#one thing for sure this family has is trauma

[alllgator-blood]

'FOGGY STREETS AND CHRISTMAS LIGHTS'

(part 3/3)

I'm gonna infodump about the backstory of this comic, don't feel obligated to read it because it's not cotl related it's just personal stuff, I just want to be able to write about it somewhere cause I can't really talk to anyone about it.

As always, thanks for reading this far, sorry my stuff has been such a bummer so consistently. This comic goes out to all my "christmas induced depression" homies, I left my house maybe like ~5 times all month and it was NOT pleasant hearing "IT'S THE MOST WONDERFUL TIME OF THE YEAR!!" on the radio when I'm so ready for it to be over. Gonna take it reaaaaal easy til the year ends, you guys take it easy too!! Got some asks I have to respond to when I'm more stable but probably no new comic pages til january

Alright uhhh so this part of the comic is pretty much taken directly from the last time I saw my great-grandma alive, a few days before christmas. She didn't remember me, but at the nursing home there was a piano, and I sat down and played some stuff because I didn't know what to say. I was really into lisa the painful rpg at the time, and I played that "I've got the joy" song that the villain sings without realizing it was an old christian campfire song. She didn't really say much or move that whole night, just kind of gave me a polite blank smile, but started singing the words when I played the notes to that song.

I kinda stopped in shock, my dad frantically asked me to keep playing, so I did. While the comic I made is way more sappy than the actual moment was, I wish I'd cherished the moment longer. I didn't know it was the last time I'd see her alive. Every family christmas was held at her house when she was around, so it's been weird the past few years. I actually lost another dementia-addled grandma to cancer on christmas eve in 2009, so the holiday was already kind of weird for me on top of everything else that makes me sad this time of year. That's what part 2 was about, I'll spare the details but I wrote leshy to act out how I felt back then. Why are we all sad? This is supposed to be a happy time, all the decorations are up and we're almost all here, so why is everyone smiling yet everything feels so wrong? I feel like since leshy's canonically the most ignorant one to things lurking below the surface, he'd be the one to try and make everyone feel better but not quite understand why everyone is so miserable. My first memory of having self injurious behavior came from then, hence why I had leshy pull his leaves off in the last comic. It was confusing and frustrating and I was just old enough to comprehend something was wrong, but not old enough to understand the depth of it, it DEFINITELY didn't help that nobody helped me back then so I made leshy's siblings actually come in clutch instead of grabbing him/yelling at him.

That night with the piano was something that's stuck with me the few years she's been gone, but I felt kind of strange when I asked my dad and my sister about it and neither of them remembered it. The room we were in was completely empty so nobody else witnessed it but us three. I myself have a history of head trauma and memory loss (plus, native americans are disproportionately more likely to develop dementia... lucky us) so if I ever forgot about that moment, there'd be nobody left to remember it. Sometimes when I do comics, it's my way of going "this happened at some point, and the only evidence it ever happened was me witnessing it, so if something happens to me I want the memory to stay alive in some form."

Anyway. The autistic urge to overshare, am I right? Idk what my religious ass great-grandma would think of me drawing demonic comics about my last memory of her, she'd probably think it's funny though cause she raised my dad whose interests have always been "death metal and devil worship". I'm not sure if anyone read this far, I just hope my dumb comics can convey the things I can't say with my voice and struggle to say through text. None of this was supposed to be "feel bad for me!! Woe is me!!", it was supposed to me more like...cathartic? Healing? I almost didn't post this comic because it felt kinda weird, but seeing people connect with it made it worth it imo. Thank you

[pkmn-lillie]

The slumbering Thing lies below Gotham, deep under the twisting caves and labyrinthine tunnels. It was borne from a curse, echoing backwards to the beginning of time. It was borne from love, the love of a people for their city, so powerful as to breathe life into It.

Janet Drake was infertile. No medical intervention could change that. But she wished, and prayed, and deep under her home, the sleeping Thing takes pity.

"I shall grant you a child, body of flesh and blood, soul and mind of mine. He will be a wonderful dream, waking and sleeping at once."

Janet knows that her miracle baby is strange, inhuman, but trying to grasp a specific memory of those nine months leaves her weary and aching. (Truly mortal flesh is not meant to hold a thing such as It, even a sliver, and it is a testament to her fortitude that she came out sane on the other side.)

Tim never sleeps. He naps, frequently and in the strangest places, but he never reaches deep sleep. He knows that he is the dream of something greater, the dozing Thing that exists under Its city. He fears that sleeping so deeply will rouse It from the dream permanently, and he will be forgotten as dreams tend to be.

(Tim has slept that deeply, before, due to being forced unconscious by head trauma or through chemical means. The Thing has yet to truly wake, letting Itself revel in its precious dream once more, but he always fears each slumber could be his last.)

(Tim is running out of ways to avoid the sleep study that Bruce seems intent on him getting, because the risk of a willful sleep is too great to ignore.)

An earthquake shakes Gotham to its core, revealing long-buried caverns and derelict catacombs. By pure chance, a chamber deep under the city becomes accessible from the Batcave. (Tim wants so desperately to trust his family with the truth, even just a whisper.)

Nightwing braves the new passage with cautious glee, the joy of discovery deep in his bones. Signal follows behind, pretending to lament his use as a walking flashlight, just as excited as his eldest brother. The Thing that slumbers deep below feels them coming, contains itself to a perceptible form so as not to break one of its treasured Birds.

"Nightwing. Report."

"Uh, there's something big down here. Really big. Pretty sure it's sleeping."

Tim shivers, sitting at his desk in his bedroom. The conversation passes through Its mind like sand, and his mortal brain can only catch so much.

"Elaborate."

"I... Signal, what do you see?"

"It's some Lovecraft bullshit down here, Batman. It's big, and it's definitely sleeping, but there's really no good way to define it otherwise. There is no word to describe the color I'm seeing right now, and I'm pretty sure that's not what Wing is seeing."

"Your eyes just slip right past it, trying to focus on it long enough to gauge its size gives me a migraine."

Tim's fingers still on his keyboard. For the first time in his life, the sleeping Thing feels dread. It— he— doesn't want to wake up, please let It sleep please please please—

"Come back now. I will contact Justice League Dark."

"... Yeah. Copy that. C'mon, Sig."

<br>

alright prose/drabble over i need to get the rest of my ideas out and then take a nap

when Batman holds a meeting to discuss it, Tim is the only one who suggests just leaving it be. he knows its sus but he's desperately hoping they'll listen.

JLD sets up a bunch of wards in the tunnel connecting it to the cave. Tim starts napping more and more, never actually looking rested, his hands shake, his body aches, his focus is shot. Bruce worries that the entity is hurting his son.

Tim holds steady, though, until one day Batman tempts fate and goes to poke the bear (with a JLD member supervising, of course.) Tim, working in the cave, collapses. He curls into fetal position and pleads, begs, sobs, for them to stop, "let me dream, please, i don't want to wake up, please"

dealer's choice of whether Bruce keeps going (interpreting it as pulling a parasite out of his son) or listens to Tim and stops.

On one hand, the delicious angst of hurting his son by trying to help him, possibly killing the son that he knows. One of his other sons demands that he stop, something is wrong, but Bruce is too stubborn to let this beast sleep below his city unchecked, trying to contain it in its chamber. Tim realising that he can never trust Bruce with the truth, if he survives this.

On the other hand, fluff and emotional angst! The bats learn why Tim is just Like That, maybe they set up something so Tim doesn't have to worry about the entity waking up every time he gets knocked out, the proximity to his true 'body' makes Tim's human form a little more spooky and strange, the world is your oyster!

Short DPXDC Prompts #749

Tim Drake isn’t human, he knows that and is comfortable in his skin. This strange ghost boy very obviously isn’t comfortable in his ghost form around humans. He will help change that.

[freyadragonlord]

Recently I’ve been thinking about the different types of love languages in Omniscient Reader’s Viewpoint, The S-Classes That I Raised, and Lout of the Count’s Family…

Not to say that each of the stories describes only one single kind of love language; they are, after all, all novels that focus on Found Family, with many different types of relationships between characters that express their love for each other in as many different ways.

Yet, I’ve noticed how at the core of each of these three stories there is one specific act of love that recurs more than others, and that becomes the true Theme each novel revolves around.

In Lout of the Count’s Family, the main love language is providing food and a home.

“Home” is such an important concept in LCF that Cale collects houses like they were pokemon cards. The source of his trauma when he was a child as Kim Roksu was that he was not given sufficient food, and that where he lived was not truly a shelter where he could feel safe, just a place he was trapped in.

And I don’t think there are ever more than 2 chapters in a row without a character offering food to others, or asking if they’re hungry, if they’ve eaten, why haven’t you eaten, here have some apple pie!!

Cale uses his newfound money and power to make sure his loved ones are provided for. That’s how he adopts bonds with most of his new family.

The first thing Raon does after he’s freed from the prison he’s been trapped in all his life, is to leave food for this hopelessly weak human.

Choi Han, who has lived alone in a dangerous forest for decades, would do anything to protect his home.

The Crown Prince, who has been isolated and untrusting of everyone ever since his mother died, makes sure to always have cookies in his bedroom in case guests “break in” for a visit at any time of the day or the night.

I love you, you’ll never be hungry again. I love you, my home is your home.

In The S-Classes That I Raised, the main love language is words.

Yoojin’s powers are literally activated by telling people “I love you”. Because all he ever wanted was to say “I love you” to his brother one last time.

Because the tragedy that starts the story happens because Yoohyun loved and protected his hyung in secret for years. Silence creates misunderstandings, it creates distance, it leads to loss.

Loving someone isn’t enough, tell them! Reassure them. Remember what they say, because their words are important!!

Ever since the regression, Yoojin always let people know when he loves them and appreciates them. “You’re perfect, you’re cute, you’re so talented, you’re so handsome, you are loved.”

And as the novel progresses, whenever Yoojin is in pain, or doesn’t know what to do, he turns to Sung Hyunje because he needs to be reassured, he needs to know he did well, he needs to hear he is still important to the people he loves.

I love you, please know that I love you! I love you, please tell me you love me back.

And finally, in Omniscient Reader’s Viewpoint, the main love language is time.

Time is one of the greatest sources of horrors in ORV. Eternities upon eternities of suffering, being trapped for ages in the same, hopeless loop, wishing for everything to just stop.

And yet, time is also the greatest gift characters give to each other.

Because the wounds Dokja suffered as a child, and then again and again through his whole life…. They need time to heal. They need so much time. They will probably take forever.

So let them take forever.

Despite how much pain and worry he causes his companions by giving up on himself over and over again, his companions never give up on him. And he doesn’t understand why!! He doesn’t think he’s worth it. But it’s not his choice, it’s theirs. And they will go through as many tries, as much pain, as much time as it takes, before they can finally save him.

I love you, so I will wait fifty years for you. I love you, so I will live through thousands of lifetimes to find you. I love you, so I will read and reread your story for the rest of time, just to keep you alive.

[asarigg]

Inside the Character's Mind: Part 1

mentions of physical, psychological and sexual abuse towards both Koujaku and his mother

SELF DESTRUCTIVE BEHAVIOR

Let’s go back to the beginning. Or rather, what Koujaku tells us. He also talks about himself, of course, but usually when he talks about his past, most of the time he talks about his mother: because that’s what hurts him the most. He barely mentions the abuse towards him other than the tattoo and that one time his father punched him. But he always talks about all the hardships that his family put his mother through. And I’m sure you’ll agree with me that it is hard to believe that was it.

Koujaku’s father has proven to be an extremely violent piece of shit and a zero-empathetic person. I don’t doubt that Koujaku’s mother, because of her nature, was his favorite toy. What’s more, he did every cruel thing he could think of to her, his wife too, she had fresh wounds every day and she couldn’t even eat, and although it isn’t said nor implied I wouldn’t be surprised if Koujaku was a product of rape. I mean… most likely. We hardly know anything about his mother, not her appearance, not her name, not what she liked, not how the hell she ended up in that place, if there was any love involved in it or if it was something about debt, we only know that she was the perfect victim.

She was always saying sorry to her son, for everything Koujaku’s been witnessing, she feels guilty and responsible because he tries to stand up for her, and because she has brought him to a world where the one that decides for them is a criminal. She keeps a deep pain inside for everything that’s happening and she tries to hide it, especially from Koujaku, and seeing her son suffer doesn’t help. Smiling to him so he doesn’t worry, and saying sorry to try to comfort him. That’s why the last thing she repeats over and over to her son when she’s lethally wounded is “I’m sorry”, feeling sorry that it’s because of her that he has lived like this, because she wasn’t able to protect him, to give him a proper life.

Obviously all his father did was also psychological abuse towards Koujaku, even blackmailing him with hurting his mother. But I sincerely believe that his father would use physical abuse to teach the boy a lesson, nothing could stop him anyway, because Koujaku as a child complained and rebelled, he didn’t care if his father hit him, he would defend his mother regardless. This is why I sometimes give Koujaku more scars to his body, and besides defensive cuts I also give him cigarette burn marks. Lore expansion better known as adding trauma.

I think he just doesn’t talk about it that much because the abuse towards him isn’t what has hurt him the most. We ourselves often don’t give it much importance if someone tries to insult us, but maybe if it’s someone close to us, that does piss us off, some logic like that. Moreover, throughout the game Koujaku’s personality is just like that, always worrying about others and giving little importance to himself, to the point of being tremendously negative for him.

Don’t you think those scars would make him look more masculine, intimidating, as if he’s survived dozens of dangerous, tough fights? It seems the perfect image for an environment like organized crime.

Despite all of Koujaku’s feminine traits, the perception of him both in canon and in fandom (usually) is that of a stereotypically masculine, super straight man who fucks a different woman every night, always joking with “no homo, bro” (which, mind you, I’m not saying I don’t like these jokes, I make them myself too). But in reality that couldn't be further from the truth.

With that image that we have of him, sometimes it would seem that he is someone with prejudices or that he really had a hard time accepting that he’s not straight, specially when in the scene where he confesses to Aoba he says the following:

The reasons he tries to hide his feelings is a mix between the fact that they are friends and he doesn’t want to ruin the friendship they already have, that he wants to hide his past and that he doesn’t want to be a burden on Aoba, so he keeps all those things to himself. (And he’s also been educated a certain way and has always seen things one way, never gave it much thought so when it crosses his mind, of course he’s confused)

When he first met Aoba he thought he was a girl because he had really long hair, and after all, when we’re kids we don’t have very developed features anyway, it’s a pretty androgynous state. When Aoba corrects him and tells him he’s a boy his behavior is exactly the same, nothing changes. He corrects himself and never treats him as a girl.

He is someone who has no problem showing his affection for Aoba, neither in private nor in public, he’s very comfortable with his bisexuality, the only one who is reluctant to do so, either out of shame or fear, is Aoba.

What I’m trying to get at with all this is that all that “gentleman” facade and the “always accepting women who want to have something with him” that makes him look so stereotypical in a first impression has a much darker origin, although underneath all that there’s a much more sentimental, vulnerable and open Koujaku about his true feelings, expressing them even if he feels embarrassed, as we see on some occasions (touching his hair nervously when he confesses, of when he explains why Aoba's hair is so important to him).

The relationship he has with his mother is the most direct connection, or course. Being the son of an abused woman has made him hyper-aware of his position as a man (so much that sexism in this game almost goes full circle like the Bourbon family tree, but this is NC’s problem and it happens everywhere, it’s so obvious it’s a writers problem and it’s a shame it affects Koujaku so much because he’s basically the only one who isn’t scared of a bad bitch). We’ll talk about this in particular some more later, but let’s focus on what concerns his father for now.

Being the family of criminals that they are, abusers and… almost slavers, the most logical thing to assume is that they are specially conservative. It could very well be that his father, once he decided to make him his heir, wanted the image of his kid to be as intimidating and masculine as possible. A criminal, a murderer who could run his business in a world like this.

We know that the tattoo is an experiment by Toue, and it wouldn’t be strange if his father knew what was behind it, because after all it would also be beneficial for him to have a way to control him, to mold him to his liking and to make him obedient, unlike he had been behaving, refusing to be his heir and trying to defend his mother. The image of an effeminate, soft, sissy man was not exactly ideal for the future leader. For me, Koujaku’s father either already intended to name him heir before agreeing to the tattoo being an experiment with Toue and Ryuuhou, or he ended up deciding to name him the heir precisely because they had already talked about the tattoo and its possibilities beforehand.

His father would want to break him, drive him to despair so that he would stop resisting, take away his will and, although this is mostly headcanon, “make him a man”. Be a man, be strong, tenacious, learn to fight and find a woman to continue the family with, etc. So it is not surprising that at first he didn’t even reconsider his sexuality and thought that the affection he had for Aoba was just friendship, which over time, with such strong feelings, he realized was not the case. I sincerely love that he is shown to be so nervous and that he confesses to be kinda confused about it and in a state of denial, without having any external reference and too busy hating his father and Ryuuhou to even think about it, it’s normal that it took him so long.

He was trained to be a gangster, while his father insulted him, hit him and threatened him using his mother, on whom he took it out. This training also implies not only fighting but also for doing business, how to talk to be well-received, how to negotiate, how to give the best impression of himself at any given situation. This pack of skills seem to resonate with those that he uses to flirt and run his own business, even if he does it on an unconscious level, he just knows what to say to strike the person he’s talking to in their weak spots. His father’s physical treatment would not only be a punishment, but also to teach him a lesson, to learn to endure the pain, just like he endured the pain of the tattoo. If he cried, it would be shameful, he would be punished. He had to hide his pain, his feelings, his thoughts, for the sake of his mother’s safety and his own. Practically becoming a puppet, thus evolving into the life he carries in Midorijima as an adult.

Him not wanting to open up to Aoba wouldn’t be just an “oh he’s going to hate me”. It’s also what he learned would be the best, having a charismatic appearance that everyone likes. After all wouldn’t it be logical to not want any confrontation with anyone after all that? A tough guy, with people around him who admire him, who never gets tired or cries, because nothing’s wrong. In a way it’s also a shield, a protection, a defense mechanism. To be a man.

Now, the way he behaves that almost everyone without exception associates with his mother. And this, for sure, is the intention, his desire to protect his mother and therefore take care of the women he meets. But it’s also him actively wanting to be the opposite of his father.

What kind of relationship does he have with women? The contact he has with them is mostly through all his female fans, who are crazy to say the least. We’re not going to get much into the subject of sexism but first of all it’s a huge mistake that his fans are only young women or the way they make them all act.

Koujaku spends all his time building a character that he considers perfect, someone gentle, who never says no to a woman and is always available to entertain them, it would never occur to him to deny anything to any of them, as his mother was denied so many things. Unlike that hard and tenacious masculinity that he was taught to have in order to take on his role as the heir or the bestiality of his tattoo, he presents a gentle and chivalrous masculinity on the outside. What he does is pamper them and give them everything they ask for (almost, because has never really had serious relationships. Which makes sense because he would be telling them pretty big lies, right? That wouldn’t fit with his own code). He doesn’t think very highly of himself, he has a low self-esteem as he thinks he is nothing better than a worthless monster that should have probably died a long time ago.

Sometimes people who are abused go through abuse again, in a cycle. I think saying that Koujaku is a playboy is incorrect. (He acts flirty and likes playing around, sure, but there’s something deeper). That perception of him is natural, of course, because the way he behaves and how he is presented to you, is the image they want to give of him after all, in a basic and cliche way, so artificial that it is unsettling. I could believe that it sounds artificial on purpose, referring to that shell of how a confident and strong man should talk, if it weren’t for the fact that they do this kind of cliche and artificial situations quite often with other characters as well, and it makes it kinda hard to remain immersed. I honestly think that the foreshadowing could have been done a little better, but it still serves the narrative. Also this is practically almost all you see of his character the two first interactions he has with Aoba. Considering the structure of the game and how rushed everything is, it’s not very positive, but for the sake of your mental health it's better not to think too much about it.

In short, Koujaku is a very accommodating and attentive person. He listens and encourages others with their problems but doesn’t let anyone worry about him with his own, taking on everything himself. He even ironically tells Aoba that if he’s worried about what happened with Mizuki, he can blame him, and that he can always count on him to tell him anything. It’s a very lonely way to live, even though he has so many people around him.

Knowing this, it’s more than reasonable to think that more than him flirting with women, it’s simply him agreeing to give what those women ask of him. They come looking for something and he gives it to them. He’s a toy. It’s often joked that he’s practically a prostitute, and pretty much that’s what it is. And it’s in the balcony scene where we see a more personal side of him, where we can observe that in reality all this burden tires him, it’s not natural. It’s not like his character isn’t extroverted and charismatic, but that’s not everything, and in public he doesn’t allow himself to be “less”, so in private and in confidence is when he can afford to relax, with Aoba or in his own house.

Somehow, even though he is no longer with his family, the way he interacts with other people, or how he lets himself be used, be it consciously or not, even if there is a different intention behind, is not that different from before, people still use him.

ERHM... SOMETHING

I’ve sometimes wondered if there was some sort of sexual abuse on Ryuuhou’s part towards Koujaku. Nothing is implied canonically, at least physically, but the erotic connotations of the story of the tattoo artist he’s based on, the sadism, and his constant references to love make me think of it happening on a symbolic level.

I think it’s obvious that Ryuuhou loves Koujaku, in his own way, as his creation, and he’s referencing love at first sight and Koujaku’s abuse of Aoba. In a metaphorical way that abuse certainly happened, ever since he was tattooed, his body did not belong to him anymore. There are people who can’t stand the idea of having sex, and others who often seek it out to ease the pain. Ryuuhou made sure to mark his body and mind so that he could never forget him. His tattoos are his shame, his filth and sin. When Aoba touches his tattoos Koujaku practically jumps at contact.

[youknowwho-mustnotbenamed]

December 13 - Hot Chocolate | word count: 996 | @wolfstarmicrofic

Sirius hates when other people are in pain.

Maybe it’s just a trauma response from his childhood and having to see Reggie in pain, but now, even when somebody around him is even the slightest bit uncomfortable, he will go out of his way to remedy that. Which is why, as soon as he suspected about Remus being a werewolf, he did as much research into the topic as he could. He learned everything Remus refused to tell them.

About the aches and pains werewolves suffered both before and after the full moon—some experienced the antsy wolf worse than others, and sadly, Sirius suspected Remus was one of them. About how they feel a chill in their bones that won’t thaw—Remus generally goes about the castle wearing as many jumpers as he can pull over his head. About how they feel repulsive and think others feel the same—he knows well about the paranoia. He learned about how they find comfort in things that remind them they are human—physical touch, comfortable clothes, their favorite foods, people they recognize—so Sirius does as much as he can to give Remus those without overstepping boundaries.

Which is why right now, he is balancing a nearly overflowing mug of hot chocolate up from the kitchens. Under his other arm is an enchanted blanket with an intricate heating charm that doesn’t just warm the skin, but deeper inside the body as well—he had to seek out Regulus’ help for this one—as much has he hates to admit it, Regulus is far better at advanced spells than anybody else he knows.

Remus returned to the dorm room just a few hours ago now, leaving Sirius with the complicated task of slipping through the common room, uninterrupted, and untouched. Luckily, the others seem to recognize the Black scowl, and pull away. As much has he hates resorting to using the power his family has, he won’t hesitate to use it if it means Remus feels himself again.

Because Sirius can’t stand the long silences, the blank stare, the shivers, the distancing, any of it. He needs Remus in his life like he needs his lungs to breathe. Inseparable, necessary. If Remus leaves, simply because he thinks himself too much of a burden, Sirius is certain he will fall apart. Which he knows is an odd thought for a thirteen-year-old, but he can’t help the way he feels.

“Hey, Rem.”

“Sirius?” He croaks in surprise. Sirius can also see the way he forces his body to relax, trying not to show an ounce of pain on his face. But the slight crinkle around his eyes and the stiffness of his limbs gives him away.

“I brought something for you.”

“You did?”

“Of course. Here.” Kneeling on the bed, he wraps the blanket around Remus, whose eyes blink open wide in surprise. He knows exactly how it feels—he tested it himself to make sure it worked properly—like a warm hug. Physical touch, check. Warmth, check. Remus is already wearing his favorite jumper, check. His favorite food, modified slightly to help ease the cold, check. Somebody he recognizes, check.

“Oh.” He accepts the mug, and immediately takes a sip. “Oh, this is delicious. Where did you get it?”

Suddenly, the blanket under his twiddling fingers is far more interesting. “I owled your mum. I know you mentioned how much you love her hot chocolate, and I figured with… everything, that you would appreciate a little bit of home right now.”

“I…”

He finally looks up, only to find a devastating sight. Remus is crying. That defeats the purpose of everything he was trying to do. He should be smiling right now, forgetting about the pain and returning to himself, to Sirius’ Remus.

“Why are you crying? Did I do something wrong? I’ll—”

“You did this for me?” Remus chokes out.

“Yeah, of course. Why not?”

“Because…. Because… why?”

“I… um… I know.”

“You know? Know what?”

“I know that you… I know—I know where you were three nights ago.”

“I was in the hospital wing. You know I get sick a lot, Sirius.” He is trying to seem casual, but Sirius can catch the slip of panic in his tone.

“You weren’t there, Rem. I went to check in on you, but you weren’t there.” He can sense Remus’ entire body go stiff. He can tell, that this moment, right here, right now, is what determines their future. Will Remus turn away and leave him alone, or will he fight the paranoia and acknowledge that Sirius accepts him as he is. “It’s alright. I know you think you are a burden, but you aren’t. You are the best person I have in my life, and I couldn’t imagine losing you.”

“But… but I’m a monster.”

“So is my mother, but I’m not afraid of her.”

“Sirius—”

“I’m being serious here. I know, and I’m not afraid. I’ll help you in any way I can.”

“How did you find out?”

“I’m good at reading people.” He shrugs. “I also hate to see other people in pain if there is something I can do to help.”

“Do the others know?”

“Nah. It’s your secret to tell, and I’ll support you whether you want to tell them or not.”

“Thanks, Sirius. You are the best friend I could ask for.”

For whatever reason, Sirius’ heart aches at the word friend. It is so insignificant. He always hated these labels people stick on their relationships to help make them make sense. His mother is hardly his mother if she locks him in closets and invades his mind, Professor McGonagall, is more of a mother to him, but he can never label her as such because of “societal norms” or whatever. And yes, Remus is his friend, but he is so much more, Sirius isn’t sure there is a label for it.

But still, he smiles, “Of course, Rem.”

Friends.

[syndrossi]

Would it be possible to get a POV from Rolen, Daemons’s servant. He’s privy to a lot of things and I wonder what he thinks of Daemon as a father. Has Rolen been around the Redkeep a long time? Does he remember Daemon/Vis as children? What does he think of all the nightmares/screaming/singing that comes out of Daemon’s chambers at night? Is he a spy for Otto? (Please, NO)

Rolen is a robust man in his fifties, and served as one of Baelon's servants, so he did indeed know Daemon and Viserys when they were children! I imagine he joined Baelon's service when he was 20ish, likely around the time Daemon was born.

He is typically part of Viserys's larger staff of servants when Daemon isn't around, but when Daemon is, Viserys transfers him over to Daemon's service, since he prefers people who he knows (and can trust not to be in Otto's employ).

Rolen's very familiar with Daemon's preferences, and finds him fairly easy to care for. He knows the frequency and time of day at which he prefers his baths (and Daemon loves baths, taking them pretty much daily), can do Daemon's braids if needed, knows his preferred foods, sleeping habits, etc.

The twins (and hatchlings) have been quite the adjustment, and he's still learning what Daemon expects with them. He's taken a hands-off approach, similar to how Baelon expected with his sons, but I could see Daemon taking him aside after ch33 and telling him that he would like to be sent for if anyone visits the boys or if either comes home early and are alone.

Rolen has no wife or children of his own, but he does have nieces, nephews, and grand-nieces and nephews, so the twins are certainly eyebrow-raising for him. Children who willingly study and talk quietly and rarely play, and who seek to take care of Daemon themselves are...unusual.

He's been kept in the dark about the sorcery business, though he's been told that there are threats to the boys and that only family are permitted to visit without Daemon present. Daemon routinely waking up screaming these days he might have attributed at first to the war, but the boys have their clear traumas as well, so he's not entirely sure what's the matter. It's not something he's really had to deal with before, so I think he's a bit relieved that the family seems to have a system. Otherwise, he probably would try to figure out the best approach to take.

Viserys asks him occasionally how Daemon is faring, but doesn't demand details or anything. It's usually a vibe check. Ditto with the twins, now that they're here. Viserys doesn't try to be underhanded about it (aka he doesn't tell Rolen that he can't speak about their discussions), so he tells Daemon when Viserys has asked after him.

He's become quite fond of the twins in their short time at the holdfast. Rhaegar's voice is the loveliest he's heard, and Jon's morning person vibes + caretaking is endearing. He's trying his best to learn their preferences as well, so he can help with the sorrowful spells that seem to afflict the poor children.

(He is FREQUENTLY pressed for gossip about the twins and Daemon, since they're a hot topic in King's Landing, but Rolen takes their privacy very seriously, and you don't get to be a servant for the crown prince aka Baelon if you lack discretion.)

[janiehellion]

Imperfectly Perfect

ONESHOT

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: Winter has always been a season of bitter memories for you—cold nights, a frozen soul, and scars that still bleed into the snow. Until Daryl Dixon shows up, dragging a plastic Christmas tree with him—and the warmth that'll melt the ice around your heart.

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: DARYL DIXON X READER

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: HURT / COMFORT / TRAUMA / CHILDHOOD NEGLECT & ABANDONMENT / EMOTIONAL & PHYSICAL ABUSE / FLUFF / ANGST

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 7.227

ꜱᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ: S9E16—ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴏʀᴍ

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ's ɴᴏᴛᴇ: A work around the themes of loneliness, healing, and Christmas. The holidays aren’t always full of joy and warmth, and sometimes they bring up the memories we’d rather forget.

MASTERLIST & REQUEST GUIDELINES

Outside, Alexandria was covered in snow, untouched and pure, like the world had decided to play pretend for a day.

Everything looked peaceful.

You pulled the blanket tighter around your shoulders, though it wasn't the cold creeping through the windows that made you shiver. It was the kind of silent pain that settled in during the quiet moments, the one that came when the world slowed down enough for your mind to wander where you didn't want it to go.

It was beautiful in a way that felt cruel—mocking, almost. The kind of beauty that reminded you of what the world used to be, back before the dead started walking and the winters turned colder in more ways than one. And you didn't know when it started—the feeling that something inside you was broken beyond repair.

That you could never be whole.

Your eyes looked at the group arriving outside. They were wearing whatever winter clothes they'd managed to scavenge over the years—puffy jackets, old scarves, patched gloves.

Judith ran through the snow as Lydia chased her, trying to hit her with a snowball. RJ crouched behind Michonne, who had her hands on her hips, pretending to scold him while he piled snowballs together for an attack. Carol stood nearby, her arms crossed, but with the kind of smile that said she was about to join. And then there was Daryl.

God, Daryl.

He was back. He was safe. That was supposed to be enough to make you smile too. But, even now, as you watched him, your thoughts wandered elsewhere.

You had always been happy to see him come back home after a long trip, but this time, something felt different. He'd been gone for what felt like forever—taking the people from the fallen Kingdom to the Hilltop, making sure they were safe. And usually, you'd be waiting by the gates, running into his arms, even more so because of how much you secretly loved him.

And now he stood out there like he belonged to that snow-covered world.

He had a snowball in one hand, and the second you saw the way he laughed, you knew someone was about to get hit by it. Sure enough, he threw it across the street, hitting RJ, but the grin on his face said he wasn't angry.

You realized how you'd never seen him like this—laughing, actually laughing, as RJ made a surprise attack on him and managed to hit him back. Daryl stumbled back dramatically, pretending to be wounded, before throwing himself into the snow with a groan that made the kids and everyone else laugh in pure joy.

Daryl didn't get moments like this often. Hell, none of you did. Watching him like this felt like being let in on a secret he didn't even realize he was sharing. For a moment, it was enough to warm you.

But then it wasn't.

The smile faded as the memories came back, uninvited as always. Snow had never been a source of joy for you. It had been the weather too many winters where the cold wasn't just outside but inside, too. Inside your home, inside your family, inside the way they'd looked at you—or didn't.

No, snow never brought good memories for you. Winter meant cold floors and lonely nights, shivering under thin blankets that never quite kept the frost out. It meant sitting by a broken heater in the living room, praying the old thing wouldn't quit on you while you were freezing near the Christmas tree your grandma had decorated with so much love.

She'd tried; bless her heart. She'd tried so much. Your grandma had done everything she could for you, but she'd been sick, and she wasn't getting better. She was all you had, and she loved you even though you had always felt like a mistake, the failed abortion and black sheep, in your family. The scapegoat.

You let out a deep and slow breath, trying to shove the memories back where they belonged—some dark corner of your mind where you didn't have to feel them anymore. But the pain was still there, as it always was, like a scar that never quite healed.

"Get it together," you mumbled to yourself, trying not to sob. "That was a long time ago. Doesn't matter now. Not anymore."

But then there were them.

Your aunt had moved in not long after your grandma started showing signs of dementia, bringing her two mean, hateful kids with her. Cousins around the same age as you who looked at you like you were shit and treated you even worse than that. And Christmas? Christmas was just another excuse for them to make you feel like a burden and to bully you.

It was the time when you had to sit far enough away that it was clear you weren't part of the celebration and were unwanted. Wrapping paper on the floor all around you, your hands busy cleaning up while everyone else laughed, opening the gifts you didn't even dare hope were for you, and feeling the emptiness in your heart when your treats disappeared before you could even touch them.

You could still remember sitting by the beautiful Christmas tree, watching them rip into the presents. You didn't get to open yours the same way, either—no, your aunt made sure of that. She'd hand you the gifts with your name on them like it was some kind of joke, then make sure her kids could take them away before you even had time to blink.

"Why don't you let your cousins play with it, huh?" She'd say, not even trying to hide the hate in her voice. "They don't have much, you know."

And the food? God, the food. You'd sit there, stomach growling, watching the plates on the table full of ham, mashed potatoes, and so much more—more than enough for everyone. But somehow, when it was your turn to eat, the plates were already empty. Or worse, someone would take yours right out of your hands.

"You don't need that," one of your cousins would say, shoving a stolen cookie into his mouth or spitting on it while you sat there, not wanting to cry in front of them and make your grandma feel bad for you. "Let me eat it. You're too fat already, so…"

They'd talked about how your grandma was a fool for keeping you around, for "wasting good food on a mouth that didn't deserve to eat." And later came the sounds of plates breaking, footsteps stomping closer to your dark room where you'd curled up on the bed, too afraid to even breathe and too scared to move at all.

You remembered the way your cousins would come into your room as they whispered the things they knew would make you cry.

"Why don't you run away? No one here wants you anyway."

"You're not a part of our family; you don't even look related. Bet you're adopted."

"She only kept you 'cause she felt bad that you're the child of her dead daughter. Bet she wishes she didn't. It's your fault, after all."

And the worst—oh God, the worst—was when they'd smirk and say, "She's gonna die soon, you know? Then it'll just be us. And you'll be all alone."

You'd bite your tongue until it bled, refusing to let them see the tears they wanted to see. But when you were alone—when the house was finally quiet at night, when the cold was the only thing around you, keeping you company—you'd cry so hard your whole body hurt, muffling the sounds into your pillow so no one would hear. Because if they heard, they'd use it against you.

And then there were the nights when the lights didn't come back on. When the power went out and the heater stopped, you sat in the dark, curled up in a ball, listening to the wind howl through slightly broken windows. Nights when you were so cold that you wondered—not for the first time—if it would be better to just... stop trying.

You used to dream about what it would be like to disappear. To leave that house, that family, that life. Not to run away—no, running wasn't enough. You wanted to vanish, to sink into the snow and let it bury you, let the frost take you somewhere they couldn't follow. Somewhere quiet.

But you never did. You'd tried. You just never let yourself. Because every time you thought about really giving up, you'd remember her—the way your grandma's trembling hands would tuck the blanket tighter around you in the middle of the night, only to kiss the top of your head and stroke your cheek while watching you hug the teddy bear she'd bought you with the bit of money she'd left of her pension.

You remembered how your grandma also tried to fight for you when she could. Still, she was too weak, and your aunt always knew how to manipulate her. Her own mother.

You bit your lip hard as the memories came back like old scars tearing themselves open again. Your hand tightened on the blanket around you, your knuckles turning white as you remembered how much you'd hated the teddy bear at first, thinking it was given to you out of pity back then. "That fucking Teddy. I never knew why I hated it… until I didn't anymore," you whispered, though the words felt meaningless. "No! It's over. Done. They're all gone. Dead. Doesn't matter anymore."

But it did matter. It always did. And it still does. No matter how much you told yourself and how much you tried to convince yourself otherwise. It all mattered.

Your eyes moved back to the window, back to Daryl. For a man who didn't seem to think much of himself, he sure had a way of making people feel safe, of making them smile—even when he wasn't trying.

He had just been tackled by Lydia, who laughed as she tried to shove snow down the back of his poncho. He was pretending to be mad, but the way his hands ruffled her hair when she let go made it clear he didn't mean it.

You couldn't help but wonder if Daryl had ever had something like that growing up—if he'd had anyone to laugh with during the winters, anyone to pull him away from his own painful memories. Or if he'd just kept it all hidden the way you did.

You sighed, your breath fogging up the glass of the window as you watched the snowflakes fall softly to the ground. "You're a real idiot," you said to yourself. "Standing here like this when he's out there laughing and being happy."

Still, you didn't move. Not yet. Something about watching him felt safer than stepping out there like the glass between you and the fun was the only thing keeping you from falling apart.

And here you were, still inside, while he was out there living. It wasn't fair to him—not when he'd done so much to keep you safe, to remind you that life could still have moments like this. Moments of joy, no matter how small.

You sighed, taking a step back. "Guess I'll just keep watching for now," you whispered to no one in particular. "He looks so damn happy out there. Don't wanna fuck that up."

But as much as you tried to convince yourself, you couldn't shake the thought that maybe—just maybe—he'd notice you were missing from the fun. He always noticed, didn't he?

But maybe he could be part of what could heal if you let him in.

He had to know, right? That you were more than just the person who waited for him to come back and make sure he was safe, too? That, sometimes, the waiting felt like suffocating, like you were caught in your memories that didn't belong to you anymore?

He was always there for you. You knew that. He had shown up when you needed him most, and yet, here you were, watching him laugh with the others, longing for something more.

But what would more look like?

You didn't have the answer yet.

The laughter outside just felt like it belonged to another world—something distant and innocent, something you couldn't quite enjoy without bringing all your memories with you. That was the problem, wasn't it? You didn't want to drag anyone else into your past, least of all him.

Especially not him.

He deserved this—the joy, the playfulness. He deserved to feel like things weren't so damn hard all the time.

But you also couldn't tear your eyes away.

Daryl looked up as RJ yelled something you couldn't quite make out while he dodged another snowball, quick as ever, and then his eyes looked away for just a second—enough to catch you staring out of the window. You gulped. Hard. You froze like you'd been caught doing something you weren't supposed to, something bad, even though all you'd done was watch.

And then he smiled.

Daryl bent down, scooped up a handful of snow, and packed it into a ball. You saw the smile on his face turn into a smirk right before his arm moved forward, sending the snowball flying right toward the house.

It hit the window, leaving a wet trail that started to drip down the glass. You blinked, startled, and the kids outside burst into laughter. Judith tapped Michonne's arm, pointing at the window like it was the funniest thing she'd seen all day.

You wanted to be annoyed—you felt as if you should've been annoyed—but instead, a little laugh slipped out before you could stop it.

And Daryl noticed.

His smirk turned into a soft smile, but the way his brow furrowed just slightly told you he'd picked up on more than you wanted him to. He knew something was wrong. And something told you he wasn't about to let it go.

"No… Don't ruin it for him," you said again, trying to convince yourself to stay put. He was happy out there. That should've been enough.

Of course, you wanted to be near him, but not to annoy him with unnecessary sadness. You were still thinking when you noticed him stand up, brushing snow off himself as he took a quick look over his shoulder. Then he said something to the kids and the others before turning away. Judith pouted, clearly wanting him to stay, but he shook his head.

And then? Then he walked toward the house.

Shit... He'd noticed. He knew.

You turned away from the window, your heart racing as the sound of his boots crunching through the snow grew louder. Part of you wanted to run upstairs and hide in any room until he gave up, but you just stood there, unable to move.

The front door opened, letting in the cold air from outside that made you shiver, and you heard him stomp the snow off his boots before he took them off by the door.

"Thought I saw ya by the window. What're ya doin' standin' here all by yerself?"

You didn't turn around to face him; you didn't trust yourself to look him in the eye just yet. "Just… watching," you mumbled quietly, looking down to the floor.

Daryl didn't believe you. You could feel him staring at you, trying to figure out what exactly was wrong. "Nah, ya look like hell," he said bluntly, but it wasn't mean—it was just Daryl.

You snorted in return, shaking your head. "Thanks, I guess."

"What's goin' on?" He asked, more gently this time, taking a few steps toward you.

"It's nothing, Daryl. Come on… The kids are still out there, waiting for you."

He didn't call you out on it, but you could feel his frustration. He hated when you shut him out, but he also knew better than to push too hard. Instead, he just stood there now, waiting.

And it made you want to cry.

No, Daryl never pressed you further or forced answers you weren't ready to give. He just let out a quiet grunt after a while, the kind that could mean anything from 'fine' to 'I'll be right back,' before he turned and headed toward another room.

In an instant, everything felt emptier without him. You figured he was giving you space—something he did better than most people in Alexandria—but when you heard the sound of another door opening and closing again, your brow furrowed.

You didn't do anything until you heard Daryl clear his throat behind you, and when you finally looked at him, the sight stopped you dead.

There he stood, looking more awkward than you'd ever seen him, holding the most hideous and rather small plastic Christmas tree you'd ever laid eyes on. It was lopsided, with lots of fake needles missing from the branches, and the base looked like it'd been duct-taped back together at some point. In his other hand was a beat-up old box with the words 'Our Holiday Decorations' written across the side with a marker that looked faded by now.

Your mouth opened, but no words came out.

He moved uncomfortably, his eyes looking from you to the ridiculous tree and back again. "Found it a while back," he said in a way that suggested he was already regretting the decision to bring it out and show it to you. "Thought... maybe we could, uh... fix it up. Or somethin'. Like, y'know?"

You blinked, completely confused yet surprised. "Daryl, what in the world…"

"It ain't much," he said quickly, cutting you off like he was bracing for you to hate it. "Jus' somethin' I found. Figured it might…" He trailed off, scratching the back of his neck, his eyes now looking anywhere but at you. "Y'know... help. Dunno."

You didn't realize your hands were trembling until you had to tighten your grip on the blanket once more to keep them steady. "You… Daryl, why did you do this? What did you do this for? That—"

He shrugged, almost a little too unbothered for your liking, and cut you off again. "Ain't nothin'. Jus' thought ya might, uh… like it. Yeah. No one else 'round here does. Can't blame 'em. Looks ridiculous, don't it?"

He set the box with the decorations down on the coffee table and started looking through it. Inside was random stuff, like ornaments, most of them having a crack. A string of lights that no longer worked with a few burnt-out and broken bulbs. A garland that looked like it had been pieced together from three others or more. It was a complete mess.

Daryl then held up a dusty angel topper and a star topper as well, the gold paint peeling off the wings from the angel. "Ain't pretty either, but it'll do," he said, turning them over in his hands.

Your heart ached. It was too much—too sweet, too thoughtful, too Daryl. You wiped the edge of the blanket over your face quickly, hoping he wouldn't notice the tears threatening to roll down your cheeks, but of course, he did.

"What's wrong?" His voice softened, and when you looked up, he was watching you in a way that always made you feel like he could see straight through you. "Don't like it?"

You shook your head, trying to laugh it off. "It's just… I didn't expect this, you know? I don't—" Your voice cracked, and you hated how pathetic it made you sound. "I don't deserve this, I suppose."

Daryl frowned, his eyes narrowing like you'd just said the dumbest thing he'd ever heard. "That's bullshit."

You turned away, biting your lip, trying to keep the memories hidden, but it was like trying to hold back a storm. It wasn't just the tree—it was Daryl standing there, trying so hard to give you something you couldn't ask for, even if you wanted to.

"I just…" You swallowed hard, your voice shaking. "Christmas was never good for me. I—" You stopped, stumbling over your own words, but Daryl didn't say anything. He just waited, patient as always.

You took a deep breath, staring at the ugly little tree like it might help you. "I never told you anything about my past, even though you've asked me about it for years by now, I know. It's just… Okay, you really want to know? Do you want to listen? To hear it? Fine."

You walked over to the window again, preparing yourself. "My parents died when I was a baby. I don't even remember them. I just know my mom was beaten by my dad, which led to her death in the end, and my dad then killed himself. Of course, I've been told all my life it was because of me. That it was all my fault. I grew up with my grandma, but she was sick—really sick. She tried, but she couldn't keep up after Grandpa died, and only a bit later, my mother, too. My aunt moved in to ‘help,' but she just... made everything worse."

Your hands clenched into fists, the blanket slipping off your shoulders as the memories came back in full force. "She hated me. I don't know why, but she did. She only wanted my grandma's money. The bit that was left of it. And every Christmas, she'd make sure I knew I wasn't part of the family. The presents weren't for me—they were for her kids. If I got anything, it was trash. Like, literal trash. The wrapping paper and such…"

You swallowed hard. "I wasn't allowed to sit with them under the tree. They'd make me clean up the wrapping paper while they opened their gifts. And one year…" You hesitated, the memory hurting like a fresh wound. "One year, my aunt backed her car over my foot outside the house. On purpose. Said I was in her way when we wanted to drive to church."

You hugged yourself, fingers pressing into your arms like you could stop the pain. "I heard the engine before I felt it. And then…" You closed your eyes like it was happening all over again. "I couldn’t move. Couldn’t even scream. I just stood there while she rolled the window down and said I should’ve gotten out of the way."

Meanwhile, Daryl's muscles in his arms flexed, his hands turning into fists at his sides, but he didn't interrupt.

"I spent the rest of that Christmas in my bedroom," you whispered further as you continued. "Well, it was more of a storage room for them to use from time to time, really. One of my cousins sometimes hid rotten food in it and all. But when I sneaked out in pain to get something to eat, all the food was gone. They didn't save me anything. Nothing at all. My grandma thought I'd eaten already. I lied and said yes, that I was staying home on purpose in case Santa might still be around. I haven't told her what her own daughter did. I didn't want to worry her. Didn't want to see her cry. I wanted her to be happy, to see and have a happy family, or… what was left of it."

Daryl was still quiet. You had no idea what he was thinking, but you didn’t want to know. Not right now.

Your shoulders shook, and you hated yourself for breaking down, but it was too late to stop it. "I hated Christmas from then on. Hated winter. The snow. It just… It always felt cold, no matter how many blankets I had. I never felt… wanted. It's ridiculous, I know! It's embarrassing! It's... bullshit! God, I don't even know why I'm telling you all this, even though it's only a tiny part of my past."

You turned to look at Daryl, and the anger in his eyes wasn't for you—it was for them, for every single person who had ever hurt you. "'S still yer past. And it ain’t yer fault."

It was too late. The words had already left you, and now, there was no going back.

"But it is," you said softly, almost to yourself. "Because maybe it’s just... me."

"It ain't. They're gone," he said quietly, reaching out to grab your arm. "They can't hurt ya no more. And I ain't them," he added, his grip on you tightening ever so slightly. "I ain't gonna let ya feel like that ever again. Gonna make sure of that."

You couldn't stop yourself from laughing all of a sudden—loud and unhinged like it was the only thing left in you to do as you jerked your arm away from his touch. "You don't know shit, Daryl," you spat out, shaking your head as you backed away. "You think just because you showed up and listened to me, everything's gonna change? That everything's gonna be okay?"

Your voice trembled, but you didn't care. You were already gone—lost in the shame, the rage that had been deep inside you for so long. You didn't even look at him anymore when you spoke. You couldn't.

"Nothing's gonna change. Nothing, okay?" The tears burned like acid behind your eyes, but you were done holding them back. "You think you can fix this? Me? You think you're just gonna come in here and make everything feel better?" You then rushed toward him, fists in the air. "It's too fucking late for that!"

Your hands hit his chest, not hard enough to hurt him, but it was enough. Enough to make your anger feel real. You hit him again and again, your rage turning desperate. "You don't get it! You can't fix shit! You can't! I don't want your fucking pity, Daryl!"

You shoved him backward, your breath coming out ragged and fast. "What the hell do you think you're even doing? Trying to save me from myself?"

Daryl didn't back away from you. He didn't even move when your fists hit him. Instead, he huffed, and he reached for your wrists, pinning them back down to your sides.

"Let go of me, Daryl!" You fought against him, trying to push him away, but he was too strong. "Just leave me be!"

"Damn it, jus' stop," he growled. "Stop pushin' me away like ya always did. Like ya still do!"

But his words didn't stop you. You kept trying to get free and to escape. "No! And I don't care, Daryl! I don't! Just forget about it! Forget about what I said!"

His eyes closed, and you felt him tense up. But instead of letting go, instead of pushing you away like everyone else had, something inside of him just... snapped. And in an instant, he pulled you into his arms.

You didn't fight. You couldn't. You just let yourself go. You relaxed into him, your hands holding onto his shirt after his arms wrapped around you. The tears hurt your eyes, wet and painful, like a fire that was trying to burn you alive from the inside out.

Daryl didn't speak for a long time. You couldn't even look at him. You couldn't look at anything. You just needed to breathe—just needed to stop feeling like you were suffocating and turning into ashes while being trapped inside your skin.

After some time, Daryl finally spoke, his voice sounding like he was struggling to keep it together himself. "I get it," he mumbled, one of his hands rubbing up and down your back slowly. "I get it more than ya know. I ain't never been fixed. Ain't never been saved. Hell, I'm still fuckin' broken myself, too."

You shook your head, sniffling, but you didn't pull away. His words hit you like a punch to the gut—his words were a truth you couldn't deny. He'd been through his own hell, his own darkness. And you knew. He'd told you. Out of every person he could've trusted enough, he'd always chosen you.

But when you finally pulled back, he handed you a small, wrapped package from his jacket pocket without any explanation and no hesitation either. "And actually…" He continued and held it up. "Got this for ya."

He opened it with slightly trembling hands, your breath stopping when you saw the small, handmade bracelet inside. Each charm was different—a tiny feather, a little carved dog, a tree, and an arrow.

Pieces of him, pieces of you.

"It ain't much," he said again, but the way he looked at you said it meant everything as he handed you the bracelet.

You stared down at it in your hands, your heart racing, the tears in your eyes making the little charms blurry as you looked at them and turned the bracelet over, your fingers trembling. "What…? Daryl, no…"

He moved a bit awkwardly in front of you, his eyes moving from you to the floor like he wasn't sure where to look. "Ain't nothin' too fancy," he grumbled, scratching the back of his neck. "Jus' figured... y'know. Thought ya might like it more if ya won't like the tree."

"Like it?" Your voice cracked, and you laughed a little, though it came out choked and shaky. "It's, it's... I just—" You swallowed hard, your heart aching from how much you wanted to say. "I don't… I don't deserve this."

Daryl's head snapped up at that, his eyes narrowing fast. "Cut that shit out," he sighed, though there was no anger in his voice. "Ain't 'bout what ya think ya deserve. S' yours."

Your hands trembled as you turned the bracelet over once more, and Daryl then started to point at each charm of the bracelet.

"This one," he then said, pointing to the tiny feather, "s'posed to be a dove's feather, maybe. Thought it could mean somethin' like peace."

"Peace? Feathers are just what's left after the bird is gone. Blown away like it never mattered," you scoffed in defiance, not wanting to believe him.

But he simply moved on to the next charm, the little dog. "That one's a dog. Reminded me of… well, Dog. Y'know, always loyal. Ain't goin' anywhere."

"Loyal," you grumbled. "Or just waiting. Waiting for its owner, who might not come back."

Daryl took a quick look at you but continued. "The tree... ain't jus' 'bout trees out there. It's... I dunno, 'bout strong roots. Growin'. Even when it's hard."

You huffed. "Roots keep you stuck, too, don’t they? No choice but to stay wherever the hell you are. Rooted too deep to move, even when you want to."

Daryl's lips parted slightly, and he sighed, maybe in frustration, maybe in understanding. Still, he pressed forward. By now, your hands were shaking so much you could barely hold the bracelet steady. His eyes looked at your face, noticing the tears still, but he didn't stop. He couldn't.

"And the arrow," he said. "That's for strength. 'Cause ya pull it back, and then it flies farther than ya think. Thought… maybe ya'd remember that. Every time ya see it. Goin' forward."

You laughed through your tears. "Or it misses. It misses and ends up somewhere you didn’t mean it to."

"Or maybe," Daryl answered in an instant, "it hits exactly where it needs to."

You couldn't breathe. You couldn't think. The bracelet. The care. It was too much, and yet it wasn't enough to make you believe you deserved it.

"Daryl," you choked out, "I really can't… I don't…" You couldn't finish, and suddenly, you were holding the bracelet to your heart as though letting it go might tear you apart in an instant.

But you didn’t even realize you were falling—not until you felt his arms around you. Strong and impossibly gentle, they caught you before you could hit the ground. For a second, maybe two, the world stood still. It felt as if your tears froze, and the only thing holding you to reality was the real presence of him.

His hands held you like you might fall apart if he let go, pulling you closer, closer still. You didn’t even have time to stop him, not that you could. Your legs started to tremble, and for a moment, you thought this was it—this was when you’d finally break.

But he didn’t let you.

Instead, Daryl moved with you like he’d done it a hundred, maybe a thousand, times before. Over and over again. Slowly—so, so slowly—he sank onto his knees on the cold floor with you.

The cry that tore through you wasn’t quiet or controlled—it was loud and ugly, ripping its way through your heart like it might kill you. But Daryl didn’t move. He didn’t pull away.

His hold only tightened. Like he could block out the world, the pain, the memories—all of it—just by holding on. Neither of you moved. You were frozen in that moment—held not just by him, but by the truth that this—this—was the first time in forever you had let yourself fall.

But you weren’t just falling.

You were being caught.

Time felt like it had stopped.

Daryl's fingers soon fumbled with the bracelet as he put it around your wrist without giving you time to protest. "Hold still. I gotcha," he grumbled. "This damn thing's harder than skinnin' a squirrel."

You snorted a laugh through the tears in return. "Why? Is that something you still do often?"

"More'n ya'd think," he answered, finally managing to fasten it. "There. Ain't gonna fall off or nothin'."

You stared at it—the small, simple charms. The tiny feather. The dog. The tree. The arrow. Each one a piece of… him.

"But," you whispered, looking up at him. "I... I don't have anything for you in return. I have nothing to give you."

"Bullshit," he said, sitting back on his heels. "Ya think I don't see it jus' 'cause yer the one who can't see it? What ya give me?"

You opened your mouth to argue, but the words died on the spot as he reached up, his hand hushing you.

"Stop. Don't wanna hear that shit, alright?" He pulled his hand back. "Ya give me peace."

You couldn't help but laugh at that. "Peace? Daryl, I don't even know what the hell I'm doing half the time! You—you hold everything together, and I just—"

"But yer holdin' me together..." His voice cracked, and you froze. He cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable, but he still didn't move as you pushed your head against his shoulder.

You didn’t know how long you stayed there, wrapped in Daryl’s arms, but your breathing had finally slowed, and you sniffled, your fingers loosening their grip on him.

"Ya good for now?"

You nodded against his shoulder, though your answer felt pitiful at best. "Yeah... I think so." You wiped at your face quickly, too embarrassed to even look at him.

"Alright, then." He shifted slightly, giving you room to pull back, but one hand stayed on your arm. "C'mon. That tree ain't gonna decorate itself."

You blinked, confused by the sudden change in topic. "The tree?" You sniffled again, your voice cracking, and Daryl grunted in response.

"Yeah. Figured if it’s gonna stand there lookin' like shit, might as well give it somethin' worth fallin' over for."

"It already looks like it wants to fall over just from existing, Daryl. Or from dying."

"Exactly." He leaned back on his heels. "Means we gotta hurry ‘fore it gives up."

"It already has… The tree's ugly as hell."

"'S what I told ya," he agreed, smirking at you. "But so are ya when ya cry. Guess it fits."

Your jaw dropped, and you smacked his arm with force. "You're such an ass, Daryl Dixon!"

"Yeah, yeah," he answered, reaching over to grab the box with the decorations. "And that thing's lookin' like a wet noodle from here."

Before you could choke out another tearful laugh, Daryl moved his head toward the tree again. "C'mon now," he said. "Tree's waitin'."

And it was waiting, alright—waiting to collapse at any second. When the two of you knelt in front of the "tree"—if a bunch of plastic could even be called that—it looked worse than you remembered when he had brought it in.

You couldn't help it—you laughed again. "Daryl, it is looking like a tiny crime scene."

He snorted, reaching for an ornament inside the box. "Hey, don't judge it. Yer bein' small as hell, too."

You raised an eyebrow at him. "Maybe. But I'm pretty sure it's leaning like it's had too much to drink. It's looking very… rustic."

"Rustic my ass," he grumbled, with that same smirk on his face. "Ya better help me clean up the crime scene now."

And you did.

You put the ornament on the tree, and slowly but surely, the tree started to look... well, not good. But better. Sort of. The garland was still sagging, and the broken lights didn't work, but by the time you reached the top, you found yourself smiling—really smiling—for the first time in what felt like ages.

When you reached for the toppers, you paused, turning the angel one over in your hands. The peeling gold wings and torn-off face should've made it ridiculous, but somehow, it felt right.

You looked at Daryl, and without saying a word, you carefully placed the angel at the very top before you turned back to him.

And that's when a branch gave out, dropping half the garland to the floor with a sad-sounding plop.

"Tree's fightin' back," Daryl pointed out, crossing his arms over his chest. "Guess it don't like the angel."

You just grinned in response. "Maybe it's protesting how ugly it is. This thing looks like it wants to be put out of its misery, after all."

He smiled, leaning closer so his shoulder touched yours. "Could be worse. Coulda put Dog on top."

And you were laughing again, so hard it hurt.

It was the kind of laugh that came out of nowhere, loud and uncontrollable, leaving your stomach in pain. You hadn't laughed like this in… God, who even knew how long? Maybe forever. And as ridiculous as it felt to be laughing over a plastic Christmas tree, it was exactly what you needed.

Your eyes looked back to Daryl, who was by now grinning a little—just enough that you could tell he was enjoying himself in his quiet, own kind of way.

But he caught you looking and raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Nothing," you said quickly, but your heart was doing that annoying thing where it felt as if it dropped straight down to your feet. You blamed the stupid tree—or the stupid bracelet—or maybe the stupid way he'd pieced a part of you together without asking for anything from you in return.

"Bullshit," Daryl said, squinting at you like he was trying to guess the answer. "Yer makin' that face again."

"What face?"

"The one where yer thinkin' too much." He shook his head, returning his attention to the tree before continuing. "Overthinkin'."

He wasn't wrong. Thinking too much was exactly your problem. Overthinking... Like how you were suddenly very aware of how close he was, or how the warmth of him was feeling so comfortable as he tried to put a piece of garland back onto the tree.

You thought about how he had simply shown up after returning to Alexandria, dragging a plastic disaster of a Christmas tree into your life, not because he had to—but because he wanted to. He'd done it for you. For you.

"Daryl," you said softly after a while, and he turned to look at you, his brow furrowing ever so slightly.

"Yeah?"

You opened your mouth, but the words felt stuck. How the hell were you supposed to explain this? How were you supposed to tell him that he'd somehow managed to give you something you hadn't felt in years? That for the first time in forever, you didn't feel like you were completely alone? That, right now, you were feeling anything but the loneliness that has been eating you up for years?

And so, instead of answering, you did the only thing that felt right. You didn't overthink.

You let yourself feel it—the warmth of him being so close, every quiet moment he’d chosen to be here with you. You stared at the bracelet on your wrist, the tiny charms... Each one was what you hadn’t let yourself believe in for so long.

Your heart raced as your eyes looked up to meet his. There was no pity there, no hesitation—just the quiet way he looked at you like you were something worth standing still for.

It scared you how much you wanted to trust it. To trust him.

You took a deep, trembling breath, your hand stopping midair like it couldn’t decide if it was brave enough to reach for him. And then, without thinking—without overthinking—you closed the space between you.

You kissed him. Hard.

It wasn’t smooth—your noses bumped against each other, and his stubble scratched against your skin. But it was real. Your hands held onto the front of his shirt, grabbing it like you were afraid to let go. Afraid to fall.

Daryl froze for a second, and you nearly pulled back, terrified you’d made a huge mistake. But then his hands were on you, pulling you closer, and the desperation in the way he kissed you back pushed away every fear and every doubt you’d ever had.

He kissed you like he needed this as much as you did.

When you finally broke apart, both of you breathless, Daryl’s forehead rested against yours.

"’Bout time."

You blinked at him, still trying to catch up with what had just happened. "About time?" Your voice cracked, halfway between a laugh and wanting to argue again. "And what the hell is that supposed to mean now?"

"Means I been waitin’." His voice was rather quiet—like it was the simplest truth in the world.

Before you could reply, the tree behind you made way for another pathetic sound, the angel topper tilting dangerously to one side like it had finally given up.

Daryl stared at it, rolling his eyes. "Guess the tree’s still waitin’, too."

You snorted, the sound half-choked by the laughter that came out of you. "Waiting for what? A funeral?"

"Nah." He pulled you closer, putting his arm around you. "'S waitin' for more duct tape, probably."

You buried your face against Daryl's shoulder, unable to stop your laughter. The plastic tree was still ugly, still barely holding itself together. But somehow, it looked like the most beautiful and small Christmas tree in the world.

For the first time in years, it felt like Christmas. Like a winter that didn't feel so cold anymore.

It felt like home.

This—this moment, this feeling, this man who somehow saw you when you couldn't even see yourself—was home.

And maybe—just maybe—it was perfect.

Imperfectly perfect.

This is one of those stories where I asked myself, ‘What am I putting my readers through today?’ and spun the wheel of seasonal sadness.

On a more serious note, this story is deeply personal to me, so I’d really appreciate thoughtful feedback if you choose to leave a comment.

Writing it meant a lot to me, and I hope it resonates with those who read it. Those who've ever found themselves searching for warmth in the cold.

The song below is a recommendation that just ties to this story.

[babiestbubbles]

Jason Todd Agere HCS

The first of many, icl. I am possessed by DC demons, I have SO MANY thoughts abt them, pls pls pls hmu w/ Prompts, I am dying to write about these little bat boys

Primarily, if not exclusively, regresses when under the influence. The man is so repressed and afraid of his regression that the one of the only ways he can properly slip into his headspace is when he's drunk/high/etc.

Experiences a LOT of impure regression. Sometimes it's little imperceptible things like accidents after nightmares, so at first he brushes it off as a trauma response (which, technically it is but he doesn’t know that yet) or just a lack of bodily control that comes with revival. It slowly evolves into deep, complete regressive episodes when faced with heavy injury, fear toxin, or when he's home and safe after mission.

To expand on the previous point, he has enough control to keep from slipping during fights/high adrenaline situations, but the second his mind and body register genuine safety (ie. arrival at one of his personal/hidden safe houses or Roy's/a close friend's) he plummets into littlespace.

His close friends aren't overly jarred by it, Jason's always been a little softer, a little more sensitive after rough mission. He always meticulously checks them all over first, only allowing them to give him the same treatment once he's certain all immediate needs have been attended to. It's not their place to judge if over the months that softness has evolved from wordless whimpers and silent tears to soft babbles and tiny acts of self soothing.

If digging through his duffle and shoving a familiar stuffed bear into his arms keeps him from wiggling and whining as they attend to his wounds, just as he did theirs not 5 minutes earlier, who are they to look a gift in it's mouth? It's not like rougher, in-field Jason would take to being patched up all that better.

The process would be laced with fussing all the same, whimpers swapped for strings of curses and flinches traded for Jason brashly pulling away, insisting he could do it better himself. At least this way they can be sure his reactions are signs of genuine pain and discomfort rather than scorn and judgment for their first aid abilities.

He would genuinely rather die again then let any of his family know about his regression and makes it an active point to hide it from them, even at the expense of his health and wellbeing.

Idk much abt Steph but I think she, if anyone, would be the only one to pick up on it. I also think she's the best person of the bats to figure it out, because unlike the others who would confront him about it head on and probably scare him off, I think Steph would soft-launch her awareness of Jason’s regression.

It wouldn't be baby-talk and piles of presents. It would be keeping a few spare kids items in her pouches, a tiny teddybear, a pacifier, lollipops. Things she could easily brush off as occupational necessities.

He has almost NO gear on his own. He has the bear Talia gave him when he was first looking after him. (Before she'd thrown him into the pit back when his mind was too frazzled to recognize or comprehend most of his surroundings. When all he could rely on was his senses for comfort. She picked up on this quickly, flooding the boy with soft scents of cinnamon and nutmeg, cardamom tea, fluffy teddy bears and blankets.)

Aside from the bear all he has is a teether, a busted up old thing. It had water in it at some point, he'd found it in the clearance aisle of a Duane Reade, cheap enough to justify to himself. He'd muttered something about it being good to have for keeping toddlers quiet.

It' hadn't lasted a night in the package before he was gnawing at it, suckling on it, finally satiating the desire to nurse his thumb that he refused to indulge.

The teether had made it all of two weeks before he'd worn it out, busting it amidst a particularly bad crying fit. It only made him cry harder, and while he knew logically he should’ve tossed it the second it broke but he couldn't bear to part with his only other comfort item, and he knew he didn't have the stomach to try replacing it.

That it's for nowwww, pls gimme other characters to do!! I love writing abt them, I could honestly do another dump of just Jason hcs, I have so many thoughts about these little bat boys

Obligatory self-promo for my DC agere discord server

https://discord.gg/QwtaNKMq

Join it! Come harass me for fics, hcs, and drabbles personally ‼️ /silly

[flovoid]

when an alcoholic single dad with a messed up past have three kids that are named after alcohol beverages…

[yunmeng-jiang]

that man does NOT think of wei wuxian as his gege

[zafiro-anyejo]

very few 'parenting' things frustrate me more than parents who give their screaming kids an ipad, but I think "emotionally neglectful for 20 years and then wondering why their kid isn't thriving/adjusting to adulthood well, so they try to make up for it by being an overbearing helicopter parent" might take the cake.

[coulsonlives]

I just had to share this video because holy shit, it hits the nail right on the head! So well spoken. This stuff needs to be circulated more, esp with the growing number of people thinking they have this because of misinformation, or just outright faking it.

[donnatroyyyy]

Batman has/had some kind of miscommunication going on with every single one of his kids. The bat family is just one big miscommunication trope after the other.

[truckstoptigers]

i remember i'd hear about how my state is one of the most dangerous places in terms of sex trafficking and i would think, what an awful thing. how terrible is it that my state has such an issue with trafficking that it's enough for it to be a well-known, well-documented serious danger/risk area.

and i still didn't think it would ever happen to me.

[elytrafemme]

so me and my parents are out looking for houses in the area, right, that are reasonably priced. because obviously i did not specify where i was to you all because internet security but we might end up centralized here as a family right. so we were looking and this area is... generally a pretty expensive place with an expensive real estate industry. and there’s a lot of privilege in the fact that my family is financially stable and well off enough to be looking here and i do realize that but i mean obviously we are not made of fucking money and we’re working on a budget for one house right.

anyway one of the agents casually dropped in the middle of the conversation that she owns five houses and. i cannot describe it to you the psychological response i had to that

[phagodyke]

its actually nuts how missing a single vaccination has shaped my entire fucking life. like not only would I not be deaf if I had gotten it on time but I probs wouldn't have adhd either 🫣