#it this year I’ve been communicating more

[five-rivers]

Cilia

A little ficlet I did for @jackdaw-sprite :3

Clockwork was observing Daniel out of the corner of his eye.  The boy had wedged himself into the corner of his couch - an artifact he had only acquired for Daniel’s sake in the first place - and looked like he was half asleep, although he was still in ghost form.  

There were a number of paths leading out from this point in time.  Some of them were so unlikely and would require Clockwork to act in such a reprehensible way that they were virtually impossible, and Clockwork barely glanced at them.  Others were unpleasant or unfortunate for a variety of reasons.  The rest had their positives and negatives.  

Clockwork would have to decide which pathway to take.  And whether or not it would be worth it, to take the one that would give him what he wanted.  

Already, he had been contemplating the dilemma for subjective days.  As Master of Time, he could contemplate it for subjective years, if he so wished, but that would likely be unhealthy.  

He wanted.  

He flew over to the couch and settled on the side across from Daniel, just close enough for their auras to touch.  

Daniel’s aura reached towards his, the tiny strands that made it up waving and stretching sideways.  The strands that could touch tapped and brushed and wrapped around Clockwork’s.  Clockwork could feel as their rounded, slightly bulbous ends curiously, and somewhat clumsily, nosing through the thicker field of Clockwork’s aura.  Where the auras overlapped, the air seemed to ripple with rainbow shades.  

Daniel stirred, reorienting himself slightly on the couch so that he was closer to Clockwork, a little bit more of his aura intersecting Clockwork’s.  

“‘M I in your way?” asked Daniel, blinking sleepily at Clockwork.  “Keeping you off your couch.”

“No,” said Clockwork, who had never used the couch before now.  

“What’s–”  He raised his hand, confused, and waved it through their combined auras, briefly making them flare even brighter as another part of Daniel’s aura passed through the area.  “What’s happening?”

“Aura intersection.”

“I’ve been close to other ghosts before,” said Daniel, waving his hand through their auras again.  “It didn’t, um, it didn’t do this.”

“Ghosts you trust?” asked Clockwork.  

“Um,” said Danny, frowning.  “Why does- Why does it do this?”  He was very obviously not fully awake, but he was as curious as his aura.  

“You know that your aura is made of small filaments.”

Daniel nodded.  “Like cilia.  On a cell.”  

“Yes, like cilia.  Your aura is interacting with mine.  If you look very closely, you will be able to see the strands.”

Daniel blinked slowly, then leaned closer.  “I don’t see anything.”

“Look at it like you would look at something invisible,” said Clockwork, adjusting his position slightly.  

“Hmm,” said Daniel, leaning even closer.  He lost balance and his shoulder bumped into Clockwork’s arm.  “Mm, sorry.”

“No need,” said Clockwork, patting Daniel’s back.  

It was the first time Clockwork had touched him so casually, and Daniel stiffened, but he was too tired, and too interested in the interactions of their auras, to keep that up for long.  Clockwork, meanwhile, let the strands of his aura brush through Daniel’s, projecting calm, moving soothingly.  

Daniel was not yet familiar with that kind of empathic, aura-to-aura communication, and he responded accordingly, mirroring the feelings and drooping further, curling slightly into Clockwork.  Clockwork nudged him gently, with hand and aura, until he was more or less lying on Clockwork.  

“It’s pretty,” said Daniel.  

“It can be, yes,” said Clockwork, extending his aura, wrapping Daniel in its embrace.  “You seem very tired today.”

“Lots of fights,” said Danny.  “Boxy, Desiree, Skulker–”  He yawned.  “Nocturne, even.”

“Oh?”

“He’s- He’s not so bad when he’s not feeding off like a million dreams or- or whatever he was doing that one time…”

“Indeed,” said Clockwork, stroking his shoulders and upper arms.  Daniel’s head was nodding up and down, his blinks getting longer and longer, and his aura was also starting to slow and grow quiescent, although it still expressed a sleepy curiosity.  

Clockwork let his own aura be more adventurous, questing through Daniel’s until it touched his skin.  Daniel shivered at the first touch, but otherwise seemed undisturbed, relaxing further as their auras became more intertwined.  

Cautiously, Clockwork began to feed him energy through their auras.  There was a small chance for rejection at this stage– But there was none, Daniel accepting the sustenance easily, his head lolling back against Clockwork’s chest.  

His eyes were closed.  His breathing slowed.  At his waist, his aura sparked, then rolled, forming a ring.  The ring split, moving in two directions.  Where the rings passed, Daniel’s aura pulled back into his skin and his clothing shifted, becoming his human outfit.  All very normal.  

Except that the parts of Clockwork’s aura that were tangled in Daniel’s were pulled in as well.  Not all the way, no, but enough.  It was uncomfortable at first, but Clockwork quickly got used to it.  

Daniel did not wake.

He did, however, turn to snuggle into Clockwork.  Clockwork, feeling indulgent, wrapped him in his cloak.  

Even when Daniel transformed again, Clockwork’s aura would still be tangled with his.  In fact, their auras would be even more tangled, to the point of being inseparable by normal means.  

Now, a ghost’s aura could extend for some distance, and the stronger the ghost, the further their aura could reach.  But even Clockwork’s aura could not extend more than a few dozen meters.  

In other words, Daniel would be bound to him until he could come up with a way to untangle himself.  Bound, for Clockwork to keep, at least for a while.  

Daniel would be angry at first.  Even if Clockwork didn’t have the ability to see the future, he could see that.  But his anger would fade quickly, and he would feel better if he had useful and interesting things to do - Clockwork was already planning what he would teach him.  As for sustenance during that time…  Clockwork sent another pulse of energy through his aura, and smiled as Daniel mumbled happily in his sleep and snuggled closer.  

He would savor this moment.  

[starlessea]

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙏𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙈𝙚𝙣𝙙 [𝘿𝙖𝙧𝙮𝙡 𝘿𝙞𝙭𝙤𝙣 𝙓 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧]

Chapter 2: Wide-Eyed

Series Masterlist: The Ties That Mend

Summary: Three-hundred-and-ninety-six days after the outbreak, you are discovered in an abandoned community college, covered in filth and barely able to speak a word. Despite the showers (multiple) and rehabilitation attempts (also multiple), it's apparent that your mind is elsewhere. Beyond saving.

This new world is chaos, but you're lucky to find good people in it. More so than any is a man named Daryl, patient enough to let you put yourself back together—one stitch at a time.

Daryl had seen eyes like that only a few times before.

The first, he’d been seven-years-old, roaming the streets of Northern Georgia with his no-good brother. Their parents never did care a rat’s ass about where they ended up, and this time, they’d found themselves in the bad part of town. The epicentre of trouble. 

Merle had been hanging around some older boys back then, the type who got off on taunting his kid brother. Sneak up on the local kook, they’d told him. It’d be funny; he’d be a chicken if he didn’t. So Daryl—filled with a newfound sense of bravado—agreed, and dumped his can of orange Crush over some man too cracked out to notice.

Until he did.

The way the guy’s eyes popped open—bloodshot, bulging—was burned into Daryl’s memory. Even now, thirty-some years later, he could recount them in astounding detail. They were the same shell-shocked eyes as those nasty bastards his daddy used to hang about. The ones hardened by their daddies and so on. 

They were eyes Daryl saw far more often these days. Came across them in the fleeting glances of their ragtag community—from the stragglers of Woodberry to the drifters that had no place else in the world. After a few weeks of decent meals, sleep, and a safe place to shit, most of them lost that look. Replaced it with all sorts of stuff he didn’t really care for.

But most recently, Daryl had found it again, stamped onto the face of Glenn’s newest rescue. Whilst he’d pitied you at first, shaking like a newborn gazelle on Carol’s arm, that pity quickly morphed into something colder.

Catching your eyes, Daryl suddenly felt seven-years-old again. It wasn’t a passing thing, that look, nor did it mask something deeper. It was simply a fixture of your face. The result of whatever shit storm you’d endured.

Even with all the time in the world, Daryl wasn’t sure you’d ever shake it.

“Man, I’m telling you. Shit felt like The Shining—” 

A voice drags Daryl back into the room. Around him, a group had gathered in their usual corner, chairs pulled together in a circle. Bob has the floor, soaking in the attention as he recounts an abridged version of the day’s events. 

He’s new, too, and Daryl hadn’t taken to him yet. 

“—Glenn will tell you. Suddenly, she’s staring at us with those big bug eyes,” Bob goes on, bringing his pointer fingers to his face. “Kept getting wider by the second.”

Across from him, Glenn shifts uncomfortably. “It wasn’t that bad,” he retorts. “She’s not deranged just because she doesn't blink much.”

Daryl feels himself scowl. He’s got his back against the stone, arms crossed as he watches the exchange. He doesn’t usually involve himself in these little powwows, but something about this one is wearing his patience thin.

“Fifteen times,” he gruffs. Eyes turn to him as he pushes off the wall. “Tha’s how much most folks blink in a minute—fifteen.” 

Daryl moves in closer, stopping just short of the circle before shaking his head. “She blinked once in three.”

The chatter is replaced by silence, thick and uneasy.

“I’ve seen people like that,” Bob says after a moment. His voice is more subdued now, like he's been grounded back to that floor and not the pedestal he'd been put on. “Usually, it’s on their way back from war.”

The words hit hard. For once, Daryl finds himself agreeing. There was something about you, something off that made him feel like a kid again, standing in the shadow of a stranger’s unpredictability. He crosses his arms over his chest. “Wha’ever shit went down there,” he says, “ya can bet yer ass it weren’t pretty.”

“It wasn’t,” Glenn confirms.

His tone leaves no room for elaboration. 

At the other side of the room, Rick, who—like Daryl—had been doing his utmost to not get involved, straightens. “Glenn, brother,” he starts, “I know you mean well, but do you think she’s—” 

Rick doesn’t say it, but Daryl can hear it in the silence. They all can.

Beyond saving.

Carol clears her throat. “A bit of a feral cat,” she adds, after a beat. 

It’s a poor attempt to lighten the mood; no one laughs. Least amused is Glenn, who rakes a hand through his hair before letting out a hefty sigh. “What was I meant to do, just leave her there?” 

He doesn’t aim the question, but the lack of response only urges him on.

“You didn’t see it—that place was hell.” His voice tightens, the day’s frustrations bleeding through. “Not everyone’s lucky enough to have someone to pull them out of it. That could’ve been me, or you, or any one of us.”

The group slinks back as Glenn gestures around, trying not to let themselves land at the end of his pointer finger. 

Michonne—who’s been sitting quietly at the edge of the group until now—finally speaks. “Give her time,” she says simply. Her words are directed at no one in particular, but carry the kind of weight that can’t be disputed.

Daryl glances at her, and for a brief moment, their eyes meet. 

He’s come to appreciate Michonne; her short replies made life easier in the months they’d spent tracking the Governor. She never wasted breath on stuff that didn’t matter.

She has a point now, too. You hadn’t been here long—a couple hours at most. Hell, Daryl had taken longer naps. And it’s not like you were going anywhere. Not on those weak knees. 

For the time being, Cell Block D was the best place for you. It was the only one still needing repairs, a little dingy and a whole lot of space, which worked out fine. You likely wouldn’t cope well in the ones filled with people.

That’s why Daryl slept in Block D, too.

In the minutes that follow, an air of deliberation settles over the group. It’s an uncomfortable sort of quiet, with everyone seeming to retreat into their own thoughts. Daryl considers leaving; he’s got plenty to be getting on with. In truth, he’s not sure how he ended up here in the first place. But before he can make it across the room, he crosses paths with Maggie, coming in like a storm through the main entrance.

She looks dishevelled: her shoulders rounded and tiredness evident in the contours of her face. Sidestepping Daryl, she picks out Rick in the crowd. She shakes her head at him. “That pregnant lady in Block E is having trouble again,” she says, “My daddy’s gonna keep an eye on her tonight. Beth too.”

She takes a moment to flatten her hair, willing the stray strands into submission.

“They’ll come see the new girl in the morning,” she explains. Then, with a sidelong glance toward Glenn, asks, “What’d you call her again—loony bin?”

Glenn cringes. He reiterates your name, which he’d likely pried from you earlier in the truck. 

The sound of it takes Daryl by surprise. It’s a pretty name—one he’d never pin to you. He almost wonders if hearing it can give him a glimpse into your past, at the person you used to be. But then again, not everyone suits their name. Perhaps you never had.

“Well…” says Rick, more decisive now, “let’s get ‘er to eat in the meantime.” He stands to dust off his jeans. “Or clean up.”

There’s a collective murmur of agreement, and almost immediately, the group starts to disperse. Daryl’s first to move, but Carol catches his arm before he can make it out the door.

He throws an annoyed glance back at her.

There's an apron tied around her waist; Michonne had brought it back from some tacky gift shop they’d raided not long ago. The fabric was already stained—the pattern made dull from hard work. Carol was on cooking duty again; Daryl knew because he unintentionally looked forward to those days. 

“Any chance you could get something for her?” she asks, gesturing to the crossbow over his back. “Fresh?”

There’s hesitation in her voice, her lips pressed together like she’s bracing for something.

Daryl raises an eyebrow. “Sure. Ya want ribeye or sirloin?”

Carol bats him lightly across the shoulder. Then she offers him a small smile—one that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. 

Daryl dislikes it.

“She’s just so skinny,” she eventually says. That teasing tone he’d grown to expect is gone now, replaced by something more serious. “I lifted her, and—well, it was like lifting Sophia.”

The name lands like a stone. Daryl stills, his jaw setting. 

“I’ll find something,” he mutters.

Carol nods, sending him off with a small ‘thank you’. 

Daryl readies his crossbow and hunting gear before heading out into the yard. It’s bustling, as it always is these days—children weaving around him, adults trying to strike up conversation. He shuts them down with a look that says he could care less for chit-chat right now. There’s too many of them for him to handle.

Already got another damn mouth to feed.

He has half a mind to turn around, but Carol’s words propel him forward, clinging to the back of his mind like burrs.

He'll find something.

—

The cropped-haired woman comes to collect you at dinner. 

She tells you her name is Carol, and that she has something special prepared for you. Her tone is light, airing on excitement as she helps you along the metal catwalk and down the stairs. It’s an easy, practiced motion—her arm brushing against yours. But with each stroke, you feel it: that itch in your chest. 

You’ve never been fond of surprises. In fact, you hated them. The uncertainty, the lack of control, the unfamiliarity of this place… Every step tightens the grip around your lungs.

Breathe, you remind yourself. In. Out.

Carol notices the shift in your demeanor, must feel it in the stiffness of your shoulders. So she opts for distraction. As the two of you walk arm-in-arm, she attempts to fill the space between you with reassurance—even if it doesn’t quite reach you. 

She details life at the prison—everything they’ve worked towards in the last few months—and the other refugees who now called this place home. There's a semblance of stability behind her eyes as she recounts it all. “We’ve come a long way,” she says. “It’s been hard, but we’re getting there. You’ll see.” 

You want to believe it; you almost do. But talk of warm-water showers, birthday celebrations, and even tending to livestock leaves you doubtful. It’s too reminiscent of life before everything fell apart. 

There had to be a catch. There’s always a catch. 

Whatever it is, Carol doesn’t let on. But you’re not convinced she believes the narrative she’s selling, either. She won’t say it, but you can hear it in the pauses. It’s something you’ll have to decipher for yourself.

When the two of you pass a mirror at the end of the hall, your step falters. 

Who is that?

You recognise Carol, of course. Her face is familiar enough, grey hair catching the light like silver, but the one beside her—you—is someone else entirely. Your throat tightens as you take in the face staring back at you. 

That’s not you; it can’t be.

When had you become this gaunt—this filthy? 

Your cheeks are hollowed out, their colour lost entirely. The lips below are dry and cracked. Whatever was on your head, you could no longer call it hair. It was a matted thing that trailed like rope to the backs of your knees. 

Staring into the mirror, you find nothing of yourself in that reflection. Everything you’d ever thought endearing, gone. Even your voice is not as it was. You doubt it could still carry a tune. 

It’s all too much. The sight of yourself—the thing claiming to be yourself—triggers emotions you hadn’t encountered in quite some time. Before you can stop it, your eyes are burning.

You fight the sensation. Squashing it down to the depths, you stamp it dead. You can’t afford to break now. Not here. Not in front of her.

“Come on,” Carol says gently, nudging you away from the mirror. 

Could she feel it? The way your heart jumped in your chest—how your legs threatened to give way? 

You try not to think on it. Instead, you nod.

Once you reach the communal area of the cell block, you’re escorted to the same dilapidated table you’d noted earlier. People are still gathered there—some you recognise, others not. They don’t stare outright, but you feel their eyes. You begin to tremble in response, as though your body is trying to shake them off. Wordlessly, you let Carol guide you to your spot.

A plate is already set in front of you. There’s meat on it; you're told it’s rabbit. One look, and you’re reminded of the bunny you raised as a kid—a fluffy white thing, pure as snow. It was decapitated by the neighborhood fox one evening. You never did find it's head. At the thought, nausea grows within you, but like everything else, you push it down. 

No one else is eating, you notice. You’re aware that you’re likely turning their stomachs just sitting here. The word ‘shower’ had been thrown in your direction more times than you could count, but nobody had followed through with the threat—yet. Instead, you are offered a bucket of water to rinse your hands. It turns brown from just a few passes.

“Thought you could use some meat on those bones,” Carol quips, the words blunt but not unkind. “Daryl caught it fresh.” She then gestures for you to take a bite, to eat rather than stare.

You nod. Stowing your hatchet safely on a nearby seat—you had refused to leave it in the cell—you reach for the cutlery laid out on the table. There’s a knife and an odd spork-like utensil. They seem intentionally blunt, and in your hands, too, they don’t properly fit. 

It’s been far too long. How did you use these, again?

With each stroke of the knife, your anxiety mounts. You can’t seem to get a clean cut. The meat is sinewy, too alive—nothing like the canned mush you’d survived on for the last year. It takes everything in you to keep the tremors from taking over, to keep your hands steady enough to continue.

As you poke about the rabbit on your plate, a woman who introduces herself as Maggie strikes up a conversation. “The old community college, huh?” she asks, in spite of cautionary glances. “My sister used to go some weekends. Probably finger paintin’ or singing kumbaya,” she adds. 

You catch the playful hint in her tone, and when she laughs, it’s a sound you’re not sure you remember how to respond to. It’s pretty—the kind that’s easy, like it hasn’t been twisted by everything bad. 

“Did you start there, or just end up there?” she asks, casually.

“St—started,” you manage. You’re not sure she hears you, but she leans in, trying to catch the words.

“Hmm?” 

“Started,” you repeat, louder, though it feels like a strain.

Beside Maggie, a darker, leaner woman shoots her a look. “Let the girl eat,” she says. There’s something practiced about the way she carries herself. You sense she’s the type not to pry, and you’re thankful for that. Her kind are few and far between. 

"You're right, Michonne," replies Maggie, and with her answer, you learn another name.

Despite the warning, a boy, not even in his teens, lingers near the table. You’d noticed him earlier, coated in a sort of pessimism unsuited to his age. “Were there a lotta walkers?” he blurts. He’s wearing a sheriff’s hat—one he hasn’t quite grown into—and is eyeing you from under its rim. “My dad said the worst place to be is somewhere like that. Bet there were a bunch of people during the outbreak.” 

The leader of the group, Rick, flicks his hat in warning. But it’s too late—the question’s out. Your stomach twists again as you focus on the meat, trying to chew through the knot forming in your throat.

Across from you, your eyes meet Glenn's. He’s the only one here who saw it: the halls rotting with bodies, the blood-soaked floors. Even then, he still doesn’t know the full extent. 

And what would he do if he did know? If he found out what happened there—what you did? Would he have brought you back?

Your mind starts to spiral. You shove a piece of the rabbit into your mouth, hoping to distract yourself. It goes down like tar. Your hands are shaking now, clattering the mismatched cutlery against your plate. No matter how hard you try,  you can’t prevent the shudder that rips through your body.

Carol, tempered by concern, leans in. “Did you get separated from your group?” she asks gently. “Is there anyone—”

Before she can finish, Daryl speaks up. “Would y’all quit it?” he says, his eyes flicking from Carol to the others. The gruffness of his voice stands in complete opposition to their concern. “Yer givin’ me indigestion and I ain’t even eatin’.”

For a moment, all attention is directed away from you and onto him. You’re grateful for the space it grants you—no matter how small. The next breath you take is intentionally drawn.

“I—” you lock eyes with Daryl, hoping to convey your gratitude. Instead, something else makes its way to the surface. “I’m going to be sick,” you announce.

There’s no time to stop it. The first to react, Michonne dumps the bucket of water out over the floor. You can’t hold it in anymore. Your head falls into it just in time to let the bile spill out. It’s a pitiful sort of retching. There’s no vomit; your stomach is too empty to give up anything more.

Behind you, someone rubs your back. You don't know who, but their cool hands are a welcomed reprieve to the clamminess of your skin. Your body betrays your mind as you instinctively arch into them. It’s only for a split second, before you pull away.

What have you done?

Head emerging from the bucket, you force yourself to look up. There are eyes on you again, more persistent than before. And in them, you see it, the swell of emotions:

Pity. Annoyance. Indifference. Disgust—

Your chair screeches against the floor as you dart out of it. You leave the table smelling even worse than before.

—

It’s mid-evening when Daryl catches sight of you again, scurrying along the catwalk to your cell. 

You’re still a mess, though slightly improved since dinner. He takes a passing look. You haven’t bathed yet—probably still shaken by that whole interrogation—but there’s something less rabid about you now. Your hair, still a matted mess, is pushed behind your ears, and you’re wearing an odd ensemble: jeans far too big for you and a shirt likely belonging to Glenn. They were clean, at least.

Daryl crosses you without a word. Tired eyes and heavy steps, he’s hell-bent on returning to his own cell for the night. He’s halfway down the catwalk, hand on the door, when he registers it. A voice, barely above a whisper:

“D—Daryl?” 

He stops upon hearing his name. Turning, he finds you right behind him—staring up with that wide-eyed expression.

He tries not to flinch. When the hell had you gotten there? You were just… 

Daryl’s gaze drops instinctively. Bare feet. That’s why you hadn’t made a sound. 

“—m sorry about the food.” 

He tunes in to your words. They’re coming out too haltingly, too polite for the situation. 

Daryl doesn’t know how to respond. Eat the food, don’t eat the food. Normally, he wouldn’t care. But something about the way you say it—so fragile, so damn apologetic—leaves him grasping at straws. He’s not good at this, never has been.

You keep going nonetheless. “It wouldn’t stay down... I’m sorry to w—waste it.”

A nervous stammer creeps into your words, and with it, fans Daryl’s agitation. He wants to bite back. To let you know he’s got better things to do than watch you throw up food he went out of his way to catch. But something inside of him chooses restraint.

You’re teetering on the edge; everyone within a five-foot radius can see it. And when he looks at you, for some reason, his mind deciphers it as fear. He’s just unsure whether it’s the fear of breaking you, or the fear of what you’ll do if broken. 

He shrugs his shoulders. “Mm,” he mutters. “Don’ matter. Can always get s’more.”

You don’t say anything after that. The silence hangs between you, heavy and awkward. Daryl shifts on his feet, mapping out the route back to his bed, and how quick he can get there.

“Jus’ eat the next one, a’right?” he says, with finality.

You nod, your gaze not lifting from the floor. “Goodnight.” 

“Night,” Daryl mutters back. Then he watches you disappear into the darkness of your cell, waiting for the clink as you lock it shut.

But it’s not a good night. 

It starts a few hours after they all turn in. Daryl bolts upright at the curdling scream ripping through the air. His heart slams against his chest, and instinct kicks in. He’s already got his crossbow in his hands before the panic can register.

Torchlight flickers along the catwalk as the others begin to scramble awake. There’s a cacophony of voices, footsteps on metal, guns cocking, and Rick barking orders as he joins Daryl to locate the source.

The sound echoes again. It’s coming from your cell, a god-awful shrieking that has him preparing for the worst. Rick’s master key turns in the lock, and the door swings open.

Daryl steps in behind him, crossbow aimed high as he searches for walkers—hell, for anything that could warrant those screams of utter terror. His heart pounds in his ears as he sweeps the room.

There’s nothing. No threat—no you. 

A flashlight shines over your cot, but it’s empty. Daryl follows the edges of the light,into the shadows and all four corners of the room. He finds you in one of them, curled up in a ball, rocking on the soles of your feet.

He gestures to Rick, who—spotting you there—lowers his gun. “Hey,” he says, with a tone like he’s negotiating you off a high-rise building. “Hey, it’s okay.” 

There’s no response. Your head is buried in your knees, arms wrapped around your legs as you sit twisted in blankets. The shrieking has stopped now, but your silence, Daryl finds, is far more unsettling.

Rick steps aside, exchanging a glance with Daryl. It’s a subtle signal for him to take the lead. He’d rather not, but it’s Rick, so he listens.

Lowering his crossbow, he edges forward. “C’mon, snap outta it,” he growls. The cut of his voice makes him cringe; he’s never been good with words.

When you don’t react, Daryl tries again—a little closer this time. His hand reaches for your shoulder despite his better judgement. 

A switch flips the second he touches you. Without warning, your arm shoots out, a blur of motion that sends your hatchet swinging wildly. The instinct to defend yourself—to fight—is so ingrained that it comes as natural as a breath. 

Daryl barely manages to dodge the assault. He pivots back, feeling the blade against strands of his hair. Then, as quick as it started, it's over.

You're looking at him now—not through him. Sweat is beading on your face, running down your cheeks like tears. Daryl knows better than to wipe it. As he stands out of his crouch, realisation flashes behind those massive eyes of yours. 

“God—I’m sorry,” you gasp, breath ragged. “I’m so sorry... I thought you were—” You don’t finish. You don’t have to. He knows. Everyone knows exactly what you thought you were seeing.

Rick let's out a sigh: half relief, half exhaustion. He throws a backwards glance at the gathering crowd, raising one hand in a calm gesture. “Go on,” he says to them, “back to bed.”

Daryl hears their protests. It's understandable; they'd raced from their rooms only to find the source of the threat was some raging loon having a nightmare—as harsh as it sounded.

“You gave us quite the fright there,” Rick continues, turning his attention back to you. At this moment, he's demonstrating more tact than he shows his own children. “Do you need someone to stay with you?”

You shake your head, barely lifting your eyes. “No.”

Rick shifts his weight, searching for something else to say. He doesn't believe you, Daryl can tell by his stance. But that's not his problem.

By now, Daryl had already retreated to the door, watching you from a safe distance in the dim light. He’s seen this in people before—the way the world cracks them open like an egg. It’s never pretty. And it would have been less pretty if he'd been standing just a half-step closer to you.

“Well, if ya do,” Daryl says, his voice still edged with sleep, “it ain’t gonna be me. I wanna keep my head.”

The words come out harsher than he intends, but he doesn’t care enough to fix them. He’s tired, irritable, and the way you can’t meet his eye right now is getting under his skin. So Daryl steps back into the corridor, leaving Rick alone to deal with you.

His cell isn't the same as it was a-half-hour ago. It looks the same, doesn't feel it. It's quiet, but in his mind, that scream still rings like an alarm he can't shut off. On his cot, too, he fights with the covers. They're everywhere—too hot, too stifling. Too reminiscent of your emaciated body, tangled in bedsheets as you looked to Daryl for answers.

And he'd just left you there: wide-eyed and afraid.

Daryl doesn’t sleep that night.

Neither do you.

A/N Merry Christmas and happy holidays, lovers! I hope you've had a good one. I have eaten such ungodly amounts of cheese. That said, enjoy this lil gift from me. I busted my balls to get it out today - alternating between stuffing me face and putting words on the page. So do let me know if you like it! I also hope the change in POV isn't too confusing. I want to tell this story from both of their perspectives, since reader is a little bit of an unreliable narrator haha. Enjoyyyy x

[mahoganyrust]

So Im new to the httyd fandom and I was curious about the hijack ship. I don’t think Jack Frost is in httyd. Was it just one of those things where you saw Rise of the Guardians and thought Jack would go well with Hiccup? I’m just curious. ☺️

Hiiii. So I’m definitely not the one that came up with Hijack XD The ship has been around for over a decade now it’s not exactly news. But I understand when ppl first come across it it seems strange so I’ll give you a rundown.

And you’d be right. Jack isn’t in httyd and nor is Hiccup in Rotg. So in the fanon community, this is what we call a ‘rare pair’ or aka, a ship that crosses fandoms and is made up mostly of fanon content. It might seem strange but it happens a lot. It’s fanon. And crossovers are the traditional crux fun of fanfiction so it’s not that weird.

Hijack is heavily associated with a very popular quadruple crossover known as ROTBTD or Rise of The Brave Tangled Dragons. This is an intersection between Disney Merida and Rapunzel with Dreamworks Jack and Hiccup. Rotbtd went craaaazyy in the 2010s and there’s a lot of different content with fics and fanart.

From this, some ppl often ship Jackunzel or Mericup or etc etc you get the idea there’s a lot of different dynamics.

I never really dove too heavily into the rotbtd stuff but I’m still familiar.

So that’s the history. As for Jack and Hiccup? They’re weird as hell I get it lmao. Like wtf is this? XD.

Hiccup’s married with kids. Jack’s in the modern era etc. They have a lot of canon hurdles so why do people ship them?

My answer?

They work.

They work together so well in so many different ways that it takes over your brain. Hijack grows on you bit by bit.

As for what they have in common. They’re both big fliers and adrenaline junkies. They both question their purpose. They both know what it’s like to lose family. They both have gone through years of loneliness. Jack is a guardian, Hiccup is a chief - they’re both protectors. They’re both fighters. They’ve both been suddenly shunned after feeling like they were finally beginning to belong. They both have issues with footwear (lmao sorry). Hiccup creates inventions, Jack creates frosty art and fun with his powers. They both do their character development by a lake in a forest lol. They both have burly accented father figures XD. Jack is the boy who fell into icy water. Hiccup is the boy who fell into blazing fire.

There’s a beautiful parallel in lines here.

Rotg: “Jack Frost is many things, but he is not a guardian.”

Httyd: “You are many things Hiccup, but a dragon killer is not one of them.”

And they both originate each from their own book series that got adapted.

And that’s just the factual stuff. When it comes to their personalities whooowheeeeee.

Over the last decade I’ve seen lots of stuff that does them a disservice when ppl reduce Jack to the outgoing ‘jokester’ and Hiccup to the introvert ‘nerdy guy’. In the earlier days some ppl were shipping httyd1 Hiccup, which personally I find extremely weird. Never engaged with that lol. After httyd2 came out that disappeared mostly but still it’s unsettling.

Anyways I don’t like the simplification of their characters and prefer when maybe older creators can take them in a more emotionally complex direction and when they do ohhhh my goddddddd. You end up with storytelling masterpieces with amazing character dimensionality.

I could go on for hours. There’s just something about them. It’s hard to put it into a single word but when they’re done right they just work.

[abunchoflosersinacoat]

Thoughts over JCVTU.

First off all, as an Asian myself, I’ve been dreaming to see this kind of representation that is written well and comfortably in the west, since I was a little kid. Instead of people telling me that it’s okay to be myself, it was how tan and or the palest person I could be. It was eye surgery ads on how to make your eyes less almond shaped and more like the west. Getting blue contacts and wanting if I was supposed to look like that on TV.

And that’s the kind of stuff that I had grown up with, Espically in the west, with no kind of inspiration or representation of who I am as a person. Being heard on TV or non White characters in the early 2000’s? Now that’s a joke. But I wanted it to be real. And it is, 20 years later.

Jentry Chau felt like a homage to my own life, my culture and heritage and identity. I didn’t see any stereotypes that I was mocked for in school, but it was so relatable for me to be in Jentry’s own shoes, but just also properly representing Chinese culture.

The emperor’s robes? Seeing Chinese folklore and mythology be accurately drawn with gorgeous aesthetics and art styles? Knowing that feeling of isolation and not being able to fit in because you’re seen as “demonic”? The fact that the characters all properly said Chinese names?

The commonly known fact that families don’t communicate that well and our actions have downfalls? The way that the parents call their children common Chinese pet names. I love it so much. I’d always remember how happy when I was seeing the trailer for the show.

Thank you, the show for existing and making me feel loved and heard.

Please, if you haven’t gone to see the show yet, I’d advise watching it. I… there’s so much I love about it but I’m afraid it’s gonna take up the whole post.

[apologynics]

I have to push back on this a little— obviously the divine feminine/divine masculine thing is reductive bullshit but that’s a very specific tradition that’s avoidable if you know what to look for (I recently posted about how annoying that is in new age spaces). There is a strong tradition of female separatism and lesbian separatism in new age religion, particularly Dianic Wicca. In fact, the Dianic temple has a great reading list (https://www.templeofdiana.org/suggested-reading ). Even most regular Wiccans I know don’t subscribe to the God/Goddess dichotomy.

As for the rest, I would go so far as to say there is a great deal of acceptance for gay/lesbian/bi individuals in the pagan and occultist community, online and IRL. I mean, I would say I belong to an “alternative” spirituality and I’m lesbian. This is just my experience, of course, but I’ve been involved in occultist and pagan circles for the past eight or so years of my life and I have never felt that my sexuality was invalid in those circles. Obviously I haven’t explored every tradition ever, and some I avoided intentionally like folkist groups, but there’s also a difference between like… angel numbers ‘feminine energy’ types and a legitimate spiritual tradition. I suspect the former has more hets in it because it’s more palatable to Christians.

If you remember which book you read that in I’d love to know, I’m trying to make a masterpost of new-age authors to avoid so any commentary is appreciated.

Let me tell you I was beyond disappointed after leaving christianity and going to "alternative" spirituality to learn that "alternative" spiritual teachers believe a lot of the same crap about sexist gender roles that the christians do.

[guiltyasdave]

things that i wrote

i saw @secretelephanttattoo & @jolapeno do this and really loved the concept, so here’s my review of 2024!

of course, the man occupying the main part of my brain has been DAVE YORK (we are all very surprised), as i finished not one but two series about him this year— the dress series and wildest dreams, which i wrote with my love @joelscurls and i’m still so incredibly proud of this project!

there have also been countless oneshots, which can all be found here, but my two faves are when we go crashing down and the road not taken.

another man living rent free in my head was JOEL MILLER, who i didn’t write that much for but i’m so so proud of the things that i did write. i still think about no one can hurt you now very often and of course there’s safe and sound waiting to be continued. the love i’ve received for that series in particular has been one of my favorite things of the year.

then of course we have JAVIER PEÑA and one of the best writing experiences i’ve ever had: nights are so starry, blood moonlit literally flew from my fingertips and lowkey i’ve been chasing that high ever since 😭

…and, really surprising to me personally, i became obsessed with OBERYN MARTELL this year. it started with delicate, which is another piece of writing that i’m so so proud of, then came gold rush because who knew how badly i needed a threesome with oberyn and dave in my life, and finally i wrote peace, which was so far out of my comfort zone and now i’m so happy that i did it.

and theeeeen i branched out because LOGAN HOWLETT demanded a seat at the table, and my forever love, the logan x kitten universe was born <3

looking back, i wrote way more than i thought this year, and i’m actually pretty proud of all of it :)

i have already talked at length about the things that i read and loved the most this year, which you can find here! the pedro fandom is an incredibly talented bunch of people and i’m so grateful for all the amazing writers who share their stories on here <3

another thing that i loved in 2024 was my 1500 kisses challenge and all the beautiful creations that came out of it. thank you for celebrating that one with me!

a few other highlights from my year:

as most people know (i think) i had to stop working last winter due to severe burnout and depression and it took me a while to get my life back together, but i got medication, i got therapy, and two months ago i was able to get back to work and am in a really good place right now, which i’m eternally grateful for, because honestly, this time last year i wasn’t sure if i’d make it another 365 days.

i got to meet @sizzlingcloudmentality this summer and not to be dramatic, but life hasn’t been the same since. i didn’t know i was looking for you but i’m so glad that i found you <3

all the amazing friends i’ve made this year. if we’ve ever dm’ed, or just interacted on here, i’m talking about you! this community has been my safe space (despite the occasional horrors lol) and i love it here.

i’m gonna stop before this becomes more sentimental than it already is, but i’ll tag a few people who might want to share as well: @sizzlingcloudmentality @catchallfangirl @beardedjoel @burntheedges @murder-wife @iamasaddie @almostfoxglove @sceletaflores @schnarfer @moonlight-prose @eupheme

[bixy]

You know that story, I can’t remember where it’s from, if it was tumblr or reddit, but this woman was a DM for a d&d group and gave her players, that were all men, golden star stickers for things like, showering, not talking over each other, being respectful, like basic shit like that, and I feel like I fell into something extremely similar and I just felt like a teacher/mom figure for this really big friend group that consisted of all men with bad social skills and there was a point where I wanted to distance myself and I didn’t really have a way and things happened in the friend group where I ended up like blocking everyone and I honestly feel so relieved

[art-by-fate]

HUGE congrats to sir Skizzleman for hitting that big shiny 100k!!!!

[guppygiggles]

Oh, Avery. 💙

[gomzdrawfr]

Bam bing bong, summary of my doodles in 2024

[stellewriites]

thanks for the tags @dwarvenagenda & @pricegouge !! 💓

it was fun to check my stats for this year :3

funny to compare how i started my year vs how its ending (fandoms im writing for, fic length range, themes and tropes i’m preferring, etc).

i’ve found that although ive maybe written less and had less interaction in general from readers this year i’ve truly found some amazing people that i consider good friends on here now :’) and i wouldn’t swap that for anything!!

blank copy below and npt: @pricetagged @ohlawdthebirds @sentientcave @syoddeye @gloard @wraithdance @buttdumplin @luvrodite @mikichko @lewistoferrari @disgustingtwitches

[miiiwu]

.

[alagaisia]

Hey if you’re still enjoying and engaging with Harry Potter in any capacity you can unfollow me 😊 please and thank you

Like. I get it. I was super into it as a kid too. I did not have the social context to pick up on the antisemitism or transphobia or sexism or fatphobia or bioessentialism or racism or anything else. I also picked up on surface-level language of Fighting Back Against Evil and ascribed my own values onto what that meant and thought we were all on the same page. I remember when the original kids who grew up with the books started becoming adult fans and picking up on the (blatant!) antisemitism and everybody was still mostly willing to give JKR the benefit of the doubt on it. (“She was writing kids books!” They said. “She didn’t know she was penning a global phenomenon! She picked a common literary trend in European fairy tales (antisemitic caricature) and didn’t examine it closely. It’s a mistake anyone could make,” we said. “She would probably do things differently now. After all, she word-of-god confirmed the vaguest hints she dropped that Dumbledore might be gay,” we said.) There was actually a span of several years where biases inherent in the actual real content of the Harry Potter series were coming to light and even the people pointing them out still seemed mostly to think it was an unfortunate accident.

That time has passed. Years ago! We are long past the first months of “maybe she doesn’t realize this seemingly-feminist tweet she liked was made by a noted TERF” and then “how could she not realize that these many veiled TERF-y things she’s retweeted have implications for the many queer fans of her work” and finally “oh wow okay JKR just dropped an entire transphobic manifesto on twitter. I guess the transphobia was the point.”

Yeah, there were a few months after that where people were still processing and still working through how they felt about Harry Potter and all of its flaws with the context of the now open transphobia of the creator. I was there for that. Remember how I was one of the kids who built it up into something noble and worthwhile based on my own beliefs about what messages it was probably trying to convey? Turns out it wasn’t trying to say any of those things, and when you take the time to examine all of the terrible shit that made its way into the text whether JKR intended it to be there or not, the whole series falls apart. It’s weird to discover that there’s a room in your house that’s rotten to the core, but eventually you figure out you can’t live like that, still going in there and holding your nose and pretending it’s still the same room you thought it was when the termites were only inside of the walls and hadn’t yet started chewing their way through the furniture. Because what’s going to happen is that they are going to infest the rest of your house. If you decide you can ignore transphobia and antisemitism and everything else just because you liked the color of the wallpaper, the rest of your principles are going to crumble too. You get rid of that fucking room. You put those books on a high shelf in the back of your closet behind other outgrown clothes and interests and you move the fuck on.

JKR uses the money made from her transphobic antisemitic children’s books to actively funding hate groups and to lobby for legislation that will and has actually affected the actual lives of trans people in an entire country. We are past the point of grieving something you were wrong about in childhood. Kids are wrong about a lot of stuff. You grow up and you learn new information and you change your behaviors based on it. You have to choose. It is transphobic to pretend there is not transphobia where there is. It is transphobic to support the work of someone who is using those funds to take rights from trans people with every fucking dollar. It is hateful to continue to engage positively with a story that at its very core is rooted in hate and bigotry and prejudice. You can choose to do all of those things but you cannot claim ignorance of them and you cannot choose those things and still pretend that choosing them upholds the values we convinced ourselves that Harry Potter stood for over a decade ago as uninformed children. You cannot choose to do those things and pretend to still support your trans and queer and Jewish neighbors. I do not want you in my neighborhood. Leave.

[neonbuck]

I wish the posts warning people about the term “degenerate” and its fash/Nazi usage would like. Start saying “hey, if you call people degenerates, maybe ask your self why you think that’s ok to do?”

Like why do you even want a class of people in your head that you get to label as fucked up and inferior? when you do that, who does that benefit…?

this is not meant as a guilt trippy thing. I’m pretty sure I used to use “degenerate” too when I hung around garbage twitter furry friend groups. these are the questions I eventually asked my self, and fixed the way I treated others for the better.

[pinkfey]

while i’m in an atla mood my big twenty-year-old shipping hot take is that zvtara would not nearly be as popular as it is now if zuko was the bald one and aang was the one with emo hair 🙈

[voidscreamns]

./