted, setting his phone down to give you his full attention.

“Morning,” you said, grabbing a mug and pouring yourself a cup of coffee. There was a slight pause as you turned to him, a little grin tugging at your lips. “So, I was thinking… I’m going to brunch with the girls today.”

Glen’s brows shot up, a spark of surprise lighting his face. “Yeah?” he asked, his tone soft, like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you right.

You nodded. “Yeah. I already texted them, and they’re excited to catch up. It’s been a while, you know?”

A smile spread across Glen’s face, pride and happiness shining in his eyes. He stepped closer, leaning against the counter. “That’s great,” he said, and you could hear the genuine joy in his voice. “I hope you have a good time.”

You bit your lip, hesitating for a moment before adding, “And… after brunch, I was wondering if maybe we could have a redo. Of that dinner you planned for me…if the offer still stands.”

Glen chuckled, shaking his head as he stepped closer to you, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you into his chest. “Of course, it still stands,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I’ll clear my schedule. You just pick the time and place.”

You rested your head against him, letting out a content sigh. It had taken time, effort, and the kind of love you hadn’t even known you deserved, but for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt like you were coming back to yourself.

As Glen held you, you could hear the quiet happiness in his voice when he murmured, “I missed this you.”

And with that, you smiled against his chest, knowing that while there were still steps to take, you weren’t taking them alone.

[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @kellynickelsgirl00 @dixonsbridexx @yikes-myguy @blackwidownat2814 @euqsia @lliteratii @imadisneyprincessiswear @satata @smashleywow @misspendragonsworld @captain-shannon-becker @i-doutt-it @bookies16 @brianna-merlim @staley83 @insaneintheemembranev2 @dummylovewp

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TW: cussing, angst, descriptions of walkers (Zombies), tank, gunfire, feelings of helplessness, character deaths.

Part 18

Dead Weight - Part 19

The morning dawns with an eerie stillness that settles like a shroud over the prison. You stand in the guard tower, rifle balanced against the railing, watching as the mist rises from the fields beyond the fence line.

The dew-covered grass sparkles in the early light, a deceptive beauty in a world that lost its right to beauty long ago.

Beth joins you, her blonde hair pulled back in its usual ponytail, a thermos of something steaming clutched between her slender fingers.

She hands it to you without a word, and you accept gratefully, the warmth seeping through your palms.

"Couldn't sleep?" she asks, her voice soft as she leans against the railing beside you.

You shake your head. "Bad feeling."

Beth's eyes track your gaze to the tree line. "Rick says the Governor's gone. After what happened to Merle..." She trails off.

Daryl, having to put his own brother down—it had changed something in him, hollowed him out in ways you're still trying to understand.

"The Governor's not gone," you say with quiet certainty. "Men like that don't just disappear."

Beth studies your profile, her blue eyes thoughtful. "You're worried about Daryl."

It's not a question, but you answer anyway. "He's not sleeping. Barely eating." You take a sip from the thermos, the tea scalding your tongue. "I tried to talk to him."

"And?"

You're about to respond when movement at the tree line catches your attention. Your body tenses instinctively, rifle coming up as you peer through the scope.

"What is it?" Beth asks, sensing your sudden alertness.

"I don't—" The words die in your throat as what you're seeing registers. "Oh god."

Through the scope, you can make out vehicles emerging from the tree line. Military vehicles.

And at the front, a tank.

"Get Rick," you tell Beth, voice steady despite the fear coursing through you. "Now."

Beth disappears down the tower stairs as you continue to watch the approaching convoy.

You count at least three trucks filled with armed people, the tank leading the way.

And standing on top of the tank, a figure you recognize even at this distance—the Governor.

Your radio crackles to life at your hip. "What've we got?" Rick's voice, tense but controlled.

You raise the radio with one hand, keeping your eyes on the approaching threat.

"The Governor. Tank. At least twenty armed people. Three minutes out, maybe less."

A pause. Then, "Get down here. Now."

You don't waste time responding, already moving toward the stairs.

By the time you reach the prison yard, the others have gathered—Rick at the front, Daryl slightly behind him, crossbow in hand.

His eyes find yours immediately, but dart away just as quick.

"They're coming up the road," Rick says, voice raised just enough for everyone to hear.

"We need to evacuate. Get the kids on the bus. Everyone else, grab what you can carry and be ready to move."

The group disperses quickly, people rushing to follow the evacuation plan you've all rehearsed but hoped never to use.

Carl hurries toward the cell block, likely to gather his sister. Maggie and Glen move toward the bus, helping the elderly Woodbury residents who've joined your community.

You hesitate only a moment before turning and running toward the cell block.

Inside, chaos reigns as people grab essential supplies—medicine, weapons, food. Beth is helping Judith, packing a bag of the baby's needs while Carol holds the infant.

"Can you take this to the bus? I can't find Daddy." Beth calls when she sees you.

You take the bag, slinging it over your shoulder. "Where is Hershel?"

"D block, I think. With some of the sick people who can't move on their own."

"I'll help you find him," you offer, but Beth shakes her head.

"No, get that to the bus. I'll be right behind you."

You want to argue, but the urgent situation doesn't allow for debate.

With a nod, you head toward the courtyard, where the bus waits.

You hazard a glance at the Tank and what you see makes your blood cold as ice.

The man you've come to fear more than any walker—the Governor, standing tall beside a kneeling Hershel and Michonne, captives with hands bound behind their backs.

"They have Hershel and Michonne," your voice barely audible even to yourself.

Your voice betrays your fear—not for yourself, but for the people you've come to consider family.

For Hershel, whose gentle wisdom has guided all of you through the darkest times.

For Michonne, whose strength and skill have saved lives more than once.

You're halfway to the bus when the first explosion rocks the prison. The sound is deafening, and the force of it knocks you off your feet.

Dust and debris rain down as part of the guard tower collapses.

For a moment, you lie stunned, ears ringing. Then instinct kicks in, and you scramble to your feet, still clutching the baby bag.

The courtyard has descended into chaos—people running, screaming, the sound of gunfire erupting from multiple directions.

Through the dust, you see Glen ushering people onto the bus. You stagger toward him, passing the bag up to waiting hands.

"Where's Beth?" he asks, scanning the area behind you.

"D block." You draw your gun, checking the magazine. "I'm going back for them."

Glen grabs your arm. "Wait—"

But you're already pulling away, running back toward the cell block as another explosion sends tremors through the ground.

The fence is breached now, you realize with horror.

The tank has rolled right through it, crushing the barriers that have kept you safe for so long.

Inside the prison, the corridors are eerily empty, most people having evacuated to the bus or taken up defensive positions. You move quickly toward D block, gun raised, senses on high alert.

The sound of a scream stops you cold.

It came from ahead, through the doors leading to the outdoor walkway between blocks. You push through cautiously, eyes adjusting to the sunlight.

The scene that greets you makes bile climb your throat.

Beth stands backed against the chain-link fence of the walkway, her boyfriend Zak's body sprawled at her feet. But He isn't dead—not completely.

His eyes have clouded over with that distinctive milky film, his movements jerky and uncoordinated as he claws at her legs.

Blood soaks his shirt from what looks like a bite wound on his chest.

"Beth!" you call, rushing forward.

She looks up at you, face streaked with tears, paralyzed by shock and grief. "He's—he's—"

"Move away from him," you instruct, raising your gun. "Beth, now!"

She shakes her head, frozen in place. "I can't—I can't leave him like this."

"Beth, please," you beg, hearing the sounds of fighting drawing closer. "He's turned. That's not him anymore."

As if to confirm your words, the walker's—movements become more aggressive, teeth snapping as it reaches for Beth's ankle.

She finally seems to register the danger, taking a step to the side.

But it's too late.

The walker lunges with unexpected speed, teeth sinking into Beth's calf.

Her scream pierces the air as she falls, the walker—the thing that was once Zak—crawling over her, going for her neck.

You don't hesitate.

The gunshot echoes in the confined space as you put down what remains of the boy who had made Beth's face light up for the frist time since the farm.

You rush to her, pulling the body off and helping her to her feet.

"We have to go," you say urgently, supporting her weight as blood seeps through her jeans. "The bus—"

"I'm bit," she says, voice small and terrified, like a child's.

The reality of her situation—of both your situations—hits you with crushing force.

The prison is falling.

The Governor's people are inside the fences.

Beth is bitten.

There's no time to amputate, no way to save her.

"I know," you say, tears blurring your vision. "I know, sweetie. But we need to get somewhere safe first."

It's a lie, and you both know it.

There is no 'safe' for Beth anymore.

But you can't leave her here, can't abandon her to turn alone among enemies.

You help her limp back, away from the sounds of battle. Finding an empty storage room, you barricade the door behind you with a heavy shelf.

Beth collapses against the wall, her breathing labored, face already showing the first signs of fever.

"The others," she gasps. "Maggie—"

"They're getting out," you assure her, kneeling beside her. "They're following the plan."

"Are you?" she asks, blue eyes sharp despite her deteriorating condition. "You should be on the bus."

You take her hand, squeezing gently. "I'm not leaving you."

"Yes, you are," she says with surprising firmness. "You have to."

"Beth—"

"Daryl," she interrupts, grimacing as pain wracks her body. "He needs you. After Merle... he can't lose anyone else. Not you."

You shake your head, tears falling freely now. "I can't just—"

"You can," she insists, fumbling at her waist. She pulls out a small pistol, pressing it into your hands. "And you will."

Another explosion rocks the building, dust sifting down from the ceiling. The sounds of fighting are closer now—shouts, gunfire, the terrible mechanical grinding of the tank.

"Go," Beth whispers, pushing weakly at your arm. "Please. Tell Maggie... tell Daddy... tell them I wasn't afraid."

Something inside you breaks at her courage, this girl barely into womanhood facing death with more grace than most people twice her age.

You lean forward, pressing a kiss to her forehead, wrapping her in your arms.

"I'll tell them," you promise. "And I'll find them. All of them."

Beth manages a small smile, though her eyes are glazing over with fever. "I know you will."

With a final squeeze of her hand, you rise and move the shelf away from the door.

Looking back one last time, you see Beth leaning her head against the wall, eyes closed, lips moving in what might be a prayer.

"Goodbye," you whisper, before slipping out into the corridor.

The prison grounds have become a war zone. The tank has penetrated deep into the yard, its cannon firing at regular intervals, tearing chunks from the buildings.

The Governor's people have spread out, engaging with your group in scattered firefights across the complex.

You move from cover to cover, searching for a way out, for any sign of your people. The bus is gone—whether escaped or destroyed, you can't tell through the smoke and chaos.

Your heart pounds against your ribs, fear and adrenaline making your hands shake as you clutch your gun.

Movement to your left makes you duck behind an overturned table. Peering cautiously around it, you see one of the Governor's soldiers moving toward the administration building, rifle raised.

You squeeze through the gap in the fence, once outside the prison grounds, you take cover in the tree line, the sounds of battle continuing behind you.

The ground trembles beneath you as the tank fires again. A direct hit to the guard tower sends it collapsing in a cloud of dust and flame.

The prison—your home, your sanctuary—is being destroyed before your eyes.

With one last look at the burning prison, you head deeper into the woods, away from the destruction, away from the bodies of friends left behind.

You numbly navigate the forest, both lost in grief and shock.

The woods were too quiet.

The chaos of the prison—the deafening gunfire, the screams, the crushing roar of the tank—was gone, swallowed whole by the hush of pine needles and summer air.

All that remained was the whisper of the wind tugging at bare branches and the brittle crunch of your boots through underbrush.

You moved like a ghost.

Not running.

Not thinking.

Just… walking.

Your clothes—once clean—was torn at the hem, smeared with soot and blood that wasn’t yours. Your hands shook. Your mouth was dry. You couldn’t tell how long you’d been walking—an hour? Two?

The forest didn’t care. It pressed in close, trees looming tall and skeletal.

At some point you sloshed into and out of a stream, or was it a creek ? You weren't sure, but now your shoes where soaked.

The sky had begun to dim into gray-blue twilight, but you didn’t stop. Your body moved on instinct alone, as if running from the grief curling like smoke in your chest.

You tripped over a hidden root and fell hard to your knees. The shock of it pulled you back into your body.

You stayed there a while—just kneeling in the dirt, arms wrapped around yourself, rocking a little.

“It’s gone…” you whispered.

The prison. The home you’d made. The people. Beth.

Your stomach clenched. A sob bubbled up, but you forced it down.

You had to move. You had to find shelter.

Eventually, as dusk painted shadows over the woods, you spotted it through the trees, a crooked wooden structure nestled between two crumbling pines. Half-covered in ivy. Windows boarded. The door was ajar.

A cabin.

You stumbled toward it, breath catching. The inside smelled of mildew and old dust, but it was dry.

There was a broken chair, a collapsed cot, and a rusted stove in the corner.

No food.

No supplies.

But no walkers, either.

You closed the door behind you and wedged a chair under the handle. It wouldn’t hold for long, but it was something.

You pressed your back to the door and slid down until you were curled on the cold wooden floor.

Only then did the tears come—slow and soundless at first. Your body shook from the inside out.

Where’s Daryl?

Where’s Rick?

Carl?

Maggie?

Did anyone else make it out?

The sky deepened into starless black. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called.

You curled up on the floor, arms wrapped tight around your knees. You watched the weak moonlight pour in through a crack in the boards, pale and cold.

With the prison falling, with their group scattered, Daryl makes the hardest decision of his life.

He jumps down from the truck, dispatches two walkers in his path, and runs—not toward the road where the bus disappeared, but toward the woods on the far side of the prison yard.

If you didn't make the bus, if you're still alive, that's where you'd go.

Toward cover, toward safety.

It's what he taught you during those quiet months at the prison. "Always head for the tree line if things go south," he'd instructed. "Woods give you cover, give you options."

Please remember, he thinks desperately as he crashes through the underbrush, leaving the burning prison behind. Please be alive. Please.

Daryl moves through the forest like a ghost, crossbow ready, eyes constantly scanning for threats or signs. Night has fallen completely now, the moon providing just enough light to navigate by.

He should stop, find shelter, wait for daylight to continue tracking.

That would be the smart play.

But Daryl stopped thinking clearly the moment he realized you weren't on the bus.

The prison had fallen quickly, too quickly for a proper evacuation.

He'd made sure the kids got out, had seen Maggie and Glen board the bus, had covered Rick and Carl's escape after Hershel fell. But in the chaos and smoke, he'd lost track of you.

The bus had left.

You weren't on it.

This simple equation has driven him for miles, following what little trail he can find in the growing darkness—a broken branch here, a footprint there, signs of moving quickly through the underbrush.

Now Daryl follows your trail with single-minded focus, ignoring the hunger gnawing at his stomach and the fatigue in his muscles.

A creek slows him down, the water washing away any footprints.

He casts back and forth along the bank like a bloodhound losing the scent, frustration mounting with each passing minute. The trail is gone.

A sound up ahead breaks into his thoughts—the distinctive snarl of a walker.

Daryl raises his crossbow instinctively, creeping forward until he can make out the shambling figure through the trees.

It's facing away from him, seemingly drawn to something beyond Daryl's line of sight.

He dispatches it with a bolt through the skull, the sound of its body hitting the forest floor unnaturally loud in the stillness. As he retrieves the bolt, wiping it clean on the walker's tattered clothing.

"Dammit," he mutters, the first word he's spoken aloud since leaving the prison.

His voice sounds foreign in the quiet night, too harsh against the gentle babbling of the creek

For the first time since his childhood, Daryl prays.

[valentinevar]

For Love, For Spring

Celebrating @tamlinweek with another commissioned piece from Kannamora where Tamlin is happy and in love 💖

This fanart is based on a scene from my fanfic "A Court of Brittle Thorns" chapter 20.

You can read the excerpt below:

That night, Tamlin said nothing—just took her hand and led her through the heart of the Spring Court. Past fields beginning to green again, through glens and wildflower hollows, into the thickest part of the forest where the trunks grew wide as towers and the light filtered down like falling petals.

There, untouched by war or weather, shimmered a silver pool.

It wasn’t water. Not quite. Amawyn had been here before—once, perhaps a century and a half ago, when the world was still young and Andras had dared her to race him through the woods—but now, it was as though she were seeing it for the first time.

The pool glittered under the open sky, not reflecting starlight but seeming to become it—each ripple catching colors that weren’t present in the world around them. Blue, pink, and glimmering silver danced like constellations being born anew.

She stepped forward without waiting, shedding her clothes in slow, deliberate movements until her bare skin was kissed by the chill of the spring air. Her jet-black hair spilled around her like a silk gown as she moved, waist-deep into the shimmering surface.

Tamlin didn’t follow her—not yet. He only watched, letting her rediscover the lake, letting her move like something sacred.

“My father always said this spring was connected to the magic of the Spring Court,” Amawyn murmured, her voice soft with memory. “The consistency does feel similar to the underground water of the Calanmai caves… but this,” she said, her eyes sweeping over the luminous surface, “this reflects more. It breathes more.”

The lake seemed to stir beneath her feet.

The water—if it could be called that—seemed to rise to meet her, brushing along her skin with a touch like silk and velvet, warm despite the night, ancient despite its light. It welcomed her when she went deeper. It called to her.

She leaned back, letting herself float, her body relaxed and open, hair fanning around her like a dark halo, the peaks of her breasts catching the moonlight. And then—without warning—the pool shifted.

The silver gave way to gold.

The change was slow, reverent. As if the pool had recognized her not just as a guest, but as something kin. The magic of the Spring Court enfolded her, accepted her. Claimed her.

Tamlin watched, still as stone. Watched the water change, watched her shine, watched the soft light wrap around every inch of her body. It was not lust that struck him in that moment, but something closer to worship. As if the land had reached up to bless her, and he was witnessing a coronation spoken in light.

And then—something stirred. Not within them, but within the pool. It brushed against him slowly, like the curl of ivy around stone, like the first threads of spring moss waking beneath snowmelt. Magic old and immense and quiet, winding through the clearing like a breath being drawn. It recognized her, and it recognized him.

The power that lived beneath the forest floor, that slept in roots and rivers and hollow hills, had begun to rise—not as an alarm, not as a warning, but as a welcome. Tamlin felt it in the soles of his feet, in the low hum of power that tugged at the base of his spine. The same magic that kissed Amawyn’s skin now reached for him as well—tentative at first, then bolder, like a memory remembered at last.

And he understood.

This place did not belong to him alone, not anymore. Not just to the bloodline of Spring’s High Lords, not just to the thrones or the crowns or the ancient rites. It belonged to them, together. To the court, yes—but also to the bond. To the two of them, whose magic twined like vines in bloom. To the love that had not asked for power, but had earned it anyway.

So Tamlin stepped forward, the surface of the pool lapping at his ankles, warm as sunlight and thick with that strange, silken weight that was not water. With each step he took, the glow beneath the surface deepened. What had begun as gold now shimmered with green, with amber, with soft-hued pink and the palest violet—Spring’s full palette awakening in color and light around their joined presence.

By the time he reached her, the pool pulsed gently around them both, as if the lake itself were breathing in rhythm with them.

Amawyn floated just ahead of him, her hair spread like ink across the golden water, her body half-submerged, half-bathed in light. He didn’t touch her. Not yet. He let the magic settle. Let her feel it fully—what the land had offered her, what it had always held in wait. He watched the way her eyes softened, her mouth parted slightly in wonder, and felt her power curl toward his, not with urgency but with recognition.

He did not speak, words felt too heavy for a moment like this. Only when she turned her head and whispered, “Come closer,” did he reach for her. Their hands found each other beneath the water, their fingers lacing like roots tangling beneath the soil, and Amawyn smiled.

“This doesn’t feel borrowed,” she said.

Tamlin’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

She floated toward him, face tilted toward the stars. “This peace. It doesn’t feel like it’s waiting to be taken away.”

Tamlin looked at her, really looked. The light, the lake, the ease. The first flicker of joy without weight. He lifted her hand and pressed it to his lips.

“It’s not borrowed,” he said. “It’s ours.”

He came to her slowly, carefully, as if afraid she might dissolve into the light. She didn’t speak when his arms slid around her waist, and she let her head fall back against his shoulder. No words passed between them—just breath and skin and starlight, the kind of quiet that only exists when nothing else is needed.

Lovely dividers by @olenvasynyt

[makinggingerbread]

A Hollow Glen pic from the drafts

[vivsinkpot]

How to Name Fantasy Places (Without Pulling Random Letters Out of a Hat)

Worldbuilding is all about making things feel real—and names carry the weight of your entire world’s history, culture, and mystery. So here’s a foolproof method for naming places that actually feel like places.

Step 1: Decide What This Place Means to the People Who Named It

Every name tells a story. Ask yourself:

What did the first people to settle or discover this place notice?

What is this location known for?

Is it sacred, cursed, rich, desolate?

Examples:

A towering forest could be called Whispergrove (for the sound of the leaves or the myths around it).

A desert ravine where travelers vanish might be The Hollow Path.

Step 2: Choose a Naming Style (Consistent with Your World)

Think about the culture that named it. Do they use:

Compound words (e.g. Stormwatch, Ravenfell)?

Descriptive + noun (e.g. Blackmoor, Silverdeep)?

Old tongue or language rules (e.g. Eldrinor, Vaskhara)?

Functional or mundane names (e.g. Southfield, The Western Reach)?

Stay consistent within a region or people group. Language = worldbuilding.

Step 3: Use This Naming Formula When You’re Stuck

If your brain’s fried and nothing sounds right, here’s a go-to naming formula that always gets the job done:

[Adjective or Descriptive Element] + [Geographic Term or Feature]

Try words like:

Descriptive: black, silent, shattered, ancient, golden, hollow, crimson

Features: hill, pass, reach, coast, vale, hold, watch, spine, hearth, barrow, fen

Examples:

Ashfen – a burnt wetland

Crimson Hold – a fortress with a bloodstained history

The Broken Reach – a territory that collapsed after war

Frosthollow – a snow-laden valley

You can also reverse it:

Glenmor (Glen = valley, Mor = great)

Ridgewyn – (Ridge = feature, wyn = an invented or repurposed word suggesting wind or joy)

Step 4: Don’t Be Afraid to Steal from Real Life (and Twist It)

Real world etymology is your friend:

Latin roots: Aurum Vale (Gold Valley)

Norse/Germanic: Drakenfjord (Dragon Fjord)

Old English: Thorneby (Settlement of Thorns)

Mash these with your own invented words or blend them with existing ones to sound just unfamiliar enough.

Step 5: Keep a Masterlist

Once you’ve named a few places, keep a naming glossary. This keeps your language consistent and helps with world cohesion.

Bonus: Don’t Try to Be Clever Every Time

Not every place needs to sound mystical. A town named Bridgemarket or Eastmere can be just as immersive. Let some names be simple. That’s what makes the epic ones stand out.

TL;DR

What does the place mean to the people who named it?

Pick a naming style that fits your world.

Use: [Descriptive] + [Feature] = instant immersion.

Pull from real etymology and adapt.

Keep it consistent—and don’t overcomplicate.

[oskea93]

✶ Weren't for the wind - Jake Seresin x OC ✶

Warnings: Story will contain situations involving arranged marriage, sexism, cursing, verbal and emotion abuse, sexual content, mentions of drugs and alcohol, miscarriages, etc.

A/N: So this is an idea i've had swirling around in my head for some time and I wanted to see how you all like it! I of course used an Ella Langley song because I feel like they go perfectly with any Glen fic! This one will be a little dark and heavy at times due to the nature. I'm loosely basing it off of the show Landman (very loosely)! There's gonna be a little mention of Top Gun but Jake is now out and back to Texas. Let me know what you think and if you would like to be tagged!

“If it weren’t for me signing that contract, you wouldn’t have the life you have today!” Jake’s fingers hastily ran through his growing hair, his voice rising with frustration. “You think you’re the one who made me who I am today? I never saw your ass out there at the crack of dawn drilling those holes and making sure no one got hurt or killed. You’ve got no idea what it took to build this empire.”

“Well, that’s funny because I never saw you out there either,” I shot back, my voice dripping with sarcasm. My arms crossed tightly over my chest as I stepped closer to him, my eyes locked on his. “You simply sat up there in your nice, cozy office with your pretty blonde secretaries while others made the money for you. I got you to where you are today, sweetheart. Don’t you dare forget that.”

Jake’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. “Oh, so now you’re the brains behind it all? That’s rich. You think a few dinners and handshakes make you the mastermind? You were just the pretty face I brought along to seal the deal. Nothing more.”

My hands clenched into fists at my sides, the sting of his words cutting deeper than I cared to admit. “For a minute there, I actually thought this would work out,” I said, my voice quieter now but no less sharp. “I thought I could see myself being married to you for the rest of my life. But it’s apparent you only cared about the money and fame. You’ve got everyone from here to the Middle East trying to grab your attention, and I’m just the little old housewife who was forced to marry your dumb ass so you could set your claim to those grease pits sitting below our feet.”

Jake’s expression faltered for a moment, a flicker of something—guilt? regret?—passing across his face. But it was gone as quickly as it came. “Forced to marry me?” he scoffed. “Don’t act like you didn’t get something out of this too. You wanted the lifestyle, the security. Don’t pretend you’re some innocent victim here.”

I took a step back, my chest tightening. “You’re right,” I said, my voice trembling now. “I did want those things. But I also wanted you. Or at least, I thought I did. I thought there was more to you than the suits and the boardroom meetings. But I was wrong. You’re just hollow, Jake. All this wealth, all this power—it’s just a mask for the emptiness inside you.”

The room fell silent, the weight of my words hanging in the air between us. Jake stared at me, his face unreadable. For a moment, I thought he might say something—anything—to break the tension. But instead, he turned away, his shoulders stiff.

“You don’t know me,” he said finally, his voice low and cold. “You never did.”

“Maybe not,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. “But I know enough to realize this isn’t what I want anymore.”

[elizabeth-holland24]

Racing Hearts-Chapter 5

Ashes in the Halo

< previous chapter -- next chapter >

Hungarian Grand Prix – Qualifying, Turn 9

"RED FLAG. RED FLAG. Speedy has gone off at Turn 9. I repeat, red flag. Mercedes driver has lost control—major impact on the left side. Marshals are on their way."

The world froze.

Millions watched as carbon fibre scattered like ash in the wind. Her silver Mercedes had tangled wheels with Max Verstappen’s Red Bull, a violent brush at the apex that sent her spinning into the barriers. The impact was deafening. The replays played in excruciating slow motion, a ballet of destruction, sparks flying. Her onboard camera cut to static.

Max came on the radio immediately. “She turned in on me. That’s not on me.”

The stewards reviewed it. No further investigation. Max walked away unscathed.

But she was 21. And she hadn’t moved. For two long minutes, the world held its breath.

She came to consciousness on the hospital tent, helmet off, forehead clammy, breath shallow. The track doctor’s voice was distant. "Just a mild concussion. No broken bones. She’s lucky."

Lucky.

Glens POV Budapest – Qualifying Day

He never saw her spin. He only heard the panic.

"RED FLAG. RED FLAG. Speedy has gone off at Turn 9—major impact on the left side—"

His stomach dropped.

The announcer's voice blurred into static. Glen stood frozen in the Mercedes hospitality suite, surrounded by people, yet completely alone. The screen replayed it—Max clipped her rear wheel going into the corner. She overcorrected. The car slammed into the barrier, then rebounded violently.

And then, silence. No movement. No radio.

The world slowed.

His fingers trembled as he fumbled to call someone—anyone. Her name was all he could whisper. Over and over. Like a prayer, he was scared no one would hear.

The Hospital

He hated hospitals. Cold walls, sterile floors, silence that rang louder than anything.

He sat in the hallway, elbows on his knees, phone in his hand but unable to use it.

Hamilton had come. So had Checo. So had Toto. But Glen couldn’t leave that hallway, not when her life was on the other side of the door.

The doctors said “mild concussion.” That she’d be okay. But they didn’t know her like he did.

She was fire in motion. She didn’t know how to stop. She didn’t know how to be fragile.

And that’s what terrified him. Because she’d go back. She’d get in the car again.

Race day

The next morning, the world awoke to news: she was cleared to race. Social media blew up with #SpeedyStrong. But behind the scenes, nothing was strong.

The paddock walk felt like moving through molasses. Her steps were slow, but the fans—God, the fans—cheered like she’d returned from war. Kids waved handmade signs. “SPEEDY, QUEEN OF THE GRID!” “MI HÉROE.” A girl no older than ten held up a drawing of her in the car, wearing a crown.

She smiled, signed autographs, posed for pictures. But her hands trembled slightly when no one was looking.

Toto met her outside the hospitality suite. “You don’t have to do this.”

She swallowed. “If I don’t, he wins. And I can’t let that happen.”

Lewis Hamilton pulled her into a hug, murmuring in her ear, “You’re not bulletproof. It’s okay not to be.”

Even Checo looked at her with a mixture of protectiveness and pride. “Tienes huevos, hija. Más grandes que muchos de nosotros. Enseñales de que estas hecha”

(You have balls, daughter. Bigger than anyone of us. Show them what you are made of)

She laughed faintly. But it was thin. Hollow.

The interview before the race aired live.

Reporter: “What went through your mind when you hit the barrier?”

Her face went blank for a moment. Time stretched. Cameras kept rolling.

“I… I just thought about how I’d never see the chequered flag again.” Then she blinked. Smiled. “But here I am. Lucky, right?”

Garage – 20 minutes before race start

Glen found her alone in the corner of the hospitality tent, rolling her neck side to side, psyching herself up.

“Speedy.”

She didn’t look at him. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I had to come.”

“Race days are sacred,” she replied. “You don’t do sacred.”

“Don’t do—? Jesus, are you serious right now?”

Her head snapped toward him. “Yes. Because yesterday, I crashed at 180mph and today, I’m acting like it didn’t happen. Meanwhile, you show up like a ghost to what? Make me feel worse?”

“I’m here because I care! I watched the crash on repeat. I’ve barely slept. I thought I was going to lose you before I even had you.”

Her breath hitched. “Well, maybe that’s the problem. You think you have me.”

Glen stepped back, like she’d slapped him.

“I’m not something to be had, Glen. People already think they own me, I don't need that. I’m a person. A person who is terrified, and tired, and feels like she’s suffocating inside a fireproof suit every goddamn day. ”

“Then why keep doing it?” he exploded. “Why keep getting in the car if you know one day it might kill you?”

“Because it's the only place I feel alive!” she shouted, voice cracking. “You think I don’t know the risks? That I haven’t buried friends? But I’d rather die on the track than live a thousand safe lives where I never mattered.”

He looked at her like he didn’t recognize her. “You matter. You matter to me. I can’t sit back and watch you destroy yourself just to prove something to people who wouldn’t even visit your hospital bed.”

Tears brimmed in her eyes, but she blinked them away. “You don’t get it. I’m 21 and I have to be invincible. For my team, for my country, for every little girl who sees me and dares to dream. I can’t crack. I don’t get to fall apart.”

“You’re allowed to be human, Speedy!”

“Well, I forgot how.”

Silence. He didn’t have an answer for that.

She turned her back to him. “If you can’t handle this, maybe you shouldn’t be in my life.”

His voice broke. “Maybe I can’t.”

He left.

Justin Herbert sat with her behind the motorhome, both holding bottles of water they weren’t drinking.

He looked at her profile—drawn, pale, tired.

“You good?”

She huffed. “Everyone keeps asking that. I keep lying.”

“You don’t have to lie to me.”

She looked over at him. “You ever think you’d never step on the field again?”

He nodded. “Rookie year. Shattered ribs. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t sleep. And everyone’s like, ‘You'll bounce back.’ But no one talks about the night terrors or the anxiety or the fear that next time might be worse.”

She looked away, biting her lip.

“I get it,” Justin said. “They call us warriors. Heroes. But sometimes we’re just kids in cleats and helmets trying not to break.”

That broke her. She covered her face and sobbed into her hands. Ugly, body-wracking sobs. Justin didn’t touch her. Just stayed.

After minutes, she pulled herself together.

“I want to win. But not because I’m unbreakable. Because I am, and I still got back in the car.”

He gave a small smile. “Then go be broken and brilliant. You’re allowed.”

Justin just watched her as if it were the last time. The way she held herself. The cracks just barely covered.

He leaned against the wall. “I saw Glen leaving last night.”

She looked away.

“Don’t push him away because you’re scared,” Justin said.

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.” He stepped closer. “And it’s okay. But let him love you.”

She sat down, defeated.

“You love him” She didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.

“I care about you,” Justin admitted. “Maybe I am too late to admit it. But I do. And if this thing with Glen doesn’t work… I’ll still be here. I’m not done. And if not in this life… maybe in the next. But I intend to be your last love.”

She gave a tearful laugh. “You’re such a drama queen.”

“I’m serious.” He smiled. “But I’ll let you go. He wasn't a coward like me.”

“Justin…”

He hugged her. “Just don’t forget—you’re worth it. Even when you feel like you aren’t.”

She cried again. For everything.

And Justin whispered in her ear, “Take the risk. If he’s worth crying over, he’s worth fighting for. Even if it’s not me. But if he breaks your heart, I’ll kill him.”

He smiled, small and sad.

She blinked. Her throat tightened. But she said nothing.

Race End – Podium Ceremony

From last place, she climbed through the grid like a woman on fire. Each overtake was aggressive, calculated, furious. The commentators didn’t stop screaming.

“She’s on a mission!”

“She’s not just back—she’s better!”

“She’s showing why they call her Speedy!”

When she crossed the finish line in P1, the paddock exploded.

The Podium – Glen’s POV

She won. Of course she did. Because she’s Speedy. Because losing has never been in her vocabulary.

And he cheered—like everyone else. Smiled for the cameras. Clapped for the girl who had nearly died just less than 24 hours ago.

But inside, he hated it.

He hated that the world only saw the champagne. Not the tremble in her hands. Not the way her smile cracked under the weight of it all. They didn’t see how hard she was holding herself together.

He watched Max on the screens, giving his post-race interview—calm, cocky, untouched. No apology. No accountability. And the FIA said nothing. Of course, they didn’t.

Then the cameras panned to her—standing tall on the car. Helmet off. Her hair clung to her temples, tear-streaks still fresh on her cheeks. The trophy was in her hands, held high above her head.

But her eyes—Her eyes were searching.

And then she found him.

Glen.

For a moment, the noise faded. The cameras, the cheers, the confetti—it all disappeared. Just the two of them.

Her eyes locked on his, and he swore his heart stopped.

She stepped down. One slow, deliberate movement.

And then—she ran.

Not into his arms. Past him. Right past him.

Because forgiveness wasn’t waiting at the finish line. Not today.  Not yet.

That Night

The night clung to the windows of her hotel suite like smoke. Even after the podium, the champagne, the interviews, and the cameras, Speedy couldn’t shake the weight on her chest. The lights were dim, the skyline of Budapest glowing faintly beyond the curtains, but everything inside her felt dark, raw.

She sat curled on the edge of the bed, damp hair clinging to her back from a lukewarm shower she barely remembered taking. Her race suit was tossed somewhere on the armchair. Her winner’s cap sat on the desk, untouched.

She should have felt proud.

She didn’t.

Her phone buzzed again. Messages poured in—Hamilton, Toto, Checo, even Charles checking in. Fans cheering her win. But her eyes stayed locked on the one that hadn’t come through.

No message from Glen.

Not after what she said. Not after what he said.

And then, a knock.

A pause. Another.

She moved slowly, heart caught in her throat, and opened the door—only to find him there. Glen. Rain-speckled hoodie, chest rising with unspoken words. His eyes locked on hers like he didn’t know whether to breathe or break.

"You're not answering," he said.

"You said everything already," she whispered.

Glen stepped inside, dripping onto the hotel floor like a storm trying to be let in.

"I meant what I said," he said, eyes burning. "You scared the hell out of me. And today—you went back in like nothing happened. Like you weren’t nearly killed yesterday. Like Max didn’t hit you. Like it doesn’t matter."

She flinched. "Because it does happen. It could happen again. And I can’t stop it, Glen. I’m not going to live like I might die every time I sit in that car. I know that every time I step into that car, there's a chance I won't come back, just like there's a chance I could be hit by a bus. You never know."

"But I do!" he yelled, voice cracking. "I do live like that. Because I love you and every goddamn race weekend, I watch you suit up like it’s nothing. I hold my breath every time you hit a corner too hard. You want me to be okay with this?"

"No," she snapped. "I don’t want you to be okay. Because I’m not okay either! But this is who I am, Glen. I don’t know how to not race. I don’t know how to stop. Even if I did, I don't think I would, this is who I am"

Silence.

Then, quieter, more fragile:

"You said you didn’t want me to die. But I don’t want to live a life that isn’t mine. I rather live my life to the fullest even if it's short, then a safe life without passion "

Glen sat down hard on the edge of the couch, head in his hands. "You think I want to be the guy who makes you choose? I don’t. But you’re pushing me away like I’m disposable. Like I didn’t stay when you were unconscious. When they wouldn’t tell us anything. I waited. I begged. You keep saying you’re strong, but you’re bleeding inside and pretending you’re invincible."

Her lips trembled. Her shoulders shook. "I never asked you to do that. I never asked to be a burden. I have to be fine. Because if I stop to feel everything, it’ll bury me. I’m twenty-one, Glen. I’m carrying sponsors, expectations, my country, my family. I’m the only woman on that track. I don’t get to break down. I don’t get to scream that it hurts."

His voice cracked. "But you do. You can. With me."

"And if I die out there? Then what? You’ll just live with that? Because I won’t let you. I can’t have you love me if that means you’ll lose yourself the day I don’t come back."

“Don't you get it, it's too late, I have already fallen in love with you.”

The silence between them thickened until it ached.

She looked at him, broken and beautiful and hurting, just like her. "I wish you never met me. I wish you weren’t the one who saw all of me." (I love you, I'm sorry)

His eyes shimmered. "And I wish I didn’t love you so much it hurts. But I do. And I’m not walking away because you’re scared."

She turned her face away, tears slipping past her armour. "Please… just go. Before I ruin you."

But Glen didn’t move. He stood in front of her, shattered.

"You already have."

The door didn’t slam. It clicked softly behind him, like the last whisper of something breaking. She stood in the middle of her hotel room, shaking. The champagne bottle still sat untouched. The night dragged on, the silence louder than any podium roar.

She sat down on the floor in Glen’s hoodie, back against the wall, arms around her knees, letting the tears fall. No helmet. No smile. No cameras.

Just her.

Just Speedy.

Just a girl who loved too hard and raced too fast and didn’t know how to slow down. Alone again. 

She whispered into the silence, “You taught me a secret language I can’t speak with anyone else… For you, I would ruin myself.”

She closed her eyes.

Maybe she already had.

A/N: Please dont kill me. I have a reason for this, I want this story to have that grasp of whats like to live. Shes 21 years old, shes scared she has all of this weight on her shoulders, shes falling for this guy whos maybe too perfect to be true; so shes pushing him away. I want to show that reality of athletes and whats like after a accident and the mental struggles they go through. While myself have never experienced that my brother did go through a kneee surgery when he played football (the normal one not the american one) and he hasnt been the same. That fear always lingers. I promise you everything is connected and happy chapters are ahead, will it be easy well see. In other news I got an 88 of my Calculus 3 exam so good news. Also, I hope you catched all the easter eggs and references I put through out the chapter. Thank you for all the support and comments I love seeing your reactions and thoughts.

[adventuresofalgy]

As he flew around his assistants' garden. Algy realised that he was exceedingly tired. His Hogmanay Hootenanny had been one of the most wonderful parties he had ever held, but it had certainly drained much of his energy, and he felt that he needed a good wee rest before embarking on any new adventures.

The weather birds had been wrong again, and instead of staying dry for a change, it had rained all night. Not that Algy was surprised… It usually rained in the wild west Highlands of Scotland, after all, but it meant that everything was soggy, drenched and uninviting, especially as the temperatures was only a wee bit above freezing. It was hardly conducive to a restorative rest…

Algy hopped about here, there and everywhere, looking in vain for a cosy couch suited to a weary fluffy bird, until eventually he spotted a small clump of bright green cypress in a dark corner.

This seemed to offer a perfect bed, and when Algy lay back on the gentle, springy branches with their soft, fragrant needles, he felt a sense of deep contentment, for they were not even particularly wet. Here was a perfect place for repose!

Hail, sweet Contentment, calm Repose! The balm of comfort shed, Oh! let me not complain of woes, By thy kind guidance led! To thee Compassion is allied, Revengeful hope unknown; As thou a stranger art to Pride, From thee is Discord flown. Tho' plain and humble be my lot, Yet grant me strength of mind; So shall I find, tho' in a Cot, Pleasures the most refin'd. With pity shall behold the great, While no rude cares molest; Nor fond desire for useless state, Disturb my tranquil breast. In silent glen, in hollow cave, And Hermit's lonely cell, Where winding streams delight to lave, Reflection deigns to dwell. Far from the bustling scenes of Life, I wish in peace to rest; Remov'd from vanity and strife, In calm retirement blest. To me in gorgon terrors clad, Appear the rash and bold; The vain, the wealthy, and the bad, Who thirst for nought but gold. With horror such delights behold, As deck the festive scene; Tho' young, am prematurely old, Collected, grave, serene. To thee, Contentment, thus I bend, With meek and humble heart; In pity to my pray'r attend, And lend thy soothing art!

[Algy is thinking of the poem Ode to Contentment by the English 18th/early 19th century children's educational writer and poet Ann Murry.]

[aliciavance4228]

I wish Apollo's relationship with Cyrene would be more explored, purely because of this fragment which is brilliant for way too many reasons:

Pindar, Pythian Odes:

"And Hypseus raised his lovely-armed daughter Cyrene. She did not care for pacing back and forth at the loom, nor for the delights of luncheons with her stay-at-home companions; instead, fighting with bronze javelins and with a sword, she killed wild beasts, providing great restful peace for her father's cattle; but as for her sweet bed-fellow, sleep, she spent only a little of it on her eyelids as it fell on them towards dawn.

Once the god of the broad quiver, Apollo who works from afar, came upon her wrestling alone and without spears with a terrible lion. Immediately he called Cheiron from out of his halls and spoke to him: "Leave your sacred cave, son of Philyra, and marvel at the spirit and great strength of this woman; look at what a struggle she is engaged in, with a fearless head, this young girl with a heart more than equal to any toil; her mind is not shaken with the cold wind of fear. From what mortal was she born? From what stock has this cutting been taken, that she should be living in the hollows of the shady mountains and putting to the test her boundless valor? Is it lawful to lay my renowned hand on her? And to cut the honey-sweet grass of her bed?"

And the powerful Centaur, laughing softly with a gentle brow, right away gave his wise advice in reply: "Hidden are skilled Persuasion's keys to holy love, Phoebus, and both gods and men blush to take the pleasure of a bed for the first time openly. For even in your case, for whom it is unlawful to touch on falsehood, a gentle impulse has swayed you to dissemble your words. You ask me from what race the girl comes, lord Apollo? You who know the appointed end of all things, and all the paths that lead to them? And how many leaves the earth puts forth in spring, and how many grains of sand in the sea and in rivers are dashed by the waves and the gusting winds; and that which will be, and from where it will come, all this you clearly see. But if I must match myself even against one who is wise, I will speak. You came to this glen to be her husband, and you will bear her over the sea to the choicest garden of Zeus, where you will make her the ruler of a city, when you have gathered the island-people to the hill encircled by plains. And now queen Libya of the broad meadows will gladly welcome your glorious bride in her golden halls. There she will right away give her a portion of land to flourish with her as her lawful possession, not without tribute of all kinds of fruit, nor unfamiliar with wild animals. There she will bear a child, whom famous Hermes will take from beneath his own dear mother and carry to the Seasons on their lovely thrones and to Gaia. They will admire the baby on their knees and drop nectar and ambrosia on his lips, and they will make him immortal, to be called Zeus and holy Apollo, a delight to men he loves, an ever-present guardian of flocks, Agreus and Nomius, and others will call him Aristaeus."

Having spoken thus, Cheiron urged the god to fulfill the delightful consummation of his marriage. Accomplishment is swift when the gods are already hurrying, and the roads are short. That very day decided the matter. They lay together in the bedchamber of Libya, rich in gold, where she possesses a most beautiful city which is renowned for victories in contests. And now in very holy Pytho, where by his victory he had Cyrene proclaimed, the son of Carneiades brought lovely, flourishing good fortune to her; she will welcome him graciously, when he brings back home to the land of beautiful women desirable fame from Delphi."

1) Apollo admires Cyrene for her strenght and courage rather than her beauty;

2) He asks Chiron for information about her;

3) He asks him for advice and even questions wheter or not he is worthy of her;

4) Their relationship was consentual;

5) He adored her enough to make her receive a whole portion of land to rule over;

This is probably one of his most romantic affairs so far.

[spitefulsatanfics]

❝Flour, Firearms, and Fondant❞

“I torture all my victims. That’s how I get my kicks.”

— Alastair, Supernatural S4E15

= ° = ° = ° = ° = ° =

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader (She/Her)

Fandom: Supernatural

Tone: Domestic Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Comedic Fluff, Cozy Post-Hunt Relief, Canon-Compliant S4 Vibes

Rating: 17+ (language, sensual themes, post-violence injury care) — MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Based on: Supernatural, Season 4 (post-4x12 “Criss Angel Is a Douchebag,” pre-4x16 “On the Head of a Pin”)

(Note: TV-MA / 17+ series)

Word Count: 5,917

Synopsis:

After a brutal hunt leaves them bruised and breathless, Dean Winchester is ready to hit the road again—but Y/N has other plans. One sign. One sleepy town. One pie contest. And suddenly, “saving people, hunting things” includes preheating the oven and getting flour in unholy places.

⟡ typed & baked with love — 05.18.2025™

= ° = ° = ° = ° = ° =

I. Cold Open — The Firefight

Moonlight cut through the hollow shell of the abandoned church like a blade, slicing into the warzone below. Shattered stained glass pooled across the floor in blood-coloured shards. Latin reverberated in haunting echoes from the altar where Y/N stood, voice steady despite the tremble in her ribs.

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus—”

Dean moved like a storm just behind her, shotgun raised, demon blade already wet. He didn’t take his eyes off the advancing demons long enough to check her back—because he didn’t have to. They fought like an old ritual. A violent liturgy.

"Right flank!" she shouted.

He pivoted, shooting a demon square in the chest with a devil’s trap round, sending it staggering. Another surged toward them. Dean ducked the punch, landed a brutal stab through its gut, and turned—just in time to see Y/N get slammed against the altar, spine-first. The breath whooshed from her lungs.

Dean roared. Not a scream, but a guttural sound—rage in its rawest form.

She kept going, voice cracking on the final chant, "…ut inimicos tuos fugiant!"

Light burst from the possessed man’s eyes as the demon was torn free, black smoke shattering the shadows.

Dean moved fast. He stabbed the final one through the heart as it lunged at her, then dropped beside her just as she sank to her knees.

“Easy, sweetheart. I gotcha.”

Blood marred her lip, one hand clutched her side. “Ribs,” she gasped, giving him a lopsided grin. “Cracked...maybe. Definitely not kissing later.”

Dean huffed out a breath. “Damn it, Y/N.”

Sam’s voice crackled over the walkie from a distance, breathless. “You two alright?”

Dean didn’t answer immediately. His hand pressed firm to her back as he helped her up. “We’re peachy,” Y/N wheezed.

Dean’s jaw clenched. “Let’s get the hell out of Dodge.”

= ° = ° = ° = ° = ° =

II. Present Day — Exhaustion and Pie Promises

The Impala purred down a quiet two-lane highway. The Nebraska horizon stretched golden and endless, like God had taken a break from smiting and tried his hand at painting wheat fields instead.

Y/N leaned against the passenger window, wincing every time the car hit a bump. Bandages wrapped snug around her ribs beneath her hoodie, her left cheek bruised where a demon’s knuckles had kissed her.

Dean’s hands were tense on the steering wheel. His eyes flicked to her every few minutes like he was waiting for her to pass out again. He didn't say it, but the worry hung thick in the cab like the lingering scent of holy oil.

“They’re getting smarter,” he said finally, voice low. “Faster. Like they were…watching us. Waiting.”

“Yup,” Y/N said. “Creepy demon surveillance. Just what I needed.”

Dean didn’t laugh.

Y/N shifted, gritting her teeth against the pain. “Dean. We’re still breathing. That’s a win.”

He nodded, jaw tight.

Then—salvation.

A billboard rolled past: Welcome to Maple Glen! Home of the Best Pie in the Midwest!

Y/N sat bolt upright, pointing like a divine oracle. “Dean Winchester, if that isn’t a sign from the heavens—”

Dean arched a brow, suspicious. “Pie’s your answer to near-death experiences now?”

“Pie is always the answer,” she said. “And you know it.”

His mouth twitched. “Fine. Pie detour. But I’m not entering any church bake sale.”

Ten minutes later, Y/N had signed them up for the Maple Glen Annual Pie-Off before Dean could blink.

= ° = ° = ° = ° = ° =

III. Baking Bad (And Loving It)

The town hall kitchen smelled like butter, nostalgia, and potential disaster. Gingham curtains. Jars labelled “nutmeg” in swirly handwriting. Locals shuffled about with the focus of Olympic athletes and the sass of PTA moms.

Dean stood frozen, arms crossed, apron tied with resigned doom. It was white. It said Kiss the Cook. Y/N had bribed the old lady at the sign-in desk for it.

“You realize you’re stirring with a butter knife, right?” Y/N teased.

Dean glared. “I kill demons with more finesse than you measure sugar.”

“You’re just mad I’m winning.”

He flicked a dollop of cherry filling onto her cheek in retaliation.

Her gasp was theatrical. Her grin was not. “Dean Winchester.”

“Oops,” he said, utterly unapologetic.

She kissed him anyway.

Flour exploded in the air not long after, the result of a jostled bowl and one very petty pie crust comment. Y/N smeared butter on Dean’s neck. He tackled her, gently, into the counter with a wicked grin.

“I swear to God, you start a food fight in front of a panel of octogenarians—”

Whipped cream flew.

They didn’t stop laughing even when the timer dinged. Or when smoke curled from the edges of their forgotten pie. Or when a fellow contestant hissed, “Your filling is smoking!”

Dean shrugged, lips still on hers. “Still tastes sweet to me.”

= ° = ° = ° = ° = ° =

IV. Epilogue — Post-Pie Peace

The stars came out like old friends. They sat on Baby’s hood, backs warm from the engine, faces lit by the sleepy glow of Maple Glen’s streetlamps.

The pie was burnt. Not entirely inedible, but very much on fire around the edges. Y/N took a cautious bite and winced.

“Could be worse,” she said.

Dean nodded solemnly. “Could be demons.”

She laughed, nudging his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

He turned to her, eyes soft in the darkness. “You okay?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Thanks to you.”

Dean reached out, brushed a thumb over the healing bruise on her cheek. “Kiss the cook?”

She leaned in.

They kissed—slow and warm and lingering like the end of a song. When they pulled back, the night was quiet around them.

“Tomorrow we go back to saving the world,” she whispered.

Dean’s hand found hers. “Tonight,” he said, “we eat pie.”

= ° = ° = ° = ° = ° =

Flour, Firearms, and Fondant

Written by: 𝙻𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝙳𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚕 ♡ // 05.18.2025™

[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @kellynickelsgirl00 @dixonsbridexx @yikes-myguy @blackwidownat2814 @euqsia @lliteratii @imadisneyprincessiswear @satata @smashleywow @misspendragonsworld @captain-shannon-becker @i-doutt-it @bookies16 @brianna-merlim @staley83 @oceanticspace @insaneintheemembranev2 @dummylovewp @xmiaacxio @meyukoo @grilka @itsgivingdepression

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

TW: walkers (zombies), mentions of starvation and thirst, eating of domestic animals (for survival reasons) character death (mentioned once, offpage) storms, mentions of 'turning blue' in relation to cold.

Part 27

Dead Weight - Part 28

The asphalt stretches endlessly ahead, shimmering with heat mirages that promise water where none exists. Your feet ache in your worn boots, each step a reminder of how many miles you've walked since dawn.

The group moves like ghosts along the roadside, silent except for the occasional cough or shuffle of tired feet.

It's been days since Eugene's confession shattered what little hope the group had left.

Days since Abraham's fists connected with the lie that had driven you all across state lines, chasing the promise of a cure that never existed.

The memory of Eugene's terrified voice still echoes in your mind.

"I'm not a scientist. I don't know how to stop it."

You walk between Carol and Maggie, close enough to feel the heat radiating from their bodies in the oppressive humidity. Maggie's face is a mask of grief and exhaustion, her green eyes hollow with a pain that goes deeper than physical discomfort.

You'd told her about Beth, she deserved to know the truth about what happened at the prison. How Zak had turned first, how Beth had tried to help him, how quickly it had all gone wrong.

"I should have been there," Maggie had whispered, tears cutting tracks through the dust on her cheeks. "I should have protected her."

Now she walks like a woman carrying the weight of the world, each step heavier than the last.

Ahead of you, Rick moves with military precision despite his obvious fatigue, Carl at his side scanning the tree line for threats.

Behind you, Abraham mutters curses under his breath while Rosita tries unsuccessfully to lighten the mood with quiet observations about the landscape.

Tara stays close to Eugene, as if proximity might somehow make his lies retroactively true.

But it's Daryl who worries you most.

He's been disappearing for hours at a time, slipping into the forest that runs parallel to the road with nothing more than a gruff "gonna look for water" or "checking for game."

Carol has offered to go with him multiple times, her maternal instincts picking up on his distress, you'd offered too, but he's rebuffed every attempt.

"Ain't safe for two," he'd said this morning when she'd tried again. "Stay with the group."

The dismissal had been gentle by Daryl's standards, but it was still a dismissal. And Carol, who perhaps knows him better than anyone, had simply nodded and let him go.

Now, as the sun beats down mercilessly and your water bottles sit empty in your packs, Daryl materializes from the trees like a specter.

His crossbow hangs from his shoulder, unused, and his hands are empty of both game and water containers.

"Anything?" Rick asks without much hope.

Daryl shakes his head, not meeting anyone's eyes. "Creek bed's been dry for weeks. No tracks neither."

You watch him as he takes his place in the group formation, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitch toward phantom cigarettes.

Since Eugene's lie, he's been different. Quieter, if that's even possible. More prone to those long disappearances into the wilderness.

"We need to find water soon," Glen says quietly to Rick, his voice hoarse from thirst. "Another day like this..."

He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't need to. You've all seen what dehydration can do, how quickly the body begins to shut down.

Carl's lips are already cracked and bleeding. Judith's cries have become weaker, more infrequent.

You fall back to walk beside Carol, matching her steady pace. She glances at you with knowing eyes, reading the worry in your expression before you even speak.

"He's not looking for water," you say quietly, keeping your voice low enough that the others won't hear.

Carol nods slowly. "I know."

"Then what's he doing out there?"

She's quiet for so long you think she won't answer. When she finally speaks, her voice carries the weight of the years you'd shared watching Daryl struggle with demons he won't name.

"Same thing he's always done when things get bad," she says. "Running. Just not far enough to leave us behind."

The truth of her words settles in your chest like a stone.

You've noticed it too—the way Daryl disappears whenever the group stops to rest, the way he volunteers for every dangerous scouting mission, the way he seems to be testing the boundaries of how far he can go before someone calls him back.

"I'm worried about him," you admit, the words barely a whisper.

Carol's hand finds yours, squeezing gently. "We all are."

Ahead of you, Rick suddenly stops, his hand going up in the universal signal for the group to halt.

You crane your neck to see what's caught his attention and feel your heart skip when you spot it—plastic water bottles, dozens of them, sitting in the middle of the road like a mirage made real.

The group moves forward as one, desperate hope overriding caution.

The bottles are clean, the caps intact, the water inside clear and inviting. Your mouth waters at the sight, your body's desperate need overriding the rational part of your brain that whispers warnings.

"Wait," Rick says sharply as people begin reaching for the bottles. "Just wait."

"What's wrong with it?" Eugene asks, his voice cracking with thirst.

Rick kneels beside one of the bottles, examining it without touching. "It's too convenient. Too clean. Someone left this here."

"Maybe it fell off a truck," Tara suggests hopefully.

"Maybe," Rick agrees. "Or maybe someone wants us to find it."

Abraham steps forward, his face flushed with heat and frustration. "We're dying of thirst, Rick. Maybe it's time to take a risk."

"Not this risk," Rick says firmly, standing up. "We keep moving."

The groans of disappointment are audible, but no one argues. You've all learned to trust Rick's instincts, even when they conflict with your most desperate needs.

But as you walk away from the water, leaving it sitting in the road like abandoned treasure, you can't help but look back longingly.

By late afternoon, the group has stopped beside a cluster of abandoned vehicles, seeking what little shade they provide.

You sit with your back against a rusted pickup truck, trying to conserve energy while the sun beats down relentlessly. Your tongue feels swollen, and the constant headache of dehydration pounds behind your temples.

Carol sits beside you, both of you too tired to talk. Across the small circle your group has formed, Carl leans against his father, Judith quiet in Rick's arms.

The baby's silence is more frightening than her crying had ever been.

Daryl crouches at the edge of the group, crossbow across his knees, scanning the horizon for threats that may or may not be there. He's been back for an hour now from his latest disappearance into the woods, and you can see the frustration written in every line of his body.

"Dogs," Tara says suddenly, pointing down the road.

You look up to see a small pack of wild dogs approaching cautiously, drawn perhaps by the scent of humans or simply following the road as you have been.

They're thin, their ribs visible through patchy fur, but they're meat on four legs in a world where both are increasingly rare commodities.

Rick's hand goes to his gun almost automatically. "Sasha."

Sasha nods, understanding the unspoken communication.

Her rifle comes up smoothly, and she takes aim at the lead dog. The shot echoes across the empty landscape, and the dog drops immediately.

The others scatter, but not before Abraham manages to bring down a second one with his sidearm.

"Meat's meat," Abraham says pragmatically as he approaches the carcasses. "We can cook them properly."

You stare at the dead animals, feeling your stomach rebel despite its emptiness. They look too much like pets, like the dogs you remember from the world before.

The thought of eating them makes bile rise in your throat.

"I know they ain't what we're used to," Daryl says quietly, appearing beside you as if materializing from thin air. "But Abraham's right. We need the protein."

You look up at him, taking in the concern in his blue eyes, the way his jaw is set with determination. He's trying to take care of you, you realize. Trying to make sure you survive even if it means doing things that go against your nature.

"I can't," you whisper, wrapping your arms around your knees. "I know it's stupid, but I just can't."

Daryl crouches beside you, his presence solid and comforting despite the circumstances. "Ain't stupid," he says softly. "But you gotta eat something. Been days since we had any real food."

"I know," you reply, your voice barely audible. "I know you're right. I just...can't."

He's quiet for a long moment, watching as Abraham and Glen begin the grisly process of field dressing the animals.

"Let me cook it. Won't look like nothin' you recognize when I'm done with it."

There's something in his voice that makes you look at him more closely. An urgency that goes beyond concern for your immediate well-being.

Like he needs to do this, needs to take care of you in this small way because there's so little else he can control.

You nod slowly, not trusting your voice. Daryl's hand finds yours, squeezing gently before he rises to help with the preparation.

An hour later, you sit around a small fire Abraham built in the shelter of the abandoned vehicles. The smell of cooking meat fills the air, and despite your earlier reservations, your mouth waters involuntarily.

Hunger, it turns out, is a powerful motivator.

Daryl hands you a piece of meat wrapped in a mostly clean cloth, the meat cooked beyond recognition as promised. "Small bites," he advises quietly.

"Been too long since you ate. Don't want y'gettin' sick on me."

You take the offering, noting how his fingers brush yours as you accept it. The contact is brief but warm, a small anchor of human connection in a world that seems increasingly inhuman.

The meat is tough and gamey, nothing like the meat you remember from before, but it's protein and calories and life.

You force yourself to eat slowly, following Daryl's advice, while around you the others consume their portions with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

"Not bad," Abraham says, though his expression suggests he's trying to convince himself as much as anyone else.

"Better than nothing," Maggie agrees, though she only picks at her portion.

As you eat, you become aware of Daryl watching you, his own meal seemingly forgotten.

There's something in his gaze that makes your cheeks warm despite the circumstances—concern, certainly, but something deeper too.

"You need to eat too," you tell him softly.

He nods, finally taking a bite of his own portion, but his eyes never leave you. Like he's memorizing this moment, storing it away against some future need.

The first drops of rain begin to fall just as you finish eating.

At first, it's a blessing. Cool drops on overheated skin, the promise of water to refill your empty bottles. The group scrambles to set out every container they have, to position themselves to catch as much of the precious liquid as possible.

You tilt your face skyward, letting the drops hit your parched lips, your closed eyelids, your tongue.

Around you, the others do the same, a moment of shared relief and gratitude.

But the relief is short-lived.

The drops become a steady drizzle, then a downpour, then something approaching a deluge. Within minutes, you're soaked through, your clothes clinging to your skin, your hair plastered to your head.

The temperature drops precipitously, turning the blessing of rain into a potential death sentence.

"We need shelter," Rick shouts over the sound of rain on metal. "Now."

Lightning flashes across the sky, followed by a crack of thunder that makes everyone flinch. The storm is directly overhead and showing no signs of moving on.

"There's a barn," Daryl calls out, pointing through the rain to a dark shape in the distance. "Maybe quarter mile back."

Without discussion, the group begins moving toward the structure, hunched against the driving rain. You pull your jacket tighter around yourself, but it's already soaked through, providing no warmth or protection.

Within minutes, you're shivering violently, your teeth chattering so hard you feel you might bite your tongue.

The barn, when you reach it, is a godsend. Old and weathered, but structurally sound with most of its roof intact.

The doors hang slightly open, creaking in the wind, but there's no sign of walkers or other occupants.

Rick and Daryl clear the interior quickly while the rest of you huddle just inside the doorway, water streaming from your clothes to pool on the dirt floor. The barn is empty except for some old hay bales and farming equipment covered in rust and decay.

"We'll wait it out here," Rick decides, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. "Get dry, get warm. Storm's got to pass eventually."

But even inside the barn, the temperature continues to drop. Your wet clothes feel like ice against your skin, and the shivering that started as an annoyance has become painful, your muscles cramping with the cold.

You find a spot against the back wall, trying to curl in on yourself for warmth, but it's no use.

The cold has settled into your bones, and you can feel your body temperature dropping dangerously.

Carol, ever maternal, gives your arm a gentle squeeze. “C’mon. Let’s see what we’ve got to work with.”

You nod, following her and Maggie to the far side of the barn where the group has dumped their packs in a heap—somehow, between the three of you, you scrounge up some worn shirts and pants sweats that might not be the best fit but will at least keep people dry.

Around you, the others are in similar states—Rosita wrapped in Abraham's jacket, Carl pressed close to Rick's side, everyone seeking warmth wherever they can find it.

Across the barn, you see Daryl duck into one of the old animal pens, carrying a handful of dry clothes, his crossbow slung across his back even now. Always armed. Always watching.

When Daryl returns, he’s drier but rumpled, flannel sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He doesn’t look at you at first, just shrugs off the weight of his bow and glances around the quiet corner where you've settled in your own dry clothes, your hair still dripping despite you having squeezed out most of the moisture.

"Hey," Daryl's voice is soft, concerned, as he settles beside you. "Y'turning blue."

You try to respond, but your teeth are chattering too hard to form words. Daryl mutters something under his breath—probably a curse—before making a decision that would have seemed impossible months ago.

"C'mere," he says. "Body heat. Only way to warm up."

You don't hesitate, moving into his embrace without a second thought. His body runs warm, and the heat of him seeps through you gradually.

His arms come around you tightly, one hand rubbing up and down your back to generate friction.

"Better?" he asks after a few minutes, his breath warm against the top of your head.

You nod against his chest, finally warm enough to speak. "Thank you."

Around you, the others have formed similar clusters for warmth—Carol, Maggie and Glen huddled together, Rick with both his children, Abraham with his arm around Rosita. Survival trumps social conventions in times like these.

But there's something different about the way Daryl holds you, something that goes beyond simple necessity.

His embrace is protective, possessive almost, like he's shielding you from more than just the cold. One of his hands has moved to cup the back of your head, fingers tangled in your wet hair, and you can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek.

"Storm's getting worse," Glen observes, looking toward the barn doors where rain continues to pour in sheets.

"We might be here all night," Rick agrees grimly.

The prospect should be daunting—a night in a strange barn, shivering from cold, with limited supplies. But wrapped in Daryl's arms, listening to the rain on the roof and feeling his warmth gradually chase away the chill, you find yourself thinking it could be worse.

Much worse.

"Get some rest," Daryl murmurs, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "I'll keep watch."

"You need sleep too," you protest quietly.

"M'fine," he insists, though you can hear the exhaustion in his voice. "Just sleep."

You want to argue, but the combination of warmth, exhaustion, and the steady sound of rain is making your eyelids heavy. Despite everything—the hunger, the thirst, the uncertainty of tomorrow—you feel safe here in Daryl's arms.

As you drift toward sleep, you're dimly aware of Daryl adjusting his position to make you more comfortable, of his hand continuing to stroke your hair, of the way his breathing gradually synchronizes with yours.