#some of y’all are too vicious towards them and it’s so strange

[gigireece16]

women of nbc hannibal, they could never make me hate you

[platoapproved]

okay okay my shadow and bone season 2 hot takes are burning me from the inside out so here we go:

these are in no particular order but sadly it did feel kind of like a miss for me with nikolai :/  i was worried it was going to be way worse but there were a few changes that were just Not It for me. like you CANNOT just bring in Dominik and have him still be alive. he should’ve been dead the whole time, because that’s nikolai’s whole thing.  he has his charming prince / dashing privateer / all around witty fun guy façade, and underneath it is grief. over a normal commoner, who died wastefully in an unimportant battle.  it MATTERS that that death matters so much to nikolai

AND it’s really not the same for him to get randomly wounded 0.02 seconds before the civil war is completely over, and then later realize some weird magic shit is going on with the wound.  like instead of being DELIBERATELY made into a monster and then spending weeks? months? however long as a mostly mindless monster, unable to help his friends or his country and lowkey maybe eating people.  like that’s that 👏 good 👏 shit 👏 .

it also matters that he’s not visibly scarred afterwards? like literally “king of scars” hello? even if people outside his inner circle don’t know what really happened they still think the darkling tortured him for months or whatever.

anyway the point is the show needed to hurt nikolai a lot more.

kaz was perfect i love him, love how they delivered on his story, definitely the thing this season landed the best.

BUT it does somewhat irk me that pekka is still in the mix after kaz’s takedown.  he runs away, and then just as he’s thinking about maybe coming back, inej finishes it and he’s just OUT. the last chapter of the duology is him just being like “i can’t DEAL with how vicious these teens are i’m too old for this shit i’m FINISHED”.  i just think kaz brekker would not be satisfied with him still being in hellgate having any power whatsoever.

LOVED how little mattias content there was.  cut him out entirely. five of crows.

giving the darkling a weird underling with bad bangs and 90s lipstick and spending so much time on her was a strange move considering how many other things they were trying to cover, like y’all don’t have room to be adding new OCs.

JUSTICE FOR DUNYASHA why was inej fighting some random taxidermy man instead.  her appearance in crooked kingdom always DELIGHTS me because she just shows up out of nowhere declaring herself to be inej’s great rival and being psychosexually obsessed with her and inej is just ?????? because she has no idea who this fucking person is. changing her to some random dude is a homophobic attack on me personally.

i am glad they gave jesper some serious moments this season finally, but also a little sad with how much they rushed the grisha stuff for him. i think it’s probably an inevitable book-to-movie thing but they didn’t do enough with how much hiding his powers was fundamental to who he is. it’s like, the root of his frankly suicidal recklessness and addiction and shame.  his feelings about his powers are tied to his mother and her death but also to his father and how he taught Jesper to lie about himself and also made him feel ashamed/guilty to have powers.  AND most importantly it’s not just parent stuff, it’s a response to the world around him where grisha are hunted and persecuted and kidnapped and enslaved and conscripted and experimented on.  it’s not just that he’s sad about his mom.  it’s one of the many responses we see in the books from grishas towards a world that is so hostile to them.  you can’t just make it about the personal circumstances.  the social and political ones have an impact too.

i do get why they never get into it but man. i also missed jesper’s pathetic fucked up crush on kaz.  just another moment where the show provided the outer show (jesper being charming and having plenty of little flings and encounters) but not the knife-twist beneath it (him pining for kaz all those years and both of them kind of knowing it but never saying anything about it, and kaz just absolutely 100% not into him like that but not NOT stringing him along with little bits of kindness, unintentionally or intentionally).  like one of the things that is great about wylan and jesper is that it’s jesper deciding finally that he deserves more than waiting for little scraps of nothing from kaz and just going on a date with a nice boy, y’know?

i wish nina and inej had more friendship moments :c they haven’t known each other as long in the show. :c they’re supposed to be besties. :c i need them to be in love. :c

okay that’s all the hottest of my hot takes i think, overall i had a lot of fun with it and the main takeaway was that the kaz stuff was /chefkiss

[crossbowking]

Honey & Whiskey

Summary: (Set throughout series) When the world ended, everything good died along with it. At least, that's what Daryl Dixon thought. But then he met a stranger in the woods and his entire world turned upside down.

A/N: HOLY MOLY. I can't believe it's here! I've been working on this story since October and I'm so excited for y'all to finally read it. This story is absolutely my favorite of all time and it's 20,835 words of pure Daryl POV (which is just *chef kiss*) — that being said, it’s also a slow burn...and I mean an entirely self-indulgent SLOWWWW burn. So strap in, y’all.

PSA: There are mentions of 'Dog' in this story that are sort of non-canon, especially now that we've seen a backstory as to how Daryl actually found him in the show...so for the sake of the story, let's just pretend 10.18 doesn't exist :)

Anywho, please be sure to share your thoughts with me afterward!

Happy reading!

xx Jess

Masterlist

Tip Jar

The sun dipped below the horizon, the sky alight with brilliant orange and yellow rays.

Daryl tilted his head back, glancing up at the shifting colors as night drew near. The air was crisp, a welcomed change from the usual summer heat. The streets of Alexandria were fairly empty, most already settling into their respective homes before nightfall. Though the unusual silence was near deafening, the archer paid it no mind.

He appreciated the quiet these days.

The grass poked and prodded beneath where he sat, but he simply shifted, drawing one knee to his chest, the other leg splayed out in front of him. He picked absently at one of the holes in his worn jeans, tugging at the string hanging off the fabric.

And then he thought of her.

Leaves and twigs crunched beneath Daryl’s boots as he traversed through the otherwise silent woods.

The farm was destroyed, winter was approaching, and there seemed to be an ever-looming pang of hunger in the pit of his stomach. He pushed away any inkling of weakness, forging ahead with determined strides. His people were waiting for him, hunkering down in an abandoned diner less than a mile East, hoping he’d bring back something to dull the growing ache inside all of them.

Daryl’s steps faltered — ‘his’ people.

The thought had come so naturally it nearly took him off guard. The feeling of community, of belonging, was something he’d never felt in his entire life. It was a strange notion, but that drive, that need he felt to provide, pushed him further out into the forest.

The archer kept his footsteps light, practically imperceptible, listening for noises only a seasoned hunter could distinguish. When a twig suddenly snapped off to his left, he froze, scanning the stillness around him. He raised his crossbow, the weight familiar in his grasp as he took a small step in the direction the noise had come from.

A moment later, Daryl spotted it — a lone raccoon just a few yards ahead.

The archer felt a rush of adrenaline, a tingling sensation in his fingertips as they hovered over the trigger. He exhaled a soft breath, focusing all his attention on the animal. But with his concentration elsewhere, it wasn’t until after he’d pulled the trigger that he’d realized he was no longer alone in the woods.

Daryl spun around, coming face to face with an incredibly grotesque-looking walker, teeth bared, arms outstretched, launching itself towards him. The archer braced his arm against the biter’s throat just in time, grunting under its weight as he stumbled backward.

“Shit,” he snarled through gritted teeth, tossing his unloaded weapon aside as he fought against the attack. Using his free hand, he reached for the hunting knife secured on his belt, grabbing onto the hilt.

But before he could yank it out, the world began tilting rapidly around him.

Daryl’s back slammed against the harsh wooded ground, his foot tangled up in an exposed root. He spat another vicious curse as the walker thrashed on top of him, snapping its mangled jaw closer and closer, growling in starved desperation.

Then suddenly, it stilled.

The archer froze, his gaze locked on the unexpected sight of one of his arrows now embedded through the biter’s temple. He snapped out of his reverie, shoving the dead off his chest and scrambling back to his feet.

And then he saw her.

She stood just a few feet away, her rapid breathing mirroring his own, looking as though she was seconds away from passing out. Her hair was matted by a mixture of blood and dirt, her clothes were torn and ratted, her wide eyes seemingly too big for her gaunt features. She had a nasty cut across her temple, blood dripping down the side of her face, past her neck, pooling at the collar of her shirt.

Daryl’s eyes bounced back up to meet hers — his guarded and calloused, hers unsure and fatigued.

“I’m assuming — this — is yours?” she spoke between heaving breaths, tossing something in his direction, the motion causing her to sway unsteadily.

Daryl glanced down, spotting the raccoon he’d shot earlier now lying at his feet — but the arrow he’d used to kill it was no longer there.

Now, it was lodged through the skull of the walker that’d attacked him.

The archer focused back on the stranger — but before he could respond, her skin was suddenly paling, her body crumpling to the ground like a paper doll.

Daryl stared down at her unmoving form in bewilderment. He could tell by the shallow rise and fall of her chest that she was at least breathing. The cut on her temple was still bleeding, the wound looking fairly recent — his best guess was a concussion or exhaustion. Most likely both.

He took a small step forward, almost hesitantly. But when his approach didn’t stir the stranger, he found himself facing an unforeseen decision.

He could leave her — he should leave her. She wasn’t his responsibility. She was a complete stranger. She chose to intervene, not him. She made that choice. Not him. Her.

Though as he turned to leave, as he scooped up the limp raccoon and shoved it into his bag, as he grabbed his strewn crossbow and strapped it across his back, one thing became startlingly clear.

He couldn’t do it — he couldn’t just walk away.

Daryl huffed a defeated breath. “Shit.”

He could’ve sworn that day in the woods was an entire lifetime ago.

Rick had nearly lost his damn mind when he’d returned to the diner with not only a small woodland creature in his pack, but a stranger slung over his shoulder.

“Is she dead?” Carl pressed nosily, hovering by the booth where the stranger was now laid out, still unconscious.

Lori quickly intervened, moving forward with one hand on her protruding belly, the other grabbing onto Carl’s shoulder. “Step back, baby. Give Hershel some space to work, okay?” she cautioned, pulling the inquisitive boy away.

“Oh, it’s quite alright — I’m just about done here anyways,” Hershel drawled, setting aside the blood-soaked cloth he’d been using to tend to the stranger’s head wound.

Daryl watched the exchange from across the room, arms folded tight against his chest, ignoring the stares coming from other group members.

The front door of the diner suddenly swung open as Rick marched through. He shot the archer a disapproving look before addressing the others. “I think we’re okay,” he finally spoke, re-holstering his pistol. “If Daryl had been followed here, I’m sure we would’ve known by now. We’ll keep somebody on watch — jus’ as a precaution — an’ get back on the road first thing.”

The archer gnawed on the inside of his cheek as the rest of the group began whispering amongst themselves, clearly distressed about the possible danger his decision may have put them in.

Rick approached a moment later, his steadfast strides immediately setting Daryl on edge. “Can I speak with you?” the sheriff hissed, glancing over his shoulder and locking eyes with Lori’s worried gaze. “In private?” he added in a hushed tone before turning around and storming back outside.

Daryl scoffed under his breath, pushing away from the counter he’d been leaning against and stalking after Rick.

The archer yanked the door open, the cool air biting at his skin as he followed suit. He spotted Rick pacing back and forth across the parking lot, surveying the surrounding woods warily before spinning around and facing him head-on.

“What the hell were you thinkin’?” Rick demanded, taking a step forward.

Daryl fought back the instinctual urge to be on the attack. Instead, he took a breath. “What was I supposed ta’ do, man? Jus’ leave her out there?” he countered, eyes narrowing.

“You don’t bring her here,” the sheriff snapped before pinching the bridge of his nose, attempting to collect himself. “We — we have ta’ look after our own, Daryl — you know that. We have no idea who she is, where she came from, who she’s with,” he specified sharply before shaking his head. “That’s jus' not a risk I’m willin’ ta’ take. Are you?”

Daryl held Rick’s gaze for a long moment before looking away, glancing towards the tree line. The sheriff had a point, he couldn’t deny that. But there was something inside him, a nagging sensation in the pit of his stomach that said otherwise.

Rick slowly nodded, interpreting Daryl’s silence as an answer. “When she wakes, she’s gone,” he finally resolved, stepping past the archer and back towards the diner without another word.

But Daryl couldn’t let it go. “Hey,” he called after Rick, the sheriff’s strides halting mid-pace as he glanced back, the harshness in his features fading, unveiling a man with nothing but the weight of the world on his shoulders. “Back when Carl got shot, if Hershel had turned us away, what’d ya think would’a happened?”

Rick paused before exhaling a long, heavy breath, some of the fight leaving him with it. “That’s not — it’s not the same —”

“It is,” Daryl interjected. “It’s the same damn thing.”

The air grew quiet as Rick’s shoulders sagged, one hand resting against his hip. “My family…” he suddenly murmured, shaking his head sadly. “I can’t risk it.”

Daryl nodded once. “I get it. After everythin’ with Shane an’ Randall, losin’ the farm the way we did, I get it, man,” he rasped, regarding him earnestly. “But m’ tellin’ ya…this’s the wrong call, Rick.”

The diner door suddenly flung open, interrupting the conversation and revealing a flustered-looking Glenn.

“Uh, hey guys,” he interrupted, sending the pair an awkward wave. “Just wanted to let you know that she’s, uh — she’s awake.”

Rick and Daryl shared a look.

“And kinda freaking out,” Glenn quickly tacked on at the end.

Daryl didn’t hesitate. He stormed past Rick and back into the diner, making a beeline towards the small crowd that had gathered around her.

“— okay, it’s okay. We’re not gonna hurt you, sweetheart,” Lori spoke softly, holding her hands out in front of her as though approaching a caged animal.

The archer pushed through the group, spotting the stranger a moment later.

She was still sitting in the booth he’d initially laid her out in — though now she was huddled away from everyone, back pressed up against the wall, knees drawn to her chest in a cowering stance. Her gaze darted frantically around the room, clearly confused and disoriented and overwhelmed.

Daryl couldn’t even begin to understand why, but he felt a wave of outrage course through him.

“C’mon, people. She ain’t a fuckin’ zoo animal,” the archer growled abruptly, taking a defensive stance in front of the booth and motioning for the rest of the group to move back. “Give the girl some damn space.”

The archer waited until everyone stepped away before turning back around and glancing down at the stranger. He was surprised to see her eyes trained on him — even more surprised at the flush of heat that spread across his chest. He held her gaze a second longer before Rick appeared, parting through the crowd like Moses and the Red Sea.

The stranger shrunk away.

Daryl wondered why the sight bothered him so much.

Rick came to a slow halt in front of her. “What’s your name?” he finally asked, his tone measured and firm.

The stranger did another sweep of the room, as though surveying just how much possible danger she was in. But when her eyes flashed up towards the archer once again, some of her unease faded. “Y/N,” she spoke hesitantly.

Rick nodded slowly before extending his arm. “Rick Grimes.”

Y/N looked at the gesture cautiously. Still, she reached out and took his hand in hers.

She appeared composed but Daryl noticed the slight tremble in her grip.

After a brief shake, Rick grabbed an empty chair and sat down at the end of the booth, resting his forearms against the table. “So, Y/N,” he began, giving the archer a look of resolve. “What happened ta’ you?”

The time after the farm fell was foggy, each day blurring into the next, suffocated by a heaviness the unknown inherently brought. But that day, the day he met her, ran stark against the rest.

Y/N had told her story like Rick asked her to do. She spoke of the small group she’d been staying with and the refuge they’d built, ultimately destroyed by the dead. Everybody had scattered — and if they hadn’t…

Any previous hesitancies the group held melted into understanding and sympathy almost immediately.

Daryl had known Y/N would be accepted into the group. Rick had hardened since the farm, but he wasn’t heartless. He wouldn’t be able to turn her away, just as the archer hadn’t been able to leave her out in those woods.

Spending the winter season on the run had been difficult for everyone — constantly running from the dead, cold and bitter nights, supplies growing scarce. The road was unforgiving, proving time and time again how completely fucked this new world was, how things would never return to the way they were, how this was now the new way of life.

Though for Daryl, if he was being honest, it wasn’t all bad — not in comparison to what his old life had given him.

He’d choose a lifetime of running over the stench of whiskey and the sting of belt buckles any day.

The only other person who’d appeared unaffected was Y/N. Besides showcasing a natural skillset in survival, she’d found her place amongst the group with ease — so effortlessly that Daryl hadn’t been able to recall what life looked like before her. She exuded a warmth that people were drawn towards — that the rest of the group clung to during the darkest of days.

But not Daryl.

He’d kept her at a distance, kept her at arm’s length because he refused to let her in as everyone else had.

Little did he know.

Daryl swiped at the beads of sweat dripping down the sides of his face.

The Georgian heat was nearly suffocating, blanketing over his body and setting his skin ablaze. He pushed away the discomfort, bending down and grabbing the ankles of one of the many walkers spread out across the prison’s courtyard. He’d lost track of how many bodies he’d dragged out, his group working tirelessly to clean out their newfound home.

The archer had just pulled the limp body through one of the fences, nearing the pickup truck used for disposal, when he heard someone approach.

“Need a hand?”

Daryl stilled — he glanced up, his eyes locking with Y/N’s, a small smile tugging at her lips.

Her hair was pulled back out of her face, a thin sheen of sweat laid out across her forehead. One hand rested on her hip, the other hovered near her face, blocking the sun rays. The sleeves of her shirt were rolled up past her elbows, streaks of dirt and blood visible against her exposed skin.

He realized then that she was really rather beautiful.

The intrusive thought caught the archer completely off guard. He quickly turned his attention downward, grunting a half-assed ‘nah’ before continuing his trek to the pickup truck, determined to preserve some space between them.

But instead of leaving, as he’d assumed she would, Y/N remained rooted in place.

Daryl faltered, the expression that flickered across her face hinting that maybe she hadn’t come to just ‘lend a helping hand’. She had something on her mind — he could tell by the way she snagged her bottom lip between her teeth, gnawing absently as she shifted her weight back and forth.

The archer dropped his hold from around the walker’s ankles and straightened. “What?” he demanded gruffly, curiosity getting the best of him.

Y/N’s eyes found his as she took a small step forward — Daryl fought back the urge to back up. “I, uh —” she paused, her mouth twisting to the side as though fumbling for the right words. “Just — thank you.”

Daryl’s brow furrowed. “For what?” he huffed.

Y/N’s head cocked to the side, seemingly surprised. “I — I don’t know,” she murmured, a soft, sort of bewildered laugh slipping past her lips. “For bringing me here, for introducing me to your people — for everything, I guess,” she expressed sincerely. “You could’ve just left me out in those woods that day — most people would’ve.”

The archer chewed on the inside of his cheek, feeling incredibly exposed for some strange reason. “Was nothin’,” he finally grunted, ignoring the prickle of heat at the tips of his ears.

“It wasn’t nothing,” Y/N replied indignantly, like she was offended at the notion that he didn’t deserve her gratitude. “You saved my life.”

Daryl shifted uncomfortably, wanting nothing more than for this interaction to be over with — because once that happened, he could go back to maintaining his distance, he could go back to allowing the air between them to be just that. “Figured I owed ya,” he finally mustered, recalling the first day they’d met.

Y/N’s lips curled up into a megawatt smile and Daryl could’ve sworn he’d never seen anything so damn captivating in his entire life. “Okay,” she grinned, sticking her hand out in front of her. “We’ll call it even then.”

The archer glanced down at the gesture before warily reaching forward, taking her hand in his, and shaking once, twice, three times. Her grip was firm and she didn’t seem to mind the grime coating his skin.

When she pulled away, Daryl felt the empty spaces she’d filled set ablaze.

Y/N shot him one last smile before turning around and heading back towards the courtyard. But she’d only made it a few feet when she paused, glancing over her shoulder. “Make sure you eat something, okay?”

She didn’t wait for a response — instead, she narrowed her eyes, shooting him a look in mock-seriousness as if to say ‘I’m watching you’. Then her face broke out into another grin before she sent him a small wave — and she was gone.

Daryl watched her leave, unable to pull his gaze from her retreating form.

He tried to ignore the mess his mind was becoming, littered with confusion and insecurity, the nagging voice that lingered telling him he’d never be good enough, strong enough, brave enough for anything other than what he’d always known.

He wouldn’t let her in — he couldn’t let her in.

But as he bent down, grasping onto either ankle of the walker at his feet, he felt a tingling sensation in his fingertips he swore had everything to do with the Georgian heat and nothing to do with her.

A gentle breeze roused Daryl from his thoughts.

He shifted from where he sat, reaching into the pocket of his jeans for the pack of cigarettes he kept there.

The package was falling apart, half-crushed, half-wrinkled from everyday wear and tear, but the archer slipped one of the few remaining cigarettes out anyway and caught it between his lips.

It hadn’t taken long for him to realize that keeping Y/N at arm’s length was a futile attempt — he’d been naive to think it was possible in the first place.

Before he knew it, she’d wormed her way into the forefronts of his mind and found herself a nice, cozy corner to call home. She’d done it as effortlessly as the blink of an eye or the beat of a heart. It just happened — no rhyme or reason, no explanation or logic. It just happened.

Which made leaving that much harder.

“Daryl!”

The archer ignored Glenn’s shout, marching further into the woods and approaching a snide-looking Merle. “C’mon, bro,” the younger brother grunted, worried if they didn’t leave right then and there, he’d change his mind and return to the prison with the others.

Merle’s booming laugh sounded, drawing Daryl from his thoughts. “Well, I’ll be damned,” the man sneered, tossing an arm around the archer’s shoulders. “Looks like somebody decided ta’ grow himself a big ole’ pair a’ cojones while I was gone,” he snarked, pushing Daryl forward and falling in step beside him.

The archer pressed his lips together, swallowing his retort and focusing ahead.

“Hey, wait up!”

The voice that sounded halted Daryl in his tracks. He spun around, spotting Y/N making her way through the forest, her strides long and determined as she headed straight towards him.

“Well, would ya look a’ that,” Merle quipped under his breath, leering at her approach, his tone sending a swell of aggravation through the younger brother.

“Jus’ gimme a minute,” Daryl quickly waved him off, ignoring the prickle of heat creeping up his neck as he trudged towards her.

Y/N came to a stop in front of him, slightly out of breath, her eyes searching his for a long moment.

She seemed to have something to say, a reason for chasing after him — but it was as though she couldn’t get the words together. She glanced down, shaking her head slowly before taking a deep breath. When she looked back up, Daryl noticed a resignation in her gaze that wasn’t there before.

“Are you sure about this?” she finally asked, her troubled expression sending a pang of guilt through him.

Daryl looked away. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure — he wasn’t sure about anything anymore.

He shifted his weight, focusing back on her. “Ya watch out for yourself, ya hear me?” he rumbled, pushing away the unexpected worry gnawing at him.

Y/N’s shoulders sagged in disappointment, her defeated expression damn near changing his mind altogether. “I will,” she murmured, a bittersweet smile ghosting across her features.

Daryl held her gaze a moment longer before nodding once, turning without another word.

But he’d barely taken a step when he suddenly felt her grab his wrist and twist him back around.

Before he knew what was happening, Y/N was hugging him. She threw her arms around his middle and squeezed tight, leaving Daryl completely and utterly dumbfounded. His arms hung limply at his sides, caught off guard by the surprising gesture. Though as soon as it’d begun, it ended. Y/N unwound herself from around his body and took a step back, a pink tinge to her cheeks he hadn’t noticed earlier.

She whispered a somber goodbye — though Daryl couldn’t hear it over the sound of the blood rushing to his ears — and then she was gone.

The archer fought back the urge to follow, telling himself over and over again that he was making the right decision — he was choosing blood, he was choosing family, he was choosing —

“Hey! Where’s my hug at, sweet cheeks?” Merle’s suddenly hollered, calling after Y/N.

She didn’t look back and Daryl fought back the impulse to start swinging.

But Merle just laughed, the noise loud and boisterous as he sauntered forward. “Damn, lil’ brother. Didn’t think ya had it in ya! I was startin’ ta’ think ya played for the other fuckin’ team’,” he jeered, clapping the archer on the back with more force than necessary.

Daryl’s entire body tensed up, his darkened gaze snapping towards his brother. He noticed then that Merle was also watching Y/N — though his eye line was fixated on one specific part of her body…

“Let’s go,” the archer spat under his breath as he spun around and stormed off, his hands balling into fists.

He had to walk away. Otherwise, he’d lose it — he’d give in to instinct, he’d allow the rage coursing through him to take over, and all of this would’ve been for nothing.

So he took a deep breath, relaxed his clenched fists, and dismissed any lingering thoughts of her.

Daryl scoffed at the memory, an unlit cigarette still caught between his teeth.

He pulled out his lighter and flicked his thumb against the wheel, sparking a small flame before inhaling a deep breath. The familiar taste of nicotine and ash filled his senses as he drew smoke into his lungs, immediately feeling a rush of calm flow through him.

Daryl existed in the quiet, taking another long drag of his cigarette. He pulled his legs towards his chest, resting his elbows atop his knees, letting his hands dangle in front of him. He watched the lit cigarette butt dim and dance between his fingertips, the embers burning off and drifting into the grass.

It’d only taken a single day for the archer to come to his senses — to realize the mistake he’d made in leaving with his brother. And if he was being honest, it’d had nothing to do with Merle. He couldn’t blame his brother because his brother hadn’t changed — his brother was still the same brash, volatile, ill-tempered redneck he’d known his whole life.

No, it was him — he was the one who had changed.

“Would ya slow yer damn roll? I ain’t the athlete I used ta’ be, ya know!” Merle bellowed from somewhere behind Daryl, clearly struggling to keep up with the younger brother’s pace.

But the archer didn’t slow, his strides matching the beat of his pounding heart. He ducked under tree branches and side-stepped exposed roots, the prison growing nearer with each step he took.

It wasn’t until Daryl heard a sudden thud, followed by a viciously snarled curse, that he slowed. He spun around, spotting Merle pushing up off the forest floor.

“Ya good?” Daryl called out, crossing back and reaching down, offering his hand.

But Merle just swatted him away, his expression twisting in contempt as he staggered back to his feet. “Lemme ask ya somethin’,” he growled. “How the hell ya think this’s gonna go, huh? Ya think those assholes are jus’ gonna forget ‘bout everythin’ that happened? Ya think we’re jus’ gonna hug it out an’ sing ‘round the campfire like some kinda damn afternoon special?”

The archer fought back the urge to roll his eyes. “Ya —”

“This ‘bout that skirt from yesterday? Huh? That it?” Merle steamrolled over his attempt to interrupt, taking a step forward, the brothers now toe to toe.

Daryl felt a prickle of heat flush the back of his neck, his chest tightening. Merle was just trying to get a rise out of him — he knew that deep down — but damn, was it working. “It ain’t ‘bout her,” the archer growled defensively, fixing him with a glare. “It’s ‘bout survival, ’bout rebuildin’ — ‘bout tryin’ ta’ make somethin’ outta this shit world. It can’t jus’ be us out here, man — not anymore.”

Merle rolled his eyes. “Oh, c’mon, did Officer Friendly force-feed ya that bullshit?”

Daryl stiffened before huffing a breath and waving his brother off. He turned away, determined to continue his trek back home before it was too late — but he’d only made it a couple of feet when Merle called after him once more.

“It ain’t ever gonna work,” the older brother voiced, his usually brash tone dimming into something surprisingly vulnerable. “It — it jus’ ain’t. Not after everythin’ — not after what I did.”

The archer glanced back, watching Merle’s notorious bravado finally melt away, replaced with something he could’ve sworn looked like guilt. “We ain’t dead yet, man,” Daryl rumbled simply. “Still time ta’ make shit right.”

Merle considered his words for a long moment — but before he could respond, the sound of barraging gunfire exploded through the air.

Daryl’s head snapped in the direction of the noise, feeling his stomach drop when he realized where exactly it was coming from.

He took off into a sprint, Merle’s pounding footsteps echoing directly behind him.

Daryl lied to his brother that day.

In his defense, it hadn’t been deliberate. When Merle had questioned his intentions, alluding to the idea that Y/N was the main reason for his urgency to return home, the archer had denied it.

He hadn’t known it back then, but the truth became startlingly clear once he’d made it back to the prison, marched up the pathway leading to cellblock C, and laid eyes on her.

Daryl found Y/N crouched down beside Axel’s unmoving form, one hand resting on his shoulder.

His steps faltered, feeling as though he was intruding on a private moment — but he couldn’t help himself. The Governor had attacked the prison, his people were shaken, and damn it, he just needed to make sure she was okay.

She stood a moment later, turning to rejoin the rest of the group huddled by the fence, her despondent expression filling his bones with a red-hot rage.

But then her eyes met his.

Y/N’s footsteps stilled, her gaze widening in disbelief as she looked at him. A heartbeat passed between them before Daryl noticed how she was holding herself — hunched over slightly, one hand wrapped around the opposite arm, blood seeping out from between her fingertips.

He crossed to her in three long strides, ignoring the heat that flushed his chest the closer he neared.

Instead, he focused on the wound — that he could deal with, that made sense.

Unlike the unexpected and rapid thrumming of his pulse.

“Daryl,” she breathed in disbelief, her voice thick as though the word had gotten tangled somewhere in her throat.

His name sounded like honey the way it rolled off her tongue.

He shrugged off his crossbow and tossed it aside, wordlessly reaching forward and pulling her hand away from the injury. He examined the laceration carefully �� which upon closer inspection appeared to be a gunshot wound — though luckily enough, the bullet seemed to have only grazed the side of her arm.

The archer reached into his back pocket, grabbed the red rag he kept there, and gently pressed it against the wound. “Jus’ keep pressure on it, alright?” he rasped, guiding Y/N’s limp hand to rest over the cloth, stalling the blood flow.

He glanced down at her, doing a slight double-take when he realized she was watching him, a slightly strained smile pulling at her lips. “You came back,” she whispered, her eyes warm despite the blood splattered across her cheek, the pallor in her complexion.

Daryl swallowed the lump in his throat, incredibly aware of how little space remained between them. He managed a stiff nod in response, his voice suddenly lost.

But Y/N’s smile merely grew, like the first hint of sunshine after a devastating storm.

And the tightness in his chest finally faded.

The archer inhaled another long drag from his cigarette, the smoke spilling past his lips and disappearing into the growing night.

Returning to the prison had given Daryl a sense of purpose, a sense of hope — he was back where he belonged and the threat of the Governor just didn’t seem so insurmountable anymore.

And then his big brother went and got himself killed.

Daryl stormed across the field that led to the prison’s courtyard, shoulders set, fists balled, eyes rimmed red.

The Governor would pay — he’d pay for what he’d done.

To Glenn, to Maggie, to countless others.

He’d pay for what he did to Merle.

The archer’s footsteps faltered, only briefly, when he spotted Y/N pacing back and forth behind the gate. Her head snapped towards him as he approached, her worried expression melting into relief as she quickly pulled the gate open for him.

“You okay?” she called to him, brow furrowing as she craned her neck, now looking behind him. “Where’s Merle?”

Daryl kept his gaze forward, digging his fingernails into the palm of his hand as he marched past her without a second glance. “Dead,” he grunted, ignoring the prickling sensation growing behind his eyes.

“What?” he heard her exclaim, though he didn’t turn around — he kept his momentum pushing ahead, hellbent on going after the Governor and taking him down once and for all.

No matter what the cost.

He stalked towards where he’d parked his motorcycle, slinging his crossbow over his back and mounting the bike in one swift motion.

But Y/N was just as quick.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” she jogged towards him, planting herself in front of the bike, an alarmed look in her eyes. “What’re you doing?”

Daryl felt a swell of anger wash over him, an unusual feeling when directed towards her. “Move,” he growled, using his heel to knock the bike’s kickstand up.

Y/N’s brow furrowed, his intent becomingly startling clear. “No.”

He was caught off guard by her protest, though snapped out of it just as soon — his scowl deepened, his eyes darkening, seeing nothing but redness and fury and Merle’s reanimated corpse flickering through his mind. “Move, damn it,” he snarled once more.

But Y/N stood her ground regardless of the wariness in her gaze. “No.”

The archer’s rage churned inside him, his grip white-knuckled around the throttle. “Ya —”

“Please, don’t do this,” she interrupted his brusque retort, shaking her head. “I promise — I promise — he’ll get what’s coming to him, but Daryl…this is not the way.”

He knew deep down she was right, but he didn’t want to hear it — he didn’t want to hear ration or reason or the pity in her voice.

He didn’t want to hear any of it.

“I’m sorry,” she suddenly whispered, emotion clouding her eyes. “God, I’m so sorry about Merle. I’m —”

Something inside the archer snapped. “Ya know what, ya can drop the damn act,” he hissed, springing off the bike and shoving it to the ground with a deafening crash. He ignored the way Y/N flinched as he barreled towards her like a surging storm. “Ya can stop pretendin’ like anyone in this fuckin’ place gave a single shit ‘bout my brother!” he fired back, his voice rising. “Or me, for that matter!”

Y/N recoiled away from him, eyes wide. “I’m —” she started, shrinking under his heated approach. “I didn’t —”

“Forget it,” the archer spat, unable to stop the fervor spewing out of him. “Ya don’t know shit.”

A beat of silence passed as they stared one another down — but the more the quiet stretched on, the more a different emotion began to seep through the archer.

Guilt.

Unable to watch the hurt settling across Y/N’s features, Daryl turned away, allowing his brewing vehemence to carry him across the courtyard and to the doors leading into cellblock C. He paused at the doorway, unable to stop himself from looking back.

He watched Y/N’s head lower, her shoulders drop, before she slowly reached down, grabbing his toppled motorcycle by the handlebars and propping it upright.

The archer swallowed his remorse, buried his instincts, and stalked inside.

Daryl hissed a breath as the burnt end of the cigarette singed his fingertip. He stubbed the flame out against the heel of his boot, flicking the butt away into the grass.

Still, to this day, he felt bad about losing his temper. The anger had clearly been misdirected, but in the moment, he hadn’t been able to get a handle on it — Y/N had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Despite the aftermath of his outburst weighing heavily on him, he’d kept his distance from her throughout the days that followed.

Old habits die hard.

Daryl woke with a start, his eyes snapping open, chasing away lingering images of the nightmare he’d found himself immersed in.

Sleep had never been kind to him, even before everything went to shit — tonight was no different.

He could still see flashes of redness and death, smell the scent of rotting corpses and bloodshed, hear the sounds of tormented screams and anguished whimpers —

Daryl’s thoughts faltered as he quickly pushed up onto his elbows, straining his ears.

He realized then that the whimpering wasn’t coming from just his imagination. No, it was real — and it was coming from somewhere inside the cellblock.

The archer sprang up, untangling himself from the bed sheet coiled at his feet before shuffling towards the doorway. He paused there, his senses on high alert, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end as he listened carefully.

When another soft cry sounded, he moved from the entryway, slowly slinking past cell after cell and following the noise.

It wasn’t long before he found himself standing outside Y/N’s cell.

Daryl peered into the shadowed room, just barely able to make out the shape of her beneath the covers. She murmured something jumbled and incoherent, her words muffled as though her face was pressed into the pillow. She tossed and turned for a moment before finally settling.

When she remained still, the archer nearly left for his own cell.

But then he heard a quietly gasped sob and began moving forward before he could think twice.

Daryl crouched down beside Y/N’s bedside, turning on the lantern she’d left sitting on the floor. He shielded his eyes from the light until they adjusted before focusing on her.

She was curled up, covers drawn to her chin, faint tear tracks marking the sides of her face. Her brow was knitted, causing lines to form across her forehead — he fought back the urge to reach out and smooth them away.

Apparently, he wasn’t the only one sleep was unkind to.

Another soft whimper blew past her lips and Daryl reached for her, gently shaking her shoulder.

Y/N immediately jolted awake, shooting upright, disoriented and alarmed as her bleary eyes darted around the cell.

“Hey, hey,” Daryl quickly rasped, holding his hands out in front of him. “It’s alright.”

“What — what happened?” she croaked, her voice thick with sleep, her wide gaze finally settling on him.

The archer shook his head, pulling back slightly, second-guessing his decision to wake her. “Nothin’ — nothin’, alright? We’re okay.”

“What —” she sounded, a bewildered look flitting across her face as she settled her hand against her undoubtedly racing heart. “Are you okay?”

Daryl’s brow furrowed at her question, confused as to why that would be her next question and not ‘what the fuck are you doing in my cell?’ Regardless, he nodded once. “Yeah,” the archer brushed off her concern, sitting back on his haunches. “Ya — uh, ya were cryin’,” he revealed hesitantly, scratching the back of his neck as he watched for her reaction.

Y/N straightened, the top bunk just grazing the crown of her head as she dabbed her fingertip at the corner of her eye, appearing almost embarrassed suddenly. “Oh,” she whispered, wiping away the tears that’d formed.

Daryl gnawed on the inside of his cheek. “Ya alright?” he rasped after a long moment.

She quickly nodded her head, waving off his worry. “Oh, no — yeah, no, I’m fine,” she replied flippantly, shooting the archer a tight-lipped smile.

Despite Daryl seeing right through her bullshit, he didn’t push.

Instead, he nodded once and clambered back to his feet.

But he’d just barely turned to leave when Y/N spoke up once more. “Hey, Daryl?”

The archer faltered, glancing back at her. “Yeah?”

Her demeanor appeared collected, though he could see her hands twisting nervously around the sheet splayed out across his lap. “I —” she paused, seemingly working up the nerve to say what was next. “Are we okay?”

Daryl felt his chest tighten, the heaviness that’d grown between them splintering in that moment. There was something about her words, the smallness in her voice, that had him kicking himself for being so damn stubborn, for not making things right sooner.

She raked a hand through her tousled hair. “I just — I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have — I mean, I wasn’t trying to —”

“Stop,” Daryl cut off her rambling, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I was actin’ like an asshole,” he grumbled admittedly, the shame he’d buried creeping back in.

The tension in Y/N’s features softened as she regarded him. “It’s okay.”

For some reason, her easy forgiveness made Daryl’s insides churn.

“Nah, it ain’t,” he shot back sharply, almost wishing she’d curse him out instead. “Wasn’t right ta’ take that shit out on ya.”

“You were grieving,” she justified, her explanation simple and understanding.

Daryl worked his jaw, clenching and unclenching as he stared at the far wall of her cell, his gaze darkening — he didn’t deserve her compassion. “Well, ya probably stopped me from doin’ somethin’ real stupid,” he muttered dryly.

She merely shrugged, still completely unfazed. “Grief makes us do stupid things,” she murmured, defending him yet again. “I am sorry about your brother, you know,” she whispered a moment later, the sincerity in her voice knocking down the wall Daryl had worked so hard to keep between them.

He nodded slowly, clearing his throat before speaking again. “Merle was no hero,” he finally rumbled. “But he died tryin’ ta’ make shit right,” he mustered, his eyes finding hers amidst the shadows of her cell.

Y/N shot him a small, somewhat sad smile. “Then he didn’t die for nothing.”

Daryl swallowed the lump that formed in his throat, feeling as though his heart was moments away from bursting out of his chest. It was as though the cell was shrinking around him, the walls closing in — and the only thing keeping him above the surface was her.

“Get some sleep,” he managed gruffly, turning to leave once more.

“Daryl?”

The archer stilled. “Hm?” he sounded, not trusting his voice.

“Can you stay?” she whispered, so softly he almost missed it entirely. “Just a little longer?”

Daryl shifted his weight back and forth, feeling the overwhelming urge to run, to retreat to his own cell and pretend he hadn’t heard her.

But the slight tremble in her voice, something others surely would’ve missed, pulled him right back in.

The air thickened as he walked towards her, every fiber of his being screaming at him to make a run for it while he still had the chance. Y/N watched him approach, slightly wide-eyed, his steps faltering the closer he neared. She maneuvered slightly on the bed, moving towards the wall as though making room for him beside her.

Instead, Daryl did the most rational thing he could think of — he grabbed the empty mattress on the top bunk, slid it off the frame, and dropped it onto the floor next to her.

Y/N’s brow furrowed. “Oh, you don’t have to —”

“G’night,” Daryl interjected abruptly, avoiding her gaze as he quickly turned off the lantern and laid down. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest and squeezed his eyes shut, his face surely on fire.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Daryl peeked an eye open, certain she could hear his thrumming pulse from where she sat. But a moment later, the bed creaked as she settled back down against the rickety mattress.

He released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

The archer wasn’t sure how much time passed before Y/N’s breathing evened out, the stranger from the woods all those days ago finally falling into a deep and restful sleep.

He, on the other hand, remained awake until morning came.

She’d asked him to stay and that was exactly what he was going to do.

Not even sleep could take him from her.

Everything changed after that night.

After the people from Woodbury moved into the prison, the demand for supplies nearly tripled. The archer found himself going on runs more often than not, hunting for game or scavenging local businesses — but the days and nights he was home were spent with her.

They fell into a routine of sorts. The days were spent working the fence or tending to things around the prison — but most nights, they’d sneak away from the others and spend hours sitting atop one of the unused watchtowers.

It became ‘their spot’, as Y/N had put it.

Some nights they sat quietly, existing in comfortable silence, watching the vast night sky. Other nights, Daryl would learn things about her — those were his favorite nights.

Y/N would talk about anything and everything — the mundane stuff, the deep stuff, the things in between — while Daryl would rest his head against the watchtower and close his eyes, listening to the way her voice rose and fell. She’d tell stories of her life before the end and her hopes for the future as though there still was one.

And over time, despite the world decaying at its very core, even Daryl started to believe that maybe, just maybe, there could be one.

She became his solace.

Hell, maybe she always had been, but he’d been too damn stupid to realize it.

“I’m sick of hearing myself talk,” Y/N suddenly spoke, a soft laugh following.

Daryl’s eyes snapped open as he glanced over at her, his brow furrowing.

She shifted from where she sat, the side of her face illuminated by moonlight. “Tell me something about you,” she said sweetly, her knee brushing against his as she rested one shoulder against the watchtower, giving him her full attention.

The archer felt his face warm under her curiosity. “Ya know plenty,” he grunted — and it was the truth. He’d told her more about himself than anyone else in his entire life.

“Oh, come on,” she countered and though Daryl couldn’t see it, he sensed an eye roll. “Just one thing? Something I don’t already know and then I’ll leave you alone.”

He huffed a breath. “Fine,” he grumbled, giving in.

Y/N waited patiently as the archer fell into thought, racking his brain for something to share — something even worth sharing. The silence that dredged on wasn’t helping either — if anything, it only added to the pressure. His life wasn’t all that interesting, never had been, never would be.

Daryl snuck a glance at Y/N — well, maybe that wasn’t entirely true.

“Uh,” he rumbled, scratching the back of his head. “I don’t know. Guess I always wanted a dog?” he mustered, the confession coming off more so a question than an actual statement.

Still, Y/N’s face broke out into one of her million-dollar smiles. “I can totally see you with a dog,” she beamed. “You never had one?”

Daryl almost shook his head, but then a faint memory came to mind. He looked away, propping his elbows against his knees and focusing straight ahead.

“When, uh —” he cleared his throat uncomfortably, picking absently at the skin beside his thumbnail. “When I was a kid, I was walkin’ home from school. Found this stray covered in mud, damn near skin an’ bones. An’ so I took it home,” he pressed his lips together before snorting a breath. “Even tied my shoelace ‘round its neck like a leash.”

“Aw,” Y/N sounded softly.

“Mhm,” the archer mumbled, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

After a stretch of silence lingered, she spoke up once more. “But you didn’t keep it?”

Daryl began picking at his skin a little more aggressively. “My old man — he was on a bender. Started screamin’ an’ hollerin’ when he saw me ‘cause he ‘didn’t wanna take care a’ no mangy mutt’,” he bit out, echoing his father’s words from all those years ago. “He threw somethin’ — don’t remember what. Maybe an empty whiskey bottle. Poor dog was scared outta its mind,” he murmured, shaking his head. “It pissed on the floor, right in front a’ him.”

Y/N’s expression turned troubled, her lips forming into a small frown.

Daryl ignored the tightness growing in his throat. “So he tossed the dog in his truck, drove off, an’ that was that — I never saw it again,” he finished, wincing as he ripped a small piece of skin off his thumb, drawing a drop of blood.

“What’d your dad do?” Y/N asked, her voice small.

The archer wiped the blood off onto his jeans. “Don’t know,” he shrugged, glancing over at her. “He never said an’ I never asked.”

She held his gaze for a long moment before letting out a soft sigh.

Daryl turned his head, staring out over the railing and into the darkened forest. He’d never told anyone that story — not even Merle, who’d been doing another stint in juvie at the time. The truth was, he carried a lot of guilt from that day. Sure, he was only a kid, but he was the one who’d brought the stray home in the first place.

Whatever happened to that dog…well, that was on him.

“Hey,” Y/N murmured, gently poking the side of his arm, drawing him back to her. “Maybe we’ll find you a dog of your own someday.”

Daryl quirked a brow, unconvinced.

“You never know,” she shrugged. “What would you name it?”

He scoffed softly in response, shaking his head.

“Come on,” she reached over and poked him once more. “Humor me.”

“How ‘bout this,” the archer relented. “If — an’ that’s a big-ass if — we ever find a dog someday, ya get ta' name it.”

Y/N’s face immediately lit up. “Me?”

“Mhm,” he nodded his head, feeling the corners of his lips twitch.

She exhaled a breath, her gaze widening. “This…this is a shit-ton of pressure, Dixon,” she whispered, the wheels in her mind, very obviously, turning.

Despite everything, a soft laugh rumbled from deep inside Daryl’s chest, the sound strange and unfamiliar. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d genuinely laughed — the noise got stuck in his throat, like his body was physically rejecting the sensation.

When he noticed Y/N watching him, a cheeky grin plastered across her face, his skin flushed.

“Okay, okay, let me think…” she grew serious, closing her eyes and resting her chin against her clasped hands. Not even a second later, her eyes shot open. “Got it!”

Daryl motioned for her to continue. “Lemme hear it.”

“Alright,” she shifted, facing him head-on. “Dog.”

The archer’s brow knitted together, his gaze narrowing. “Dog?”

“Dog,” she nodded resolutely.

“Ya — ya wanna name the dog ‘Dog’?” he questioned dubiously.

“Yup,” she grinned, popping the ‘p’.

Daryl rolled his eyes, fighting back a smirk. “Ya got a couple a’ screws loose, ya know that?” he teased, tapping the side of his head.

“Shut up,” Y/N laughed softly, nudging him with her elbow.

A beat of quiet passed between them before Daryl cleared his throat. “We ought'a head back,” he grumbled, starting to stand.

But then Y/N reached out, grabbing onto his hand. “Hang on,” she objected, looking up at him. “Just a few more minutes?” she asked, gently tugging his arm down.

The skin on his hand tingled beneath her touch as her gaze, warm like honey, melted further into his.

Before he could think twice, he found himself settling back down beside her, his hand still intertwined around hers.

Besides, when had he ever been able to say ‘no’ to her?

Daryl could’ve sworn those nights up in the watchtower were the best nights of his life.

Then the prison fell.

And destroyed everything good along with it.

“Do you miss her?”

Daryl’s eyes snapped open, just then noticing the quiet that’d settled over the funeral home. He glanced over at Beth, who remained seated in front of the piano, her kind gaze watching him curiously.

Settling further inside the casket he laid in, the archer turned to stare up at the ceiling, folding one arm behind his head, the other laid out across his stomach. He ignored Beth’s question — not because it wasn’t true, but because he knew if he spoke, if he started talking about her, the hollowness inside his chest would swallow him whole.

“I think she’s still out there,” Beth assured him quietly, steadfast in hanging onto whatever hope she could muster. “I think they all are.”

Daryl grunted softly in response, not trusting his voice.

He wanted to believe that — he wanted nothing more than to believe that Y/N and the others were out there somewhere, somewhere safe. But he wasn’t a foolish man — and he just couldn’t bring himself to feign the kind of certainty that came so effortlessly to Beth.

“‘And whatever you ask in prayer, you will receive, if you have faith’,” she suddenly murmured, her eyes glowing against the candlelight, a bittersweet smile tugging at her lips. “Daddy used ta’ quote scripture — that was one of his favorites,” she explained, her voice growing thick at the mention of her father. She pulled herself together before continuing. “I have faith,” her words were resolute, as though not only trying to convince him but herself as well.

The archer huffed a breath, crossing his arms over his chest. “Got enough for the both a’ us?” he muttered dryly, quirking a brow.

Beth laughed, breaking the heaviness that’d spread. “Sure do,” she beamed before shooting him a meaningful look. “You can thank me later.”

With that, she swiveled around on the bench and faced the piano once more, her fingers dancing along the keys, filling the room with a gentle melody.

Daryl wasn’t a religious man — never had been, never would be.

He didn’t buy into all that bullshit. If there was a God out there…what the fuck was he doing? Where was he? Why didn’t he stop the world from ending? Why did he let the bad destroy the good, time and time again?

He just couldn’t put his faith into something so cruel, so merciless.

Daryl wasn’t a religious man.

But for the first time in his entire life, he closed his eyes and prayed.

The archer felt his throat constrict.

He tilted his head back, looking up at the darkened sky. The sun had melted into the Earth, in its place thousands upon thousands of littered stars, surrounding a glowing crescent-shaped moon.

Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe there was a God out there — some higher power or greater being — who’d been listening that night in the funeral home.

Because somehow, someway, despite all the odds stacked against him…he’d found her.

Daryl felt his lip split beneath another vicious punch, his head snapping to the side.

He was losing strength, his bruised body slowly giving out on him as two of the Claimers continued to relentlessly beat him. It seemed like no matter how hard he fought back, he just couldn’t get the upper hand.

He was outnumbered and unarmed, but as long as their attention remained on him, he wouldn’t back down — because once they were done with him, they’d move on to the others.

They’d move on to her.

Daryl caught Y/N’s horrified gaze from the other side of the road — she was knelt in front of Tony, who had a fistful of her hair in his grip, simultaneously holding Michonne at gunpoint. Y/N was struggling against his hold, attempting to break free, her features twisted in pain.

A low growl rumbled from deep inside the archer, a red-hot rage coursing through his veins as he fought even harder against the two men.

He managed to dodge another punch, but in the process, connected with a swift jab to the ribcage. He exhaled sharply, losing his breath as the two closed in on him once more — though as the archer braced himself for the next strike, he noticed that the men had suddenly frozen in place.

Daryl followed their stares, finally understanding what had caused the abrupt standstill.

Rick was staggering away from the leader of the Claimers, red staining the bottom half of his face — the archer didn’t even realize it was blood until he saw Joe. The man swayed unsteadily on his feet, eyes wide, mouth agape, as his hands reached for where his throat should’ve been.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Michonne grabbed Tony’s gun and turned it on himself, shooting him once. Daryl followed suit, landing a solid hook against the side of Billy’s face. He heard another gunshot ring out but was too focused on the man at his feet to notice. Without any hesitation, the archer stomped the heel of his boot into the man’s skull, killing him instantly.

He backed away from Billy’s crushed form, stumbling over Harvey’s body, a bullet hole now between his lifeless eyes. He spun around, steadying himself against the hood of the car in front of him as he worked to control his heaving breaths. He’d turned just in time to see Rick mercilessly stabbing Dan, over and over again until the man’s center was nothing but a mess of blood and guts.

And then he saw her.

She was still on her knees, though now hunched over beside Tony, staring silently at his unmoving figure.

Daryl pushed away from the truck and rounded the hood, his heart leaping into his throat as he made a beeline towards her. His footsteps faltered the closer he neared, the sight before him suddenly registering — Tony had been shot through the neck by Michonne, but the front of his skull had also been caved in.

His gaze flickered towards Y/N, just then noticing the blood-soaked boulder clasped tightly in her hand.

It took every ounce of strength to not rush forward, to not pull her into his arms and hold her close because damn it, she was alive, she was okay, she was here.

The archer stepped over Tony’s body, slowly crouching down in front of Y/N — when his approach didn’t stir her, a jolt of unease shot through him. Her vacant eyes were trained on the dead man, her features expressionless and ashen. There was a cut just above her eyebrow, a small trail of blood trickling down the side of her face, but other than that, she appeared relatively unharmed.

Daryl gently took her hand in his and carefully unclasped her fingers from around the rock. He tossed the boulder aside before settling down, kneeling opposite her, his deep blue eyes maintaining a watchful look.

The archer brushed his thumb over the back of her limp hand, squeezing softly a moment later.

And then, almost hesitantly, she squeezed back.

Daryl held his breath as her eyes found his, welling with unshed tears, the helplessness in her haunted gaze twisting his insides. “I never killed someone before,” she whispered suddenly, choking on her words as though speaking shards of glass.

He wasn’t used to seeing her this way — she’d always been so steady, a light others were drawn towards, that he’d been drawn towards. And now…well, now he wished the Claimers would come alive so he could rip them apart all over again.

Unable to stand the sight of her broken expression any longer, Daryl reached for her. “C’mere,” he rasped, slipping his hand behind the back of her head and pulling her forward.

Y/N’s features crumpled as she fell against his chest, a hitched sob catching in her throat. She buried her face into the crook of his neck, gripping onto the front of his vest as though he was the only thing keeping her afloat.

He wrapped his other arm securely around her back, keeping her cradled against his body. “S’ alright,” the archer rumbled as she held on tighter to him, her frame trembling as she cried. “I got ya, Y/N, I got ya.”

Daryl wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, woven around one another, his pounding heart echoing hers.

But he didn’t mind — because he’d found her.

And nothing else seemed to matter much with her engulfed in his arms.

The weeks that’d followed nearly destroyed them all.

With unrelenting heat, dwindling supplies, and the hollowness of loss inside each of them, morale had been at an all-time low. The little amount of food they’d managed to scrounge up had been divvied into morsels — though not enough to soothe their aches of hunger. The water supply eventually depleted, leaving their throats raw and mouths like cotton as they walked — day after day, down winding road after winding road, searching for salvation that was nowhere to find.

The line that’d separated them from the dead had become alarmingly thin.

And it’d only been a matter of time before that line disappeared altogether.

Daryl roused from his sleep, somehow feeling even more exhausted than when he first closed his eyes.

He scrubbed at his face, wiping away the thin sheen of sweat that’d formed before huffing a breath. The sign of first morning light seeped through the canopy of trees above him, visible through the motionless overgrowth of leaves and greenery. The heat was already suffocating — his clothes stuck uncomfortably to his skin, his throat desperate for water he couldn’t afford to drink.

But focusing on that, focusing on the discomfort, was much easier than acknowledging the looming darkness that lingered.

The archer pushed up onto his elbows, the forest floor digging into his skin. He scanned the makeshift camp his group had set up, positioned just off the main road. Almost everyone was still asleep, curled up on the harsh wooded ground within the permitter they’d barricaded.

Except for Y/N who was nowhere to be seen.

Daryl felt his stomach lurch as he pulled himself off the ground and staggered to his feet, ignoring the wave of dizziness he felt — it’d been days since he’d eaten, since any of them had eaten. He grabbed his crossbow and slung it over his shoulder, tiptoeing around the others as to not wake them — they deserved a few more minutes in a reality that wasn’t as fucked as this one.

The only other person awake was Glenn, who’d volunteered to be on watch. He sat with his back against a large tree trunk, Maggie at his side, her head resting against his shoulder.

Daryl headed towards them, drawing Glenn’s attention. But before he could say anything, Glenn nodded his head towards something on the main road, careful not to jostle Maggie awake.

The archer followed his gaze, spotting Y/N through the trees. He nodded once in silent ‘thanks’, feeling the pit in his stomach loosen as he marched out of the woods and crossed over the asphalt.

Y/N was sitting on the hood of a long-since abandoned car, her feet perched atop the dented front bumper. Her eyes flashed towards him as he approached, prominent dark circles beneath a weary gaze, so unlike the warmth he was used to seeing.

Daryl felt his throat constrict — he could handle his own demons, the heaviness that’d latched onto his bones after the last few weeks.

But hers?

She needed to be okay — he needed her to be okay.

He slid onto the hood, the car dipping below his weight as he settled beside her. A comfortable silence stretched on as they stared down the long and desolate road ahead, each lost in their own thoughts.

“I miss ‘our spot’,” Y/N suddenly murmured, her tone wistful.

Daryl grunted softly in response, the nights they’d spent up in the watchtower flashing through his mind.

He missed it too — he hadn’t known peace like that before.

“God, we had it so good back then,” she exhaled a breath, lowering her head.

The archer peeked over at her, hearing the hint of emotion growing in her words, the sadness she tried to conceal. But she couldn’t hide it — not from him.

He could tell how she was feeling by the steadiness of her breath.

“We still had Hershel…” she whispered, clasping her hands together, her knuckles turning white. “Bob…Tyreese…” her voice cracked slightly before she glanced up. “Beth.”

It was Daryl’s turn to look away.

He couldn’t think about her — not without smelling moonshine and ash, not without feeling the weight of her lifeless body in his arms.

He never got to thank her.

When the prison fell, Daryl had been certain he’d never see Y/N again — that somehow, someway, she’d burned along with it. But Beth…she’d known — she’d known he’d find her again one day.

And he never got to thank her.

“I know you’re in pain,” Y/N’s voice broke through his guilt-ridden thoughts, drawing him back to her. “And I know how easy it is to just shove it down and push it away and pretend like it doesn’t exist,” she looked over at him then, her gaze steady and knowing — and despite the scrutiny, he couldn’t find it in himself to look away. “And I’m not asking you to talk about it. But please, just — just don’t pretend like it’s not there.”

Daryl gnawed on the inside of his cheek, his teeth breaking skin and filling his senses with the metallic taste of blood.

When Y/N reached towards him, he stiffened.

She slowly brushed away the hair that fell in front of his eyes, smoothing the strands back out of his face. “You’re not carved out of stone, Daryl,” she murmured gently before resting her palm against his flushed cheek.

The air suddenly thickened, the archer becoming painfully aware of how little space remained between them. There was a pull — almost magnetic — that urged him to lean closer, to draw nearer, to take her in his arms and shut out the rest of the world.

But before he could give into instinct, he pulled away and hopped off the hood of the car, landing on his feet with a huff.

Daryl looked anywhere but at her, ignoring the slight tremble in his fingertips. “M’ gonna —” he quickly cleared the thickness in his throat. “M’ gonna take a look ‘round — see what I can see.”

Y/N was quiet, though the archer didn’t dare look at her. “Okay,” she finally sounded — and even though Daryl couldn’t see her expression, he could hear the tangible defeat in her tone.

He clenched his jaw, kicking himself for being the source of her disappointment as he beelined towards the woods on the other side of the road, opposite the campsite.

But he’d only taken a couple of steps when he faltered, realizing then that he couldn’t just walk away — he’d never been able to just walk away.

Not from her.

“I hear ya,” he rasped, glancing back at her, the words tumbling from his mouth before he could stop them. “Ya know, what ya were sayin’ before an’ — an’ all that. I jus’ — I hear ya,” he mustered, the jumbled explanation all he could offer.

A tired smile tugged at Y/N’s lips. “I know,” she assured him softly.

Daryl held her gaze before nodding once, turning without another word, and disappearing into the trees.

A newfound determination coursed through the archer as he ventured further into the woods — there had to be something else out there, somewhere his people could call ‘home’. They couldn’t keep going on like this, fighting day-to-day just to survive — it couldn’t be them and the dead anymore.

There had to be something else, something more.

The world couldn’t be all bad.

Not the same world that’d given him her.

Daryl pulled his gaze away from the darkened sky.

His eyes trailed over the towering gates that surrounded Alexandria — sturdy iron sheets and impenetrable steel, the only thing keeping away the dead that roamed just outside them. He brushed his fingers over the ground, tugging at the overgrown blades of grass beneath where he sat as he fell back in thought.

Despite his initial doubt that Alexandria was all it promised to be, in time, the community had proven him wrong. Sure, there were fractures in its foundation, but it was better than nothing.

It was better than before.

And for the first time since the end of everything, there was hope for a future.

Smoke spilled past the archer’s lips, wafting in front of him before disappearing into the night air.

The streets of Alexandria were still — a welcomed change in comparison to life outside the walls. Daryl shifted on the porch steps, taking another drag from his cigarette as he rested his back against the railing. He tilted his head backward, blowing out a lungful of smoke, feeling his nerves calm in the process.

“Hey, stranger,” a voice suddenly called, breaking the quiet that’d stretched on.

Daryl knew that voice — knew it better than the back of his own damn hand.

He quickly shook away the hair that’d fallen in front of his eyes, watching as Y/N approached.

She looked different — her hair was washed, her clothes no longer blood-stained and tattered. The lines of worry that’d marred her features were smoothed away, replaced by a warm smile that only grew the closer she neared. It was strange — almost like getting a glimpse of her before the dead started walking.

Her footsteps slowed as she stopped in front of him, her head cocking slightly to the side. “What’s that look for?”

Daryl ducked his head down, his face feeling fuzzy — like a kid getting caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Nothin’,” he shook his head, inhaling another drag from his cigarette before stubbing the flame out against the porch steps.

Y/N plopped down beside him, propping her back up against the railing opposite his. “So,” she started, turning her attention towards him. “Deanna was asking where you were tonight.”

The archer scoffed as he flicked the cigarette butt away. “Aaron’s,” he rasped, pulling one knee to his chest, resting his elbow on top of it.

Y/N appeared surprised at his response but didn’t push further. Instead, she exhaled heavily. “This place is like the fucking Twilight Zone.”

He huffed a breath, nodding in agreement. “Ya headin’ back over there?” he rumbled after a moment, jerking his head in the direction of the welcome party.

“Oh, no,” she quickly shook her head. “I’m sick of people,” she admitted before glancing over at him. “You don’t count.”

Daryl snorted a laugh, rolling his eyes despite the strange sort of pride her words brought him.

A beat of silence passed before Y/N spoke again. “Aaron seems like a good guy.”

The archer grunted softly in response, their conversation from earlier coming to mind. “He wants me ta’ start scoutin’ with him — findin’ other survivors, bringin’ ‘em back.”

Y/N’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

“Mhm,” Daryl sounded, nestling the side of his thumb between his teeth.

“Is that something you’d wanna do?” she asked, leaning forward a fraction.

He paused, taking a minute to consider her words. If he was being honest, he felt more comfortable outside Alexandria’s walls than inside — and having a good enough reason to be back on the road didn’t seem like such a bad thing. But if he was being really honest…

Daryl’s gaze met Y/N’s once more — he hadn’t been away from her since the prison fell.

That wasn’t exactly a time in his life he’d like to revisit.

“I do alright out there, I guess,” he shrugged a shoulder up, dropping his hand back into his lap.

A look of amusement flashed over her features in response. “That’s quite the understatement.”

The corner of his mouth quirked, but he couldn’t seem to ease the sudden worry gnawing at him. “Ya gonna be alright in here?” he rasped, steadying her with a serious look.

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?” she countered smoothly — but Daryl could hear the hint of something in her tone, something he couldn’t quite place. When he remained silent, Y/N’s expression turned reflective. “I think it’ll be a good thing — you could help a lot of people out there who need it.”

The archer picked up on her deflection. “That ain’t what m’ askin’,” he retorted, calling her bluff.

Y/N looked as though she wanted to argue — but then her lips pressed together, forming a thin line. “I don’t know,” she finally said, avoiding his gaze. “I just — I don’t like being away from you, that’s all,” she admitted quietly, wringing her clasped hands together.

He stilled, never having been more grateful for nightfall — otherwise, she surely would’ve seen the sudden redness creeping over his cheeks.

“But, like I said,” she continued, exhaling a slightly awkward laugh. “It’ll be a good thing.”

He nodded once. “Mhm,” he sounded, not trusting his voice.

Her eyes softened before she began pulling herself up off the porch steps. “Well, I’m gonna get some sleep — see you in the morning?”

The archer cleared his throat. “I’ll see ya,” he rumbled.

A small smile tugged at Y/N’s lips as she headed up the steps, gently squeezing his shoulder as she passed.

He didn’t move a muscle, listening intently for the sound of the front door shutting before closing his eyes, ignoring the tingling sensation beneath where she’d touched him.

Daryl huffed a defeated breath. “Shit.”

Had he given into instinct that night, he would’ve told her the truth.

He would’ve told her that he felt the same way, that being away from her felt like losing half of himself, that nothing in his life had ever made sense until he met her. The words had toyed at the tip of his tongue, desperate to be heard after being swallowed time and time again — but he just hadn’t been able to do it.

He could almost hear Merle’s snide voice in the back of his head — taunting him, calling him ‘whipped’ and a ‘pussy’ and a ‘good-for-nothin’ redneck’, mocking him for even considering that someone like her could feel anything for someone like him.

So instead, he’d reverted back to what he knew best — shutting down and pushing away.

It wasn’t intentional, merely second nature after years and years of repetition.

But the wall he’d worked so hard to build stood no chance.

Not against her.

Daryl knew something was wrong the moment he crossed back through Alexandria’s gates.

And then the screaming started.

He took off into a sprint, his heart mimicking the echo of his footsteps pounding against the asphalt. He could hear Aaron and Morgan just behind, right on his heels, their heavy breathing mirroring his own as the sounds of anguish grew louder.

The archer felt his stomach drop the closer he neared, his mind repeating one, single phrase over and over again —

Just let her be okay.

When he and Aaron had gotten trapped in that car earlier, surrounded by walkers, he’d thought that was it for him. He was going to lead the dead away and give Aaron enough time to make it out, to make it back to Alexandria where he could continue doing what he did best — bringing salvation to those who needed it.

He’d made peace with his decision.

And as he’d grabbed the door handle, moments away from pushing into the raging swarm, he’d only been thinking one thing —

Just let her be okay.

For some reason, he’d been given a second chance and all he wanted was to see her again. It was nearly overwhelming, setting his nerves ablaze, sending his heart racing — it consumed him entirely, the thought of her.

He’d realized then what he should’ve known all along.

He’d never felt for anyone the way he felt for her.

Daryl finally found the others, all gathered in the center of town — but he barely had time to register what was happening when a single gunshot rang out.

Aaron and Morgan stood frozen beside him as they took in the scene — Rick had a gun in hand, the barrel pointed towards the ground, directly above Pete’s now-shattered skull. The crowd looked on in horror, huddled together near a dimly lit fire, eyes wide, mouths agape. Then he saw Reg — his throat sliced open, his body splayed out across Deanna’s lap, Michonne’s bloody katana lying beside him.

“Rick?” Morgan suddenly spoke, breaking the deafening silence that’d followed.

The sound drew Rick’s attention, his vacant eyes finding Morgan’s — but Daryl’s gaze drifted, meeting hers instead.

His stomach dropped when he saw her — she had one hand pressed against her cheek, blood trickling out from between her fingers, her face frozen in disbelief.

Daryl moved towards her, the rest of the world fading away.

Just let her be okay.

Y/N’s expression shifted as he neared, the apprehension that’d marred her features melting, turning into relief despite her ashen complexion and the chaos surrounding them. She absently shook her head back and forth, opening her mouth as if to say something, but no sound came out.

The archer came to a stop in front of her, his own voice lost somewhere deep inside his chest. So instead, he reached for her, very carefully, as though she’d been spun from glass. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and gently pulled her hand away from her face, revealing a gash that stretched across the entirety of her cheek.

The swell of rage that coursed through him felt red-hot, flushing his skin as he stared at the wound, his eyes glinting dangerously by the light of the fire.

“She caught the nasty end of Petey-boy’s backswing,” came Abraham’s gruff voice.

Daryl hadn’t even realized the man approached — he was too busy thinking up new ways to bring Pete back to life, all so he could shoot the dead prick dead all over again.

Abraham crouched down a few inches beside him, taking a closer look at Y/N’s injury before whistling softly. “Ya must be ridin’ the gravy train with biscuit wheels, lil’ lady. That sack a’ shit damn near took your eye out,” he drawled before glancing over at Daryl. “Don’t think she needs stitches — unless someone wants ta’ reincarnate Dr. Dickwad for a second opinion.”

Y/N attempted to huff a laugh, but the motion had her wincing, her features twisting in pain.

And Daryl had seen enough.

He grunted a gruff ‘I got it’, giving Abraham a nod of appreciation before taking Y/N by the elbow and maneuvering her away from the others, back onto the street.

She allowed him to guide her elsewhere, neither saying a single word.

The two houses Deanna had provided to the group had been split amongst the lot of them. Daryl chose to reside in the finished basement — it was small and dingy, but he didn’t mind. The room had a couch and a bathroom and was much nicer than any other place he’d ever stayed at — even before the end of times.

And right now, it was serving as a makeshift infirmary.

Y/N sat perched on the edge of the couch, her knee bouncing anxiously as she watched Daryl barrel around the space like a rampant tornado. He grabbed whatever he could think of — the first aid kit stored beneath the bathroom sink, a bottle of water, a clean t-shirt to swap out for her blood-spattered one — before making his way back to her. He set the items down on the coffee table in front of the couch and took a seat on the edge of it, opposite her.

Still, neither spoke.

Daryl kept his eyes focused on the slash mark — that was much easier than acknowledging the absence of space between them. He unscrewed the cap to the water bottle, emptying a small amount onto a dry piece of gauze before leaning forward. Ever so slowly, he dabbed at the blood that’d dripped down her face and onto her neck, ignoring the near-palpable tension.

Y/N sat still as a statue, tilting her head back slightly as he wiped away the redness. But when he moved further up, nearing the wound, she flinched, hissing reflexively. Daryl snatched his hand back as if slapped, his eyes meeting hers, quietly apologetic.

She nodded for him to continue, taking a deep breath and balling her hands into fists atop her thighs.

The archer worked his jaw, lightening his touch.

He wasn’t sure how long they sat like that — all he knew was that when he was with her, nothing else really seemed to matter.

Luckily, the wound wasn’t as severe as it’d initially appeared — it was fairly shallow, faint towards the edges, and in time would heal completely. He wanted to tell her so, but the words wouldn’t formulate — the silence that’d stretched on felt untouchable.

So instead, Daryl focused on her hands, wiping away the blood that’d stained the grooves of her skin — and although she tried to conceal it, he could feel the slight tremble in her fingertips.

After he was done cleaning her hands, he sat back, his knee brushing against hers. He glanced up, flicking his hair away and studying the cut on her face — it’d stopped bleeding, though the edges were an angry-red, spiking his own temper once more. The collar of her shirt was soaked crimson, the color more muted in areas that’d already dried.

He hadn’t noticed the way their hands remained intertwined until Y/N squeezed softly, snapping him back to reality.

Daryl pulled his hand from hers and stood, grabbing the extra t-shirt off the table and dropping it into her lap. He scooped up the first aid kit before spinning around and stalking back towards the bathroom, giving her privacy as she began to change.

The archer avoided his reflection entirely, certain he’d see nothing but flushed skin and remorseful eyes. He squatted down, yanking open the drawer beneath the sink and tossing the kit inside. He gnashed his teeth together and grabbed onto the counter, his grip white-knuckled around the edge.

He needed to get a fucking hold of himself, that was for damn sure.

After regaining his composure, Daryl slammed the drawer shut with more force than necessary and pulled himself up in one swift motion.

But his entire body froze, his blood running ice-cold, when he noticed Y/N in the reflection of the bathroom mirror, standing in the doorway behind him.

Their eyes met through the glass before the archer twisted around, facing her head-on.

Her brow was furrowed as she stared at him, her head tilting to the side, the wheels in her mind visibly turning though her expression remained unreadable. She looked like she wanted to say something but didn’t quite know how to say it. She inhaled a breath, opening her mouth, but quickly snapped it shut — and then something different flickered across her features, an expression he hadn’t seen before.

Daryl waited for her to speak, to finally break the prolonged quietness that’d carried on.

But then she was suddenly crossing towards him.

He didn’t realize what was happening until Y/N’s lips crashed against his.

It was as though a dam had broken open — every fleeting feeling, every moment of suppressed longing coming to a head after dancing around one another for so long. At first, Daryl’s entire body went numb, his brain scrambling to figure out just what in the hell was actually happening. His breath caught in his throat as he stiffened instinctually, years of touch deprivation and self-consciousness clawing their way to the surface, leaving him paralyzed against her.

But when Y/N pulled back, breaking away from the kiss, he found himself craving her in the spaces she’d filled.

Her eyes were wide, boring into his, her gaze a mixture of shock and awe that he was certain mirrored his own — like even she couldn’t believe what she’d just done. She clung onto the collar of his shirt, the material balled in her fists.

Daryl’s chest heaved beneath her touch, his breathing syncing up with hers as they stared at one another, their noses only a few inches apart, each soaking the other in for what felt like the first time.

Something inside the archer fractured, right then and there. The wall he’d created inside his mind, the one designed to keep everyone at arm’s length, began to crumble. His guard fell to pieces, brick by brick, shattering at the very foundation he’d built it on.

And in its place…her.

Without any hesitation, Daryl slipped a hand behind Y/N’s neck and surged forward, closing the gap between them and bringing his lips to hers once more.

A soft gasp escaped her at first — one of surprise — the feel of it against his mouth sending a tingle down his spine before she returned the kiss with equal fervor. Her hands slid down his chest, snaking around his middle as she pressed herself against him with similar desperation.

He slid his hand up the back of her head, holding her in place as their lips parted, exploring each other with a deeper intensity. His fingers tangled throughout her hair, desperate to feel her in all of the ways he’d denied himself of, his other hand rising to gently cup the side of her face.

But when Y/N inhaled sharply, suddenly jerking back a fraction, Daryl’s eyes snapped open.

“Ow, fuck,” she hissed, her expression pinched.

“Shit,” the archer rasped, realizing then that his hand had brushed up against the cut on her cheek. “Ya alright?” he rumbled, pulling back further to get a better look.

Y/N let out a breathy laugh, her face lighting up in a way he’d never seen before. “Yeah,” she whispered hoarsely, her cheeks tinged pink, her lips red and slightly swollen.

Once again, Daryl found himself fighting to catch his breath.

He swallowed the thickness in his throat, carefully reaching forward and picking at a strand of hair that’d been swept out of place, tucking it behind her ear instead.

Y/N leaned into his palm, laying her hands against his chest, staring at him like she thought he’d hung the moon and painted the stars.

The look shifted into something deeper as she stepped back, ghosting her fingertips down each of his arms, his skin catching fire beneath her touch. She intertwined her hands around his calloused ones and began inching backward, slowly leading him out of the bathroom without another word.

The archer felt something stir deep inside him, a warmth settling in the pit of his stomach as she guided him towards the couch. He was entranced — like a man who’d been lost at sea for far too long, finally catching a glimpse of salvation from a lighthouse, beckoning him home.

And for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t afraid.

Daryl flushed at the memory.

She still had that same damn effect on him. It didn’t matter how much time passed, how many years went by, he’d never tire of her. She was, without a doubt, the best thing that ever happened to him.

He’d always felt out of place — even before the end. It was like everybody who’d ever lived was somehow born knowing the same song and dance — and yet there he’d been, stumbling along, fighting to catch up and fall in step with the rest of the world. It’d isolated him, made him feel weak and undeserving — like no matter how hard he tried, he’d never truly belong.

And now?

The only comfortable place his mind seemed to know was her.

Daryl fought back a wince, his entire body tensing up.

“Almost done,” Denise murmured as she continued stitching up the laceration on his back.

“Ya said that an hour ago,” the archer grumbled in response, grinding his teeth together.

“It definitely wasn’t an hour and you’re the one who refused the numbing cream, remember?” she countered evenly, her tone unwavering.

The archer merely huffed in response, fighting back a scowl as he gripped tightly onto the edge of the metal table he sat on top of. He ignored the feeling of Denise’s needle digging into his skin, closing up the knife wound he’d received back on the road, surveying the quieted house-turned-infirmary instead.

Rick was in the next room over, not having moved from Carl’s bedside since the survivors had taken Alexandria back from the dead. Glenn and Maggie were huddled together on the cot across the room while Michonne rocked Judith back and forth, exiting the infirmary with her a moment later. The others were gathered outside, recuperating after the long and harrowing fight that’d taken place mere hours ago.

And then there was Y/N — she sat on the floor beside his dangling legs, her head resting against the side of his knee, his vest laid out across her curled form. He could tell by her steady breathing and the way her head lolled every so often that she’d fallen asleep against him.

The entire community was running on little to no sleep, having fought through the night, taking on the herd that’d invaded their home — now, hundreds of bodies littered the streets, the wall that’d collapsed needed to be rebuilt, and those they’d lost during the attack needed to be buried.

Daryl glanced down when he heard a soft sigh, feeling his chest constrict as Y/N nestled closer.

She hadn’t strayed far since he’d returned and honestly, he wasn’t quite ready to be away from her either — especially after what happened on the road. Over the two days he was gone, he’d nearly lost his life on more than one occasion — and from what he'd heard, she’d nearly lost hers when the Wolves attacked.

But they were okay — she was okay — and that was what mattered.

Michonne reentered the infirmary a moment later, the exhaustion on her face mirroring his own. Judith, on the other hand, had fallen asleep in her arms, curled up against her chest, dark blonde wisps of hair sticking to her forehead.

“How’re you holding up?” Michonne asked softly as she approached the table, not wanting to wake Judith — or Y/N, for that matter.

“Jus’ a scratch, is all,” Daryl rumbled in response, peeking over his shoulder at Denise who remained focused on the wound.

Michonne nodded, rubbing small circles against Judith’s back. “I sent everyone home — Rosita and Heath are keeping watch where the wall came down. We’ll clear the dead once everyone gets some rest.”

“Alright,” Daryl rasped, a bone-deep tiredness beginning to seep in.

Before leaving, Michonne paused, looking down at Y/N’s sleeping form. When she glanced back up, her expression had shifted into something softer, something less tense. “She’s good for you,” she suddenly murmured, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You deserve that,” she whispered, reaching out and squeezing his hand, still latched around the edge of the table.

Daryl’s hand flexed beneath hers as he glanced down at the top of Y/N’s head — did he really deserve someone like her?

He’d spend the rest of his life wondering that.

Michonne patted the top of his hand before pulling away, disappearing into Carl’s room without another word, Judith still fast asleep against her.

“Alrighty,” Denise exhaled, drawing him back to the present. “You, my friend, are free to go.”

The archer grunted a gruff ‘thanks’ as she began cleaning up the supplies she’d used to stitch him up. He bit back a grimace as he pulled his shirt over his head, feeling the stitches stretch as he moved.

He reached forward then, gently ruffling the top of Y/N’s head, stirring her awake. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes before craning her neck and looking up, her bleary gaze meeting his. “All done?” she murmured, her voice slightly croaky.

“Mhm,” he sounded, sliding off the table and offering his hand to her.

The corner of her mouth quirked up as she grabbed it, allowing him to pull her to her feet. She swayed, fighting back a yawn, Daryl’s hand finding the small of her back and steadying her. Wordlessly, she held out his vest, which he slowly slipped back on, grinding his teeth together as a sharp jolt of pain shot across his shoulder.

Y/N’s brow furrowed as she watched him, her eyes narrowing — but before she could comment, Denise approached once more.

“Change the gauze in a couple of hours and take two of these for the pain,” she informed, holding out a small bundle of supplies, including fresh bandages and pills. “Doctor’s orders."

But Daryl waved her off. “Save ‘em,” he grumbled, carefully adjusting his vest.

He saw Y/N throw him a glance from the corner of his eye, though she didn’t protest — instead, she stepped forward and held her hand out.

Denise passed the supplies to her before lifting her glasses and rubbing one eye with the back of her hand, her fingertips stained red with blood. “Make sure he doesn’t do anything strenuous for a few days or he’ll tear the stitches,” she continued, speaking solely to Y/N as she set her glasses back in place.

Daryl huffed a breath. “M’ standin’ right here, ya know.”

Y/N nudged him in the ribcage, giving him a look that clearly translated to ‘be nice’.

Denise directed her attention back to the archer. “Don’t tear my stitches,” she reiterated emphatically before her expression eased. “Rest, relax, sleep — both of you.” She shot Y/N a pointed look before shooing them towards the front door, heading over to check in with Glenn and Maggie.

Y/N glanced over at Daryl once they were alone, her eyebrow quirking playfully. “I like this new side of Denise.”

The arched scoffed in response, flicking the hair from his face. “I liked it better when she was scared a’ me,” he grumbled as they fell in step, making their way out of the infirmary and back outside.

A laugh slipped past Y/N’s lips as they crossed over the porch. “Sounds about right,” she grinned, thoroughly amused.

“S’ true,” he shrugged his uninjured shoulder up as they made their way down the stairs and back onto the street.

“You know, you really aren’t that sc—”

Y/N stopped mid-sentence, her footsteps halting abruptly. Daryl faltered as well, glancing back at her, his brow knitting together. Before he could ask what was wrong, he realized what she was looking at.

In the light of day, the aftermath of the attack was startling. There were more bodies than he could count, rotted and decaying, bones torn through skin, blood spilling out onto the street, stark against the asphalt. The carnage was overwhelming, the reality of what they’d accomplished, as well as what they’d almost lost, suddenly settling in.

“We’ll fix this place up — make sure nothin’ like this ever happens again,” Daryl rasped, not entirely certain if he was trying to reassure her or himself.

Y/N’s expression turned solemn. “It’s not the dead I worry about,” she fixed him with a stare, her gaze flickering towards the wound on his back before she continued surveying the damage done to their community.

There wasn’t anything he could say that would make her feel better — not in a world as dark and void and meaningless as the one they lived in.

The only thing he could do was just be there.

Daryl reached for her, slipping his hand around hers and squeezing softly, drawing her back to him.

Although Y/N kept her eyes forward, he felt the tension leave her.

And then she squeezed back.

The archer huffed a breath, nestling the side of his thumb between his teeth.

Well, maybe the world wasn’t entirely meaningless.

Daryl stood still beneath the shower head, warm water washing over his body.

But he couldn’t focus on that — all he could focus on was Y/N, standing behind him, her arms wrapped around his middle, her bare chest pressed against his back. He closed his eyes, committing the feeling to memory — her heart steadily pounding against him, her cheek resting against his shoulder as water continued to cascade down their bodies.

She pulled back slightly, gently pressing her lips against one of the scars on his back.

Daryl felt a chill run down his spine despite the steam around him, fighting back the instinctual urge to stiffen — and as she moved to the next scar and the next, softly kissing each one, he couldn’t help but melt beneath her touch.

He turned then, feeling the tips of his ear redden at the sight of her before he quickly averted his gaze.

Y/N laughed, soft and sweet, reaching towards him and brushing the hair from his face.

Daryl caught her hand with his own, pressing her palm flat against the curve of his jaw. The cut on her cheek had healed, leaving only a faint, thin line below her eye. His own knife wound was still fresh, but in time, would heal as well.

He brought his hand up and gently brushed his thumb across the length of the mark before tilting her head back, bringing his lips to hers.

He wasn’t sure where the sudden boldness came from — still, Y/N returned the kiss, her arms snaking around his neck, his around her waist.

It wasn’t until the water began to run cold that Daryl, begrudgingly, turned the shower off.

They moved about in comfortable silence — drying off, changing into clean clothes, completing eerily normal and mundane tasks that had the archer wondering if he’d somehow transported into an alternate reality without realizing it.

But the blood and muck that’d washed off their bodies and collected at the bottom of the tub reminded him otherwise.

It’d taken three whole days to clear Alexandria of all the walkers that’d infiltrated their walls. Now, they could start rebuilding, reinforcing, doing whatever they needed to do to make sure an attack like that never happened again.

Daryl climbed into the bed he shared with Y/N, having moved up from the basement and into her room after that first night they’d spent together. He winced as he rotated his shoulder — despite Denise’s instructions to limit arduous activity, he’d worked the past three days from sun up to sun down in removing all the bodies from within the gates.

Y/N had tried to get him to take it easy, but he hadn’t — that just wasn’t in his nature.

She crawled into bed after him, sighing softly as she settled by his side, sitting with her legs crossed beneath her. She held her hand out towards him and in her palm, two pills — he recognized them as the ones Denise had given her.

Daryl huffed a breath.

“Don’t make me say ‘please’,” she warned, raising her brow expectantly.

The archer fought back the urge to roll his eyes but took the pills anyway, popping them into his mouth and washing them down with the bottle of water he’d left by the bedside. Y/N shot him a cheeky grin as she laid down, curling onto her side, facing away from him.

He reached over, wrapping an arm around her middle and dragging her towards him, eliciting a surprised laugh from her. She nestled closer, her back pressed against his chest, one hand clasped around his forearm, drawing absent circles against his skin with her thumb.

Daryl felt himself fading, slipping into unconsciousness after a long, tiring day of survival.

But just before the world darkened entirely, a whisper broke through the quiet.

“I love you.”

The archer’s eyes snapped open. Part of him wondered if Y/N was sleep-talking. An even bigger part of him figured he’d imagined it because there was no way — no way in hell — she could’ve consciously and deliberately said that to him.

But then she was shifting, rolling onto her back and looking up at him.

He searched her gaze for something, anything — a punchline, an explanation, a ‘hah, fooled ya!’ — that would explain what in the fuck he’d just heard.

Except that didn’t happen.

Instead, Y/N slowly nodded, like she was finally coming to terms with her own blatantly impromptu confession. “Yeah, I-I do — I —” she fumbled slightly in her admittance before steadying. “I love you,” she murmured, blinking up at him.

Daryl swallowed the lump in his throat, his mind screaming at him to say something instead of just staring at her like he’d seen a ghost. He could feel the words toying at the tip of his tongue — he wanted to say it, he did, because…well, of course. Of course, he wanted to. But it was like his body was physically rejecting a response.

Y/N patiently watched him struggle, giving him a second to get his shit together, a small, knowing smile playing at her lips.

The archer pushed up onto his elbow, clearing his throat, his cheeks burning red. “I, uh,” he grumbled, shaking his head slightly. “Y-Yeah, I —” he faltered, clearly struggling. But when his baffled gaze met her kind one, almost instantly, his wall of insecurity diminished. “Yeah,” the single word came out resolute and sure, everything he needed her to hear.

Y/N’s smile grew, stretching across her face, bright enough to light the sky on fire. “Yeah?” she asked softly, reading between the lines.

Daryl nodded once. “Yeah,” he rasped thickly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world — because it was.

He’d felt that way since the day he met her, even if he hadn’t known it.

She reached up, twisting her fingers in his hair and bringing his face down to meet hers, pressing a gentle kiss against his lips.

Then she was curling onto her other side so they laid chest to chest, her head tucked beneath his chin as she snuggled closer, his arms wrapping around her instinctually.

Daryl wasn’t sure how long they laid like that, limbs weaved around one another like coiled rope. But when her breathing evened out, he pulled back and snuck a glance, tracing every inch of her face as though the first time and the last. He brought his hand to her face, carefully brushing back the hair that’d swept over her features before leaning in and pressing a kiss against her forehead.

Then sleep came for him as well.

Daryl dropped his hand back into his lap, drawing his legs to his chest.

Being with Y/N was effortless — as easy as breathing. It came, somewhat alarmingly, natural to him. He’d never pictured himself with anyone ever. Before the end, before her, he’d been content to sit on the sidelines and watch all the relationships around him undoubtedly burn — it was all he’d ever known, it was all he’d ever seen.

But then she came along and flipped his entire world upside down.

A love that came without warning.

“Let’s get this shit loaded up — looks like it’s gonna rain soon,” Daryl rumbled, peering up at the darkening sky, noticing a cluster of bulbous clouds rolling in.

Y/N tilted her head back, following his gaze before humming a breath. “I don’t know — the wind’s blowing East. It might just miss us,” she remarked, catching the archer’s eye, a mischievous look flashing across her features. “Wanna make a bet?”

Daryl scoffed a breath in response, shutting the car trunk filled with scavenged supplies and adjusting the strap of the rifle slung across his chest — he was still getting used to the weapon. It felt unfamiliar in comparison to the weight of his crossbow. The reminder of his stolen weapon sent a flush of anger through his veins. He’d find those assholes someday and get it back, that was for damn sure.

“Come on,” Y/N grinned, drawing him back as she hefted another box over to him, dropping it onto the ground with a huff. “How about this? If it rains…I’ll take your watch shift tonight with Elizabeth.”

The archer quirked a brow, suddenly intrigued. Elizabeth was one of the original members of Alexandria — and she was…chatty. “Fine,” he nodded, opening the car door and lobbing the box she’d brought over onto the backseat. “She’s always yappin’ ‘bout books an’ shit I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout. Damn irritatin’ sometimes,” he grumbled.

Y/N laughed at his aggravation, turning to pick up another box. “I like her,” she shrugged, making her way towards him.

Daryl huffed a breath, waving her off. “Alright an’ if it doesn’t rain? What’d ya want?” he questioned, taking the box from her hands and sliding it into the car.

Before she had the chance to respond, Rick suddenly appeared, pushing through the front doors of the high school they’d been scavenging — it’d been turned into a FEMA evacuation center right at the beginning of the end. It’d somehow, miraculously, been left untouched — the doors and windows had been barred and chained, but luckily they’d had the tools needed to break in.

It’d been a little over a month since Alexandria had been overrun with the dead — the wall had been rebuilt and fortified, but the survivors had been hesitant to venture outside the gates after what happened the last time. Regardless, supplies were dwindling and a run had to be made.

“How’s it comin’ along out here?” Rick called as he jogged down the front steps and into the parking lot.

“Filled up the trunk pretty good — gonna need another car or two jus’ ta’ fit the rest a’ this shit,” Daryl remarked as the sheriff approached, motioning to the rest of the unpacked boxes lying around.

Rick came to a stop in front of them, one hand resting on top of the handle of his pistol strapped around his waist. “This is good — this is real good,” a rare smile spread across his face, so unlike the usual tension in his features.

“Tara’s finishing up around back — she’s grabbing the rest of the stuff from the greenhouse,” Y/N relayed to Rick, sharing a hopeful look with the archer. “We’ve got enough stuff to last us, I don’t know, at least another couple of months — that’ll be enough time to get some crops growing, maybe even a garden or two.”

Rick huffed a laugh in disbelief, shaking his head. “Who would’a thought,” he mused to himself before taking a breath. “Alright, I’m gonna grab a few last things inside an’ then we’ll lock up — come back tomorrow with a couple a’ cars an’ clean this place out.”

The sheriff left without another word, leaving Daryl and Y/N alone once again.

He began rearranging the boxes in the backseat, making sure there was enough room for two people to sit there on the way back home.

“A date,” Y/N suddenly spoke, catching him off guard.

Daryl straightened, turning back around to look at her, his brow knitting together. “Huh?”

The corner of Y/N’s mouth quirked up as she took a step towards him. “If I win, if it doesn’t rain today…I want you to take me on a date.”

The archer tilted his head to the side, trying to distinguish if she was joking or not. “Ya serious?”

“Yeah,” Y/N nodded, a sort of awkward laugh slipping past her lips. “I know it’s stupid — and given the way you’re looking at me right now, I know you’re thinking the same thing,” she laughed again as he quickly erased the skepticism from his expression. “But that’s —” she shrugged a shoulder up, “— that’s what I want.”

Daryl scratched the side of his head, flicking the hair from his face as he studied her, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back against the car. “That really what ya want?”

“Mhm,” she sounded. “And it doesn’t have to be anything special — just us and, I don’t know…maybe Aaron can whip up some of his famous spaghetti,” a soft smile grew on her face as she looked at him. “I, uh — I just — I want to do this right, you know?” her expression turned earnest. “I want those moments with you, Daryl.”

The archer felt a swell of warmth spread throughout him as he looked at her, feeling his resolve give way. “Alright,” he managed to rasp, his throat tight with emotion.

“Alright,” Y/N reiterated with a nod, sticking her hand out, a playful look in her eye.

Daryl snorted a laugh as he reached out and grasped her hand with his own, shaking once to seal the deal.

Y/N shot him a cheeky grin as she pulled from his grip. “We should —”

“Guys?” Tara’s voice suddenly sounded, drawing their attention.

Daryl knew as he pushed off the car, as he turned around that something was very wrong — he could hear it in her tone.

It took a moment for him to fully register the scene before him — a wide-eyed Tara just a few feet away, standing straight as an arrow, holding her hands up near her head.

Then he spotted a man.

The stranger stood just behind Tara, one arm wrapped around her neck, the other holding a gun, the barrel pressed against her temple. He was young, maybe early twenties, though it was hard to tell with all of the blood coating his skin. He peered over Tara’s shoulder, his frantic gaze bouncing wildly back and forth between the archer and Y/N.

Daryl’s protective instinct kicked in as he took a step forward, drawing the man’s attention, keeping Y/N out of his line of fire. His hand automatically reached for the rifle strapped around him but his movements stilled when the man’s eyes widened, his arm tightening around Tara’s neck.

“Hey, take it easy,” Daryl held out his hands in front of him.

“Move,” the man growled, jerking his head to the side. “Away from the car.”

Daryl felt Y/N grab a fistful of material from his shirt, slowly pulling him back as the man moved towards them, keeping Tara in front of him to conceal his body.

A tense standoff of sorts stretched on as they maneuvered around, the man never taking his eyes off of Daryl. When the stranger made it to the driver’s side of the car, he unwound his arm from around Tara’s neck, using it to open the door instead — though his finger remained twitching above the trigger. Once the door was opened, he faltered, realizing he’d lose the coverage of Tara’s body if he tried to get inside.

“Take it,” Y/N suddenly spoke, stepping out from behind Daryl with her hands near her head, drawing the man’s attention.

The archer shot her a sharp glance. “Y/N —”

“Take the car, take the supplies, take whatever you need,” she continued calmly, ignoring Daryl’s growled protest. “Just let her go, okay? No one’s here to hurt you.”

The stranger’s expression shifted, the animalistic look on his face shifting into something that resembled more of a quiet desperation than anything else. “I —“ he shook his head quickly, shifting back and forth. “I just need — I just need to go — I need to go.”

Y/N took another step forward, the side of her arm brushing against Daryl’s. “Okay,” she nodded, exhaling a breath. “That’s okay — just let our friend go and —”

Her sentence was interrupted by the front door of the school swinging open.

Daryl whipped his head around, feeling his stomach drop when he spotted Rick walking out with a stack of boxes — but when the sheriff noticed the standoff happening just down the steps, the boxes came crashing down, falling out of his hands, and instead…he grabbed his pistol.

It was as though everything happened in slow motion.

The stranger’s expression twisted as his sights set in on Rick — he swung the barrel of his gun away from Tara, who instantly dropped to the ground as the man pointed the weapon up the steps, and then…

A barrage of gunfire sounded as Rick and the man began shooting at one another in rapid succession. The sheriff used the front door as a shield, attempting to fire from around the frame, the awkward angle throwing off his aim. The stranger, on the other hand, fired away in no particular direction — his aim was erratic and panicked as he tried using the car door as coverage.

When a bullet flew past the side of Daryl’s head, he dove towards Y/N. He knocked her off her feet and onto the pavement, attempting to take cover from the shootout. The archer flipped onto his back, fumbling for his rifle before finally getting a grip and pointing it at the man.

But before he could take a shot, the stranger threw himself into the car, slamming the door shut, bullets from Rick’s pistol embedding into the metal. He peeled recklessly out of the parking lot, still firing from out of the opened window as he made his getaway.

Despite one of the back tires exploding after getting hit with a stray bullet, the stranger kept driving, disappearing onto the main road and out of sight, leaving a wake of destruction in his path.

“What the fuck?” Tara called from where she’d taken cover.

“Is everybody alright?” Rick yelled back, coming out from behind the door and running down the steps.

Daryl twisted onto his side, looking over at Y/N. “Hey, ya alright?”

“Y-Yeah,” she murmured shakily, pushing up onto her hands and knees. “I’m okay.”

The archer let out a sigh of relief, climbing to his feet and surveying the damage done around them as Rick appeared at his side.

“What an asshole,” Tara swore, coming to a stand as her eyes bounced between Rick, Daryl, and Y/N. “Seriously, what kind of —”

Daryl looked over at her, waiting to hear the rest — but that was when he noticed her staring at something just behind him, the horrified expression on her face filling him with a vast and all-consuming sense of dread.

The archer spun around.

And that was when he saw her.

Y/N stood a few feet away, swaying unsteadily, her hand pressed tightly against the center of her stomach. Her head was lowered, bowed to her chest as she slowly pulled her trembling hand away, revealing a stark redness pooling from her midsection, staining the front of her shirt. She looked up then, her eyes meeting his, the shock in her gaze surely mirroring his own.

“No,” Daryl whispered, the word sounding strangled in his throat as Y/N’s knees suddenly began to give out. “No!” he roared, rushing forward and grabbing onto her before she could collapse.

His arms slipped around her middle before he carefully lowered her onto the ground, her head drooping down against his shoulder. His heart pounded so violently against his ribcage, part of him wondered if it was giving out on him entirely — maybe it was. Maybe this was what dying felt like. Maybe this was what it felt like to have your soul ripped straight out of your body.

Daryl cradled the back of Y/N’s head with one hand as he laid her down flat against the pavement, her eyes wide and unseeing, staring straight up at the sky. “Hey, hey, look a’ me, jus’ look a’ me,” he urged, brushing the hair back from her face, ignoring the blood now staining his hands — her blood.

“I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay,” she mumbled, repeating it over and over again as though she could will it to be true — though her skin grew more ashen with each minute that slipped by.

Rick suddenly kneeled on the opposite side of Y/N, taking a piece of cloth and holding it against the wound. “Keep pressure on it,” he instructed Daryl and although he tried to conceal it, the archer could hear the way his voice wavered. “You jus’ hold on, Y/N, understand? We’re gonna get you outta here,” he promised, reaching down and squeezing one of her hands before disappearing.

Daryl watched him leave, dragging a teary-eyed, slack-jawed Tara along with him as they began frantically searching the abandoned parking lot for any working vehicles — it was their only chance at getting her back to Alexandria.

And if they didn’t…

No.

No, he couldn’t go there.

Instead, he pressed the cloth against the gunshot wound, attempting to stall the blood flow, the pressure eliciting a pained whimper from Y/N that almost made the contents of his stomach reappear. “I got ya, Y/N, I got ya,” he rasped, grabbing her limp hand with his own and intertwining their fingers, holding his other hand firmly against her stomach.

His words seemed to bring her back to him, her hollow gaze shifting into one of panic — like she only just realized what was happening. Her features crumpled, a flash of fear skirting across her face as the shock began to wear off. “Am — am I dying?” she managed to choke out, her eyes filling with unshed tears as she looked up at him.

“No,” he shook his head resolutely, feeling moisture build in the corners of his own eyes. “No, ya ain’t goin’ nowhere, ya hear me?” his grip tightened around her hand — like his touch alone could keep her there with him. “We’re gonna get ya back ta’ Alexandria an’ — an’ get ya patched up, good as new, alright? Ya jus’ gotta hang on for me, girl.”

Y/N’s bottom lip quivered as a tear snaked down the side of her face. “I-I don’t want to leave you,” she whispered, a sob hitching in her throat.

“Hey, it’s gonna — ya gonna — jus’ — Rick!” Daryl suddenly bellowed, sitting back on his haunches and desperately scanning the area for any sign of him or Tara. He spotted them at the opposite end of the parking lot, running from car to car, searching for keys or at least a way to jumpstart one of the abandoned vehicles.

But luck was not seeming to be on their side.

Daryl let out a vicious string of curses before focusing back on Y/N. He’d never felt so helpless in his entire life — and God, if he could, he’d take her place in a second.

She was fading — fading so rapidly it made him dizzy. Her skin was cold to the touch, her lips tinged a disturbing shade of blue, her eyes lacking the warmth he was so used to seeing. He felt a swell of emotion rise in his throat, threatening to consume him, but he shoved it down.

“Hey, y-you were right,” she murmured weakly, the corner of her mouth twitching up as she tilted her head to look up at the sky once more. “I think it’s gonna rain.”

Daryl felt a tear spill down his cheek as he followed her eye line, the previously blue sky now blanketed with thick, dark clouds. He huffed a humorless laugh, their conversation from a few minutes earlier ringing through his mind, somehow seeming like an entire lifetime ago. “Guess that means ya — ya gotta take watch tonight, right?” he rasped despondently, keeping his gaze towards the sky.

He stilled when he was met with nothing but a deafening silence.

He felt his stomach roll as he squeezed his eyes shut, afraid of what he'd see if he looked down. “Y/N?” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

When she didn’t respond, Daryl knew.

She was gone.

His girl was gone.

And his entire world came crashing down around him.

Daryl forced his eyes open.

His body went numb at the sight of her, his mind refusing to accept the image before him — empty eyes, grey flesh, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. Her hand slipped from his grasp then, dropping onto the pavement beside her unmoving form as she continued staring vacantly up at the sky.

His brain couldn’t process what was happening — where he was, what he was doing, why he was there. It felt like a nightmare — a reality that wasn’t quite reality, warped and desolate and consuming him whole. The only tangible thing he felt was a sharp, physical pain in the center of his chest, his breaths short and hitched, causing black spots to dance in his vision.

Over the blood rushing to his ears, he could just barely make out the sound of a car engine, the noise muted and dull as it approached…

But it was too late.

They were too late.

Daryl reached for her hesitantly, hands trembling as he wound his arms beneath her back and carefully scooped her up off the ground, falling back slightly as he pulled her body across his lap. When her head lolled listlessly to the side, he brought his hand up, brushing his bloodstained fingers through her hair before cradling the back of her head, pressing his cheek against hers.

“Ya said —” he squeezed his eyes shut, rocking back and forth as his grip around her lifeless body tightened. “Ya said ya were okay,” he choked out brokenly, his own shock slowly wearing off as something deep inside his soul fractured.

Then he broke.

And the sky opened up and wept alongside him.

The sound of barking drew Daryl back to reality.

He glanced over his shoulder, quickly blinking away the tears that’d formed, spotting Dog trotting towards him. The German Shepard’s tongue hung lazily out of his mouth, his easy pace picking up the closer he neared, letting out another short bark.

Daryl rumbled a laugh as Dog came to a halt at his side, plopping down next to him. “Hey, boy,” he rasped softly, scratching behind his dog’s ear and earning a sloppy lick in return He wiped away the moisture from his cheek as the canine laid down beside him with a huff. “Good, Dog.”

The archer ran his fingers through his sleek fur, feeling his throat tighten. When he’d found the German Shepard a few years back, he’d remembered the conversation with Y/N from back at the prison — and it’d only felt right to name him ‘Dog’.

It’s what she would’ve wanted — and somehow, it made him feel just a little bit closer to her.

“Man, she would’a loved ya,” he whispered thickly, sighing a long and heavy breath.

Daryl looked forward once more, studying the small gravestone in front of him — her gravestone.

For a long time, he stayed away. He hadn't been able to go near where she'd been laid to rest, he just couldn’t — it was too fucking painful, like part of himself had been buried right along with her. But over time, the grief became easier to manage — it never went away, it'd never go away — but he found a way to exist alongside it.

Now, he found a strange sort of peace here.

It’d been years since he’d lost her — she’d been gone for longer than he’d known her. It was hard to keep track of time these days, they seemed to come and go without rhyme or reason. So much had happened since that day — the war against the Saviors, the looming threat of the Whisperers, losing friends, family, Rick…

Time seemed to move differently after losing the people loved most.

After that day at the high school, Daryl had tried to find the man responsible for what happened to Y/N — he’d gone back to the high school, wild and unhinged in his grief, hellbent on retracing their steps and tracking down the stranger. He’d needed revenge, bloodshed, he’d needed the man to know what he’d done, who he’d taken from the world.

Despite the improbability, the archer had no trouble finding him.

The back tire that had been blown out during the exchange of gunfire had sent the car careening down an embankment and into a large tree less than a mile from the school. One of the branches had broken through the windshield and punctured the man’s chest, most likely killing him on impact.

He’d reanimated still strapped in the driver’s seat.

Daryl left him that way.

It wasn’t the ending he’d hoped for, but maybe it was the ending he deserved.

He reached down, absently stroking the top of Dog’s head, and inhaled a deep breath.

Not a single day went by without the thought of her.

She came and went — like a flash of light or the beat of a heart. Daryl had barely had any time to hold onto her before she was gone — and he would’ve held her so much tighter had he known it’d be the last chance he’d have.

Some people were just too bright to stay, too good for what the world had become — at least that’s what he told himself on the really dark days.

The archer closed his eyes, imagining her at his side — sometimes if he sat like that for long enough, he could almost hear her voice, her laugh, he could almost feel her warmth, her touch — and it was like she was still there, sitting right beside him.

It wasn’t the same, but it was enough — at least until he could be with her once more.

Daryl opened his eyes, peering up at the vast night sky, and released the breath he’d been holding.

Someday, he’d find his way home again.

Fin.

A/N: ...hi...how y'all doin'? lol

So yeah, this is a lot to unpack. If you've made it to the very end, THANK YOU! I know this was a super-dee-duper-long oneshot but hopefully (heartbreak and all) it was worth it.

Most of this story was purely self-indulgent - I mean, come on, who doesn't want this kind of love? But aside from that, I also wanted to write a relationship for Daryl that felt authentic and true to his character (*cough cough* definitely not throwing shade at 10.18...nope...not at all...lol)

What also made this story super fun was the fact that I was able to incorporate other characters from over the course of the series! (Even though he's only in it for .2 seconds, Abraham is probably my personal favorite lol I'd never written for him before, and damn, is it fun!)

I also like the little 'twist' at the end when we realize that in the present parts of the story, he's been hanging out at the reader's grave the entire time, reminiscing. Ow, that hurts my heart.

After writing this for months, I was the last person who wanted to see the story end like this. I honestly grew super attached to this relationship and part of me contemplated ending it on more of a 'happy' note...or as 'happy' as you can get with a show like this one. But this was the ending I'd envisioned from the beginning. We got to experience a Daryl x Reader relationship from the very start to the very end. No open-ended questions, no 'what ifs'.

And I think that's sorta beautiful.

P.S. Feedback is incredibly important. I write for my own happiness, but I also write for YOU. So don’t be afraid to shoot me an ask or leave a comment with your thoughts! It truly motivates me and helps move along the writing process. Also, please consider donating to my Tip Jar. Every little bit helps!

P.S.S. I can no longer tag people on this account, so my tag list has been transferred to my side blog @crossbowking2. If you'd like to be added/removed, please let me know!

[deascheck]

Problem Solved

Prompt: "Whatever that thing is, it is not what we are looking for so, Dean put it down immediately! Cas stop fooling around like an idiot, and Sam, what the hell are you even doing?"

Summary: The reader’s hands are full when Dean, Sam, and Cas are all affected by an object cursed by the witch they’re hunting.

Word Count: 1553

Trigger warnings: Death, brief mention of blood

A/N: Would love to know what you think! Comments and reblogs are amazing!

Edited by @winchest09

--------

You glanced at Sam as he picked the lock with nimble, practiced fingers. A slight smile ghosted across your face as you checked the yard and surrounding properties for any witnesses. There wasn’t a lock that Sam couldn’t pick. 

Dean and Cas had split off and gone around back. The house was huge, with cameras everywhere. The property was thick with flowers and plants surrounding the house, making it easy for the two large men to hide as they worked their way over to the security box. 

The lock clicked, and you and Sam crept forward through the door. Guns drawn, you moved around each other with practiced ease. Thanks to Dean’s ungodly ability to flirt, the four of you had gotten blueprints of the house and had memorized them down to the last brick. You moved swiftly to the upstairs, followed by Sam. 

You knew the witch was home – you had seen her arrive. Stealth was key in this case. She’d killed eight people with hex bags already. They were gruesome, horrible deaths, and you wanted her dead like you’d never wanted anyone dead before. 

Once Dean and Cas had cleared the downstairs, they joined you and Sam upstairs. You peeled off towards the bedrooms with Dean, and Cas joined Sam. The hallways were dark, and there were nine doors to check behind. As Dean entered the master bedroom, you spared a glance over your shoulder towards the other two before you went with him. 

As you finished clearing it, trying not to bump into the bed, dresser, desk, or table, you heard a strange thump and then a yell. 

You and Dean barreled out of the room and down the hall. You skidded to a stop when you reached the open doorway and stared. Dean all but ran into you as his sprint was halted by your body blocking the door.

Cas had a stupidly silly smile spread across his face, and was dancing around in big circles with his hands waving in the air. Whereas, Sam had his mouth wide open and was measuring with his hands how big it was. 

Almost as soon as you’d taken in the ridiculous scene, Dean knocked you into the doorframe as he shoved forward, eager to figure out what was going on. He grabbed some sort of ancient looking scroll from Cas’s hand, and almost immediately started mirroring Sam’s actions.

“Dean!” you whispered angrily. “Dean, whatever that thing is, it’s not what we’re here for! Cas, stop fooling around like an idiot! And Sam, dude, what the hell are you even doing!?” You couldn’t believe you had this to deal with now. You had three men who were currently no better than children, and a dangerous witch you still hadn’t seen. 

Backing away, you shut the door quickly, hoping to contain the noise that Sam, Dean, and Cas were all making. With these circumstances, you’d do better against the witch on your own, which still didn’t mean things would go well.

As you turned around, you came face to face with a very smug looking woman. She had brown hair slightly past her shoulders, had a pretty, long face, and looked like she knew how to handle herself. It was the witch herself, Elizabeth.

“Shit,” you managed to get out before attempting to take a shot at her with your gun. She knocked it from your hands as you fired, spinning you into the wall. You retaliated by launching up and taking a swing at her with a mean right hook. She ducked, and you recovered quickly, doing your best to keep your back to the wall. The two of you fought your way down the hall. The blows and kicks were vicious, and you knew this wouldn’t end unless one of you was dead. If you could keep her busy enough to not say any incantations, you figured you might have a chance to extend your life by a few minutes, but without your gun, you weren’t sure how in the hell you were going to kill her.

The fight wore on, and it was becoming apparent that you were at a disadvantage. Primarily because Elizabeth knew the house best. Even having memorized the blueprints, there was a difference between studying the layout of a house and living in it. She knew when there was a corner to throw you against, a table to flip you over, curtains to tangle you in. You’d never admit it, but you were starting to wonder if she was in better shape than you. Being a hunter, you had your fair share of fights, but you’d always had Sam or Dean to come help take out whatever monstrosity you were fighting with.

With a loud smash, you went flying over the kitchen counter and hit the fridge with considerable force. As you lay on the ground, slightly stunned, you fisted your hands angrily, your fingers closing around something which caused you to glance down. It was a knife. 

You quickly scrambled to your feet with a maniacal grin across your face. Elizabeth advanced and you launched yourself at her, the knife coming into her view too late. You ran the blade right through her neck, forcing it through her windpipe and into the spinal vertebrae. Elizabeth’s eyes went wide, and her mouth moved like she was trying to speak. But instead of words leaving her mouth, it was blood. As crimson liquid dripped down from her mouth, you heard another commotion coming down the hall. Sam was weaving around in the hallway, smashing into the walls as hard as he could as he walked, chuckling stupidly. You sprinted over to him while the witch was in shock from your attack. You reached behind Sam’s waist to grab his gun, which was filled with witch-killing bullets. 

You heard her gurgle as you spun around and fired without hesitation. Elizabeth stared at you lifelessly before dropping to the floor. You smiled grimly at her and then kicked her hard with your booted foot. 

“That’s for the innocent people you killed, you bitch.”

You watched her for a minute, and then realized you weren’t hearing any stupid noises from Sam. You turned to look his way and saw him looking proudly at you. “Well done, Y/N. I can’t believe you killed her by yourself!” 

“Yeah, well, I can’t believe you let yourself get cursed when you knew we were in a witch’s house,” you teased.

As the beating you took stared to cause your body to ache something awful, you thought, Shit, this is gonna hurt tomorrow. 

Groaning to yourself, you walked back upstairs with Sam to find out what had befallen Dean and Cas. You opened the door, and immediately was knocked off your feet by two well built men falling out of the door.

All of you let out grunts and “oof”s as the three of you landed in a pile on the floor. Immediately on top of you was Dean. You looked at each other in surprise and relief. 

Both of you started talking at the same time. “What the fuck are you doing?” “How’re you still alive?” He laughed as you chuckled weakly. 

“Get off me you big lugs,” you moaned. They got up good-naturedly and looked at Sam, waiting to be told how the spell was broken.

Sam responded to their expectant looks by saying, “The only thing I can think of is that Elizabeth had cursed the scroll herself to cause whoever touched it to lose some sanity. But since it ended, I’m assuming that curse was tied to her life force.” He looked pensive and then shrugged. “I mean, kinda rare, but I’ll take it.”

Taking their pause as a cue, you spoke proudly, “I killed her.” Dean and Cas looked at you in shock. Continuing smugly, you said, “I mean, she was kicking my ass, let’s be real. But she made the mistake of throwing me over the kitchen counter.. By the knives.” You paused briefly to give them a knowing look and then kept going with your story. “So, I hit the fridge, and as I made a fist - cause man, am I pissed now! - my hand closes on a silver knife. How lucky was that!” You laughed. “I grab the knife, and launch myself at her before she can attack first. Got her right in the windpipe. Then Sam, who somehow got out of the room I shut y’all in, wandered right into my lap with his witch-killing bullets. Problem solved.” 

Sam gave you a hug and helped you up. “I’m sorry we weren’t able to help you, Y/N.” He looked at you proudly, but behind his eyes you could see guilt warring with pride.

“We’re proud of you, Y/N! Couldn’t have done it better ourselves,” Dean said, “C’mere!” He reached for you and grabbed you in a big bear hug. Squished against him, barely able to breath, you peeked over his shoulder, and saw Cas smiling softly at you. 

You extracted yourself from Dean’s hug, as much as you loved the rare moment, and gave Cas his turn. He let you go quickly, since he was still a bit of an awkward hugger. You chuckled, and said firmly, “Let’s go home, shall we?”

[awkward-penguin-in-a-trenchcoat]

Supernatural and Good Omens Crossover

“Hey, Cas!” Dean shouted, a strange excitement clouding his voice (and judgement). Sam and Dean locked eyes for a moment, and Sam could’ve sworn for that brief second, he saw the corner of Dean’s mouth beginning to form a small smile. “Cas! You comin’ or what?!”

Castiel entered the bunker’s hall to see Sam and Dean standing in front of the table, a bowl perched hastily, surrounded by some very common ingredients for spells. A virgins blood, the bone of a saint, goat liver... you get the gist. 

As Cas edged forward, a blinding light shot up from the bowl, forming a beam-like shape right next to it. “Dean,” Cas said gruffly, and so very tiredly, “what are you doing?”

“Hey, c’mon man,” Dean replied, pouting, “you can clearly see our own personal witch Sammy has the spell book. Not me.” He raised his hands in mock surrender, causing both Cas and Sam to simultaneously roll their eyes.

“We got him,” Sam spoke finally, much to Dean’s content, and further, to Cas’ dismay, mostly because Castiel knew exactly what Dean was doing and he was very much, as the youth say, done now. 

Cas recalled a recent incident about the fight he had with Dean. It was late and Dean had just come back from a very exhausting demon hunt, which had turned out to be quite disastrous, what with all the involvement of Hell Hounds. 

Sam had gone to bed early that day, saying that he’d catch up on some research to help beat Chuck, but Cas and Dean both knew that whatever Sam was catching up on, it wasn’t research. Dean could hear dialogues sometimes, coming from Sam’s room. Most often, it was “Title of your sex tape”, which always intrigued Dean very much, and googling it turned out to be a very bad idea.  

So, Cas and Dean were relaxing in the kitchen, sharing a bottle of whiskey, talking about everything and nothing. Dean suddenly started talking about how Crowley had turned out to be not such a bad guy for a demon. Then Dean thought about how Heaven, Hell, the Empty and the Purgatory were all in utter chaos, which led his train of thoughts towards resurrecting Crowley. Cas had made a mental note that day: late nights, whiskey, demon hunts and exhausting days always gave Dean the stupidest, most idiotic ideas of all time. 

“Sammy can bring him back,” Dean had said, to which Cas was certain he had put up quite an argument but the fight turned slightly vicious and both Cas and Dean spent the following week shooting daggers at each other. Cas eventually forgot what he had said, but Dean stood by his statement. 

This was the reason why Sam and Dean had been trying to bring back Crowley for several weeks now; trying different spells, different ingredients, different places and hell, one time, different clothes too (if you must know, Dean insisted that they wear a black suit. Yes, it had been a long day and Dean was down two glasses of Whiskey; why do you ask?). Everytime it didn’t work, Dean would spend days on end in his room, eating nothing but stale pizza, watching reruns of The X-Files. Cas was worried it would happen again. 

“Cas? You there, buddy?” Dean pushed Cas back to the present with a small but sturdy tap on his shoulder. “We got him, Cas, we got him.” 

Cas tilted his head in confusion and frowned, then looked at Sam, who nodded in agreement. They all focused on the bowl in front of them as the light grew warmer and brighter, until a figure began materialising from the beam.

Crowley opened his eyes to see himself in a strange place, a place he’d never seen before, nor considered running away to. Three men stood in front of him, tall and very well built, wearing an absurd amount of flannel. Crowley looked to his left to see a blinding light, and for a second, he thought he was in Heaven again, with that purple-eyed monster. 

“Which poor sucker are you wearing as a meatsuit, Crowley?” The man with the scruffy, short, light hair said. 

“Wait, wait, what? Meatsuit? Don’t be stupid--” Crowley sat up straight, looking around frantically, he said, “what the hell did you do with Aziraphale? Where is he?”

“Uh, Dean,” Cas began, clearly suspicious, but Dean cut him off.

“Just hold on to your horses for a second, Cas, let me handle this.”

Cas sighed.

“WHERE IS HE? And, and, did you just say Crowley? Nobody, in all of six thousand years, has ever called me “Cr-ow-ley”.” Crowley spoke angrily, then in exasperation.

“Where’s who?” Sam said, understanding something was definitely off.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley hissed, but it wasn’t an angry hiss, it was more of a habitual, slurring-of-words-hiss.

“Who’s he, your side chick?” Dean joked, but by now he was certain that whoever this person was, it was not Crowley. Sure, he had the accent. And if Crowley had been more focused on looking like an overdramatic sass queen, then maybe the black attire too. But this man, or whatever he was, he was not Crowley.

The blinding light grew brighter still, flashing an almost heavenly glow now, as another figure materialised from the beam.

The figure was more angelic than any form Castiel had seen. Michael could never. Cas could feel the figure’s aura deep inside him, resonating with his own grace, a soft humming of something divine. 

“Oh, my, you seem to have caught us in quite a compromising position,” the heavenly figure said, his voice lilted, and apparently apologetic. 

“You two are holding hands?” Dean spoke before he could stop himself. “If you think that’s compromising, boy do I have news for you.” Dean subsequently made a mental note to never talk again.

“Well I grew impatient and--” Before the figure in all shades of beige could complete his sentence, the man calling himself Crowley jumped to his feet.

“Angel! Where were you?” Crowley had gathered his senses and he was not going to let his angel go anywhere again. “Aziraphale, you gave me quite a fright, you bastard.”

“Wait, can someone explain to me what is happening?” Sam said, his hands raised, angel blade in one and holy water in the other.

“Is that...that’s holy water.” Crowley mellowed down, a frown making its way up his face.

“Now, that isn’t very kind of you, sir. There is absolutely no need to bring in weapons. That would be simply preposterous!” Aziraphale, replied calmly, miracling away the weapons from the tall man’s hands. This seemed to cause a chain reaction, making more weapons surface. Now all three men were clad with some sort of weaponry; very nifty ones too. 

“There is,” Aziraphale began again, more sternly this time, “simply no reason to be feral, dear boys.”

“If you’re wondering, I am Crowley. Crow-ley. I am a demon; didn’t fall, though; sauntered vaguely below. And this is Aziraphale. Now boys, as much as I’d like to stay here and make your lives miserable by, I dunno, replacing all the real bacon with vegetarian bacon, I’d rather wrap this up quickly. We just dealt with an apocalypse and I have the alarm set for a decade of sleeping. And trust me, you don’t want to wait for Aziraphale to start with his magic tricks.” 

Dean made a face at the thought of vegetarian bacon but quickly got over it, concentrating instead on the fact that this was Crowley too. Crow-ley, apparently.

“So, you’re not Fergus? You mother’s not Rowena? God Dammit Sammy, what’d you do?”

Sam looked as confused as everyone right now, but he could’ve sworn he had called Crowley from this universe. Something must’ve gone wrong. 

“Just give us a moment to talk,” Sam said to the angel and the demon, and turned to Cas and Dean.

“And no monkey business,” Dean added, causing Sam to roll his eyes in disappointment again.

“So, my dear, before we go back, don’t you think it would be wonderful if one could, you know, miracle the one with light hair and the one with the trenchcoat together? I would, but it has become a little--” Aziraphale began suggestively, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

“What? Angel, they are just friends! Like us,” Crowley replied.

“My dear, we are married,” Aziraphale sighed, deadpanning.

“Wait, we are?! Since when?” Crowley screamed, obviously taken by surprise.

“Since you went to talk to Holmes, quite an interesting chap, about your secret admirer?” 

Crowley shook his head, still confused.

“We got married the next day, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed again.

Crowley shook his head yet again, much to Aziraphale’s disbelief.

“You proposed!”

Sam coughed, interrupting Aziraphale and Crowley’s very important conversation about if they got married or not.

“So, here’s the thing: we think that while we were trying to contact Crowley of this universe, you, Crowley, from another universe were summoned here instead. This could be because of two things: Chuck is going insane and he no longer has control over the veils between universes, or two, because Jack (he’s a nephilim), is back, his powers might have overwhelmed the spell. We also think that because of your “compromising position”, both of you got summoned, instead of just Crowley. Either way, you are free to go.” 

“Or you could stay for a couple of drinks, if that is okay by you,” Cas said, hoping they’d stay, just so he could get to know them better.

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a knowing glance, coming to an agreement.

“It is noon presently; would you have cocoa by any chance?” Aziraphale chimed happily.

_______________________________________________________________________

Hey y’all! I am sure this has been done before but I am currently practicing escapism by writing silly fanfics so please bear with me through this phase.

I’m gonna tag some awesome people: @misha-moose-dean-burger-lover @petrichoravellichor @all-or-nothing-baby @telefunkies @jensenackles-ismyreligion @mystybloo @thedepressedexpress

Tell me if you want me to tag you or if you don’t want me to tag you.

Thank you for reading uwu

[wadjaya]

    He was awoken with a solid thwap to the back of his head, his eyes registering the bright lights in front of him as they opened in alarm. His legs were still sore from his encounter the day before, or was it two days ago now? As his eyes adjusted to the lights shining in his face, he recognized a few figures standing around him. Ahead, seated at a functional desk at the end of the room, Lucien Cote. The man didn’t seem to notice his prisoner being roused, instead eyeing what appeared to be some sort of revolver mechanism like you’d see in a gun.

    To his right, a larger woman stood with arms crossed. Beyond her own frame, there were bits and pieces of what appeared to be bones orbiting at varying distances around her. Zara, the mean one. 

    To his left, a thinner frame leaning up against the wall. He couldn’t make out the details of her face, but her eyes caught his attention for seeming to glow in the relative dimness of the room beyond his lights.

(CW for torture, potentially upsetting implication of trafficking, sexual assault, drugs, guns, the stuff you’d expect from mafia themes)

    “Oh look, he’s finally awake. Nice call, Zara.” The figure he didn’t recognize stepped forward as she spoke, inspecting him it seemed. Her glowing eyes reminded him of a cat’s as she came closer, and he almost thought he could make out traces of feline fur where the light ran across her face. He counted himself as fairly informed, but who exactly was this chick? Has Cote been recruiting? He looked back down to the floor and spit.

    He felt a weird gap in his teeth, but no obvious blood hit the floor. Healed.

    “And, uh, to what do I owe the pleasure?” The man’s voice was gravelly against his throat, just another sign that he had been hit pretty hard leading into this experience. “I don’t believe I have any dealings with the Cote family.”

    “No dealings,” the stranger began. She finished examining him and stepped toward the desk at the back. She held her hand out before reaching the desk, to which the seated man nodded as she stepped forward to pick up a roll of paper. “But you did have something that belongs to us, and we’d like to know why you took it.” She walked back, turning one of the lights just a bit off his face to encourage him to meet her.

    He remained silent, but glanced up toward her. He felt something sharp prod his spine, though no one else had moved. Zara’s bones, perhaps? Glancing toward the small swarm orbiting the figure in question, it was impossible to tell if they were all accounted for. Another prodding came, but this time harsher. He gasped and bit into his lip to keep from crying out.

    “Well?” The thinner woman stepped forward again, holding the rolled document as though to refresh his memory. “What does the Covenant want with this design? Why send you, alone, to try and steal it?” The man didn’t stop biting his lip, so she continued. 

    “If you don’t cooperate with us, we can and will kill many of the people you care about. From what I’ve been made to learn about your ‘Family,’” she paused, looking toward the other woman for confirmation and continuing when she received a nod. “We’ve learned that most of you are hurting in that area. But your anonymous shtick ends when we’ve got you in chains. Whatever you do or don’t tell us, we can find however few you’ve got left. We can do to them what we’re doing to you- and no one can stop us. So tell me-”

    The woman raised her leg to kick just below his sternum, placed so that nothing could break but it would all be felt- an expert, probably. He coughed and groaned, the sharp burr in his back ever-present with the small convulsions. He responded.

    “We are the Covenant. We have no bonds from our past lives, we have no loyalties to anyone but those of us spurned. Our blood is thicker than any other bond. We will not answer your questions.”

    “Covenant, eh? That’s a weird way to spell,” The woman paused as she unrolled the document and peered through it a moment. “Samuel Whittaker, son of Eilene and Matthew Whittaker. Brother to Marissa Townley and Brandon Whittaker. Three-time silver medalist for your middle school’s track competition. Very impressive.” She cast the paper aside, clearly unconcerned with anything else that might be written on it. 

    Good, he called the bluff then. They hadn’t found the document he stole. There’s a small, triumphant grin under the circumstances.

    “You can threaten them all you want, they’re nothing to me. Those that still live, anyway.” 

    “Oh? And what about Marcus Brown, then?” 

    His breath hitched, his pulse quickened. How could they even know about Marcus? He had already taken the Covenant, they’d never met without their masks- not in public! His eyes darted to the man at his desk, seemingly now watching the proceedings ahead of him as a faint, reddish aura swam from around his shoulders to the items at his table. His eyes glowed, now, in the dark- a devilish gaze with his heavy magical exertion.

    “So, it seems you do have names. We did some checking around, made some friends in your little outfit. Tight-lipped bunch, y’all are. It’s too bad, then, that Marcus hasn’t been especially loyal to you.” The woman kneeled down to force his gaze to meet hers, raising his face so he could not avert it. Samuel swallowed and forced his breathing to settle.

    “We don’t know ‘Marcus.’ We are only the Covenant. I was given the designation ‘Jackson’ upon accepting my last task, and that is the only name I call my own.” 

    “Ah, right, you all and your morbid codenames. Let me guess, Jackson was one of those idiots we caught the last time you tried an assault on our businesses?” He bit his lip again, narrowing his eyes with the effort of holding his emotions back. God, how wonderful it’d be to lose a few hundred bucks to Jackson, again. 

    “We lost several of those who’d taken the Covenant in that….unfortunate misunderstanding.” Even as he said it, Samuel could feel himself cringe.

    Not Samuel. Just me. “But our losses were only small sacrifices in the interest of the greater good. Between that misunderstanding and this one, it seems we’ve come upon something we want.”

    Zara stepped forward, the orbit of bones shifting as a line of them began to form between her and him, several breaking off to float threateningly near his hands, throat, lower back. All at once, several points of searing pain erupted and he groaned with the force of it all.

    “Tell us what we want to know, Faceless. Why take the blueprint? What do you even want it for?! Tell us, and we might be convinced to deal with you peacefully, even let you live.” Zara paused as she looked back to Lucien, who did not seem to react. “There is always a value to be put upon our goods.”

    The man looked away from the woman threatening to gore him upon her own dismembered bones, the unnamed feline character who’d done most of the talking, and Lucien Cote himself. That blood red gaze seemed to cock sideways with piqued curiosity.

    “You really don’t know? All that intel about my former self, but you couldn’t find out about the current operation?” The painful burrs at his lower back sharpened as he felt his own flesh part around them, pressing deeper into his body with an apparent lack of weight or force. How sharp are these things?!

    “Answer the question,” came the rather non-encouraging demand from Zara.

    “Unfortunately, while Marcus was very talkative about his ‘ex,’ he was less forthcoming about his designation and orders. If it would please you to know, he has been put to rest.” The thinner figure rested her back against the wall to his left again, lightly bouncing on her feet. Bored?

    Interesting interrogation methods, though. Good cop, Bad cop sure- but she was offering a lot more ‘carrot’ than Samuel- ‘He-’ he was used to. 

    “Why do you care?” He finally asked.

    He felt the thorns threaten to move again, the slightest shift as they were ‘unlocked’ from their resting position, but no pain came. Glancing up, he noticed Zara looking, agape, toward Lucien, who had lifted a hand. The glow in his eyes dimmed as he pushed his seat back, standing up and stepping around to personally view their prisoner a bit closer. 

    Lucien Cote was normally a rather unassuming man, perhaps a little scary to look at with his hardened gaze and obvious strong hands. Here, however, there was an absolutely terrifying presence to the man- the glare of a man who felt he had just lost everything to a bad cheat.

    He glanced left, right, and the girls stepped back without a moment’s hesitation. There was bittersweet pain, followed by relief as the bones pulled themselves from his flesh with a soft groan. 

    There’s a pregnant silence as he looks Samuel over, eyes darting about his wounds and face as though judging for some sort of pet show. He was about to speak up when Lucien’s mouth opened. And he whispered, though his voice carried as though he was shouting.

    “Why wouldn’t I care?”

    The voice, soft and gentle, felt forceful. As though by whispering instead of screaming he was holding back instinct by sheer force of will.

    “I- I mean, it’s just a gun. Not even any mutanium in it, nothin’ for us in it if there was.” He swallowed as he caught his mouth feeling uncomfortably dry. “Just a pea-shooter, really. But subtle. Cote’s never dealt in subtle, right?”

    “Just a gun?!” Lucien shouted, and Samuel felt as though he’d just been placed in front of the blasting end of a jet engine. It wasn’t so bad that his flesh hurt, but his ears were ringing when the silence fell in the echoey basement. When Lucien spoke again, it was again at a whisper. “What you stole is not irreplaceable, perhaps not even particularly valuable to scum like you. But to me--” Lucien stopped himself as his face tightened, a vicious glare pointed to his captive before turning and nodding to the strange woman and proceeding back toward his desk.

    The woman pulled something from her ears- ear plugs?- and stepped forward as Lucien leaned against the back of his desk, crossing his arms with displeasure. Once more, his eyes began to glow as that red aura surrounded his shoulders.

    “Er, well, Lucien Cote is very protective of his intellectual property- as you know. While this particular gun design may not be….catastrophic, it sets a precedent we don’t particularly like. That the Cote Family can be fucked with, his designs stolen. We’d like to-” with a glance toward Zara, the larger woman sent a few more bones his way. She hardly so much as tensed any muscle that he could see to do so- kind of marvelous to be honest. He felt a drip of warm liquid on top of his head, never needing to even look up to know some of the bones were dripping with his own blood. “We’d like to fix that little notion, and let everyone go their own ways. And if that can’t be arranged, we will find out why you wanted that specific design.”

    The prisoner looked between his captors once again, taking the pause in their ‘conversation’ to consider the opportunity costs implied in what they wanted. Samuel would be killed for leaking the Covenant’s plans, even to an organization which was likely to support it. If he did that, he’d need a ticket out of this god-forsaken city. Alternatively, he’d spend the rest of his short life in this room, probably. He thought about what even awaited him out there- and almost couldn’t think of anything worthwhile to him.

    Brandon would miss him at the next festival, and so would his mother.

    It’s not like Samuel would even be needed in the plan going forward. Medici would fall. He had played his part.

    Cote couldn’t stop it- not short of vaporizing all of them, and all innocents. He sighed, and noticed everyone else straighten up a bit as they watched his resolve break.

    Samuel looked directly to Lucien Cote- the man he had stolen from and ordered his capture. The man’s eyes were fading from a heavy fog of crimson, back to being hardly visible in the dimness of the room.

    “The Covenant plans to fulfill our oaths. To destroy the organization which broke us.” He watched the three of them glance between themselves, entire thoughts being broadcast between the group without any words.

    “Historically,” the stranger began, stepping forward once again to kneel at eye-level with Samuel, “the Covenant has been especially aggressive with the Medici Family. Is that who you mean? The organization that broke you?” 

    Samuel never met her gaze, speaking as though directly to the boss man himself. If he was serving himself up on a silver platter, he’d at least do it with a little pride.

    “We swore blood oath to bring down the Medici Family, the family which took many of us from the safety of our own homes and introduced us to their menagerie in hell. They made animals of us, so we swore to rampage through their establishment as beasts.

    Anthony Medici will bleed before his time, and with him anyone who could even lust for his estate.”

    Samuel remembered his time under the Medicis’ watch as he spoke of the generational hatred the Covenant all held for him. As he went on his voice grew louder, more confident, daring them to argue with his personal hatred. The personal hatred baked in from every single person who’d taken the oath, joined the Covenant. He recalled the cages, the drugs, how he had been ‘rented’ to the lowest scum with money. 

    “We all hate the Medici, for what they did to us. We will see them eliminated, no matter the cost.”

    Uncertain gazes joined his fanatical smile in looking toward Lucien, who kept his eyes locked on the prisoner. After a long silence, the man allowed his soft voice to reverberate painfully about the room at a seemingly normal speaking volume.

    “Where is the document you stole?” 

    “If it’s been as long as I think it has, long gone. I dropped it in the postbox on West Chicago and North Wells. It was to be recovered the morning after.”

    Lucien slammed a fist against his desk, an obviously painful thud. The women to either side began plugging their ears in the brief moment of pause before Lucien stood again.

    “You Covenant have been a thorn in all of our sides for decades. You fools dabble in interfamily politics that keep this city under control- only to play vigilante and get under our skin! You threaten to disrupt the balance.”

    “Balance means nothing if people like them benefit from it! We would see the city in anarchy if it meant protecting those they would hurt!!” His protest fell upon deaf ears- including his own as the ringing overpowered his own voice. He hoped he sounded as confident as he felt. “There isn’t a hell man could imagine that is worse than what Medici does to some of its animals!”

    Lucien stood, collecting the few items he had taken in here with his unhurt hand, and nodded to the women. From the way the two looked between the men, they hadn’t likely seen the man so angry in a very long time.

    They looked to him again, his breathing ragged as his last hope of getting out of this seemed to fall apart. The stranger nodded to Zara, and he called out.

    “Wait! I know her, and I know him.” He nodded toward Zara and Lucien. “But if I’m going to die anyway, who are you? It’s been bothering me since I woke up.” His fanatical gaze fell onto the stranger, someone so elite amidst Cote but so unknown.

    “Oh, honey.” There was a satisfied smirk on her face as she checked the placement of her earplugs. She stood, stepping between Samuel and her boss. He watched her reach behind herself, pulling a small handgun from the waistband of her slacks. Deftly switching off the safety without so much as a thought as the weapon never once leaves its target upon its reveal. Him.

    “If Lucien pulls the trigger, then I suppose you could say I’m like the Hammer.” As she said so, she mimed the motion of pulling an imaginary hammer back on her firearm, though that was clearly just to punctuate her point. “But this little gun has a name, y’know? Since you die with it anyway, I’m Eliana. Sorry about this.”

    She offered a sympathetic smile. He heard the loud boom, saw the muzzle flash as she pulled the trigger. He imagined a hammer hitting the back of the weapon.

    And then, nothing.

[sketchy-saram]

Jiya’s Dream

((A prologue-ish story that explains the start of Jiyanti and Rojer’s acquaintance. Just a little thing I wrote last night, but I drew up a doodle for it so now y’all can have it! You know how it is--I like to play with the new kids ;P))

The sun was setting as Jiyanti Sainesh made her way back from the Center City Market, her pocket heavy with copper-candy, her footsteps light on the cobbled streets. It was a brisk spring day; not really cold, but with plenty of wind for the coastal country. Jiya tugged on her headscarf, grateful for its warmth as the heat of the afternoon began to slowly dissipate. She tried to whistle a tune as she walked--although she hadn’t quite gotten the hang of it yet--and it galled her that her friend Mylania had picked it up so easily while she continued to struggle. Her mouth formed a tight ‘O’, but no matter how she blew, nothing came out of her lips but air. It isn’t fair, she thought again as she crossed the rickety bridge into the Flooded District. Mylania doesn’t even have to practice!

Jiya couldn’t remember what the District looked like before--she was only five-and-a-half, after all--but her parents often praised the Countess for the reformations she had put in place to improve the lives of those living there. It was no longer actually flooded, but the name still stuck--and The Not-Really-Flooded District just didn’t have the same ring to it. 

Giggling at the thought of such a long name, Jiya unwrapped a piece of her candy and slipped it into her mouth, dropping the wrapper into the canal. It tasted vaguely sweet on her tongue, with a hint of chalkiness at first that made her wrinkle her nose. She wasn’t supposed to have candy--It’ll rot your teeth out, Yanti--but she’d found a copper piece in the gutter earlier while waiting for her father to finish for the evening. For her, that forgotten copper was practically a count’s fortune, and the siren song of forbidden candy was too much. She knew there was a candy stall in the Market--her mother had to drag her past it once a week on shopping day--and before she knew it, she was already there, watching him scoop a handful of the tiny rainbow treats into her pocket. Now she was running late to meet her father, but she smiled as she continued trying to whistle.

Her father was a gondolier, and on weeks when his shift ended in the evening, Jiya would often come out to meet him and walk him home, listening to him tell stories of all the interesting people he had ferried that day. Usually he was tired, but sometimes, on a good day, he would let her ride on his shoulders as they walked back to their house. Thinking of this, Jiya sped up her steps, noticing the way the shadows of the ramshackle buildings around her were getting longer and darker. Going to the market had taken longer than she meant--if she didn’t hurry, she would miss her father and have to walk back home alone, explaining where she had been in the meantime. 

Just to the dock and back, Yanti. Vesuvia can be dangerous.

Just as that thought crossed her mind, she heard shouts--instinctively, she ducked down to hide in one of those long shadows, her back scraping against brick. There was a water-warped mess of wood nearby--the busted skeleton of an old wine barrel--and she hid behind it just as the shouts rounded a nearby corner. There were hurried footsteps, and then another shout from a different voice; soon, both voices yelled in unison, their owners running past Jiya’s hiding place frantically.

“Rojer? Rojer! Rojer, where are you? Come here, please! Rojer!”

What a strange name, Jiya thought to herself, peeking out around the barrel. She could only vaguely see feet running off into the distance, sandals kicking up dirt and sand as the desperate pair disappeared around another alley. I doubt anyone named Rojer lives here. I’ve never heard that name, anyway. But the thought was replaced by panic--she was so very late now--that she immediately forgot about Rojer as she began to run, her legs taking her with sure quick steps down to the gondola docks. 

Her breath was only slightly heavier as she stopped at the top of the gang plank, frowning and tutting in frustration; there was her father’s boat, tied up for the evening, but he was nowhere to be found. She loved her father’s gondola almost as much as he did, which, she thought, must be saying something, as she knew how much pride her father took in it. While some of the other gondolas docked here in the Flooded District looked worn and chipped, their seat leather faded and cracked, Emir Sainesh’s boat was polished and gleaming enough to see yourself in. A cheery wreath of spring flowers was artfully placed on its prow, and would be replaced again the next day with a new one woven by Jiya’s mother. On the dock, it was a well-known sight--but everyone loved her father, and so no one would begrudge him his beautiful boat. She could just make out the name, written in a small but neat and beautiful script. The Jiyanti.

Turning on her heel, Jiya swiftly ran across the newly-built footbridge that led towards the heart of the residential area of the district. If she was quick--as quick as a rabbit, our Yanti--perhaps she could catch up to her father and convince him not to ask too many questions. She would tell him about the people yelling and searching earlier. Maybe he would believe that she had been scared, and that was why she was late coming to see him. Her mother might not believe such a story, but Jiya’s father was more easy-going. Even if he could smell the sugar on her breath--can mother really do that?--he probably wouldn’t scold. 

So caught up in her plan was Jiya, that at first she walked right past the mouth of the tiny alley without a thought--and yet, something drew her back. What was it? She couldn’t remember, later. Maybe it was the unnatural wafts of cold air coming from it, as if winter still gripped that alleyway in its clutches even though beyond it was springtime. Maybe it was the sudden realization of stillness--that as she walked, all the sound seemed to have been leached out of the area. There was no familiar sound of running water, or of evening bird calls; even Jiya’s footsteps seemed muffled and distant to her ears. Maybe it was something out of the corner of her eye; that instinct that every child has of demons lurking somewhere nearby...and the irrepressible need to throw open the closet doors, even knowing that what is inside might swallow you whole.

And so, slowly, reluctantly, without really knowing why, Jiya took one step back, and then another, until at last she stood trembling at the entrance to the alley. Even under her scarf and her clothes, her skin was covered in gooseflesh; from the cold or from the sight of what was in the alley, she couldn’t be sure. 

Everything in that narrow, dirty space shone and sparkled as if it were covered in glass. Sprays of white coated up the dingy walls; long, vicious-looking daggers of ice jutted up from the ground and down from the rooftops above. Everything in the alley was coated in frost, something Jiya had only seen once or twice on the coldest of winter mornings in Vesuvia, and yet it wasn’t hard to see what was beneath it. Encased in huge blocks of ice were several confused and terrified-looking men, their frozen eyes wide, their skin tinged an unhealthy pale blue, their bodies in the middle of aggressive movements forward. One of them, she thought, held something aloft in his hand, although it was hard to make out. A knife? She felt her pulse jump, her heart race. In fact, Jiya was so caught up staring at their faces--those bulging, unseeing eyes--that she almost missed the flash of brilliant-orange hair that came from behind one of the human ice sculptures.

She flinched, prepared for...what, she wasn’t sure, but what she saw was the last thing she expected to see. A boy, about her own age and milk-pale, with that fiery hair, freckles, and blue eyes that were so striking and brilliant, they didn’t look human at all. He seemed to be observing her, like she was him, but unlike her obvious fear, the boy appeared unbothered--as if he was looking at a vaguely interesting bird that had landed on the windowsill. Something about that look made her feel pierced, even in his disinterest, as if by one of the long, sharp ice spears jutting from the ground.

She shivered again, feeling it through her whole body.

“D-Did you d-do this?” she asked, unable to keep her voice from shaking. The boy’s head tilted a fraction, and after a long moment he looked around him again, as if having completely forgotten where he was or what he’d been doing. He then shook his head.

“No. He did it.”

Jiya’s head twitched back and forth, looking for the person she seemed to be missing. Someone--or something--that could have done all this. 

That was when she saw him, and it felt as if the floor of her stomach dropped out. Everything stopped. Her body, heavy, took one small step forward, and then froze, as trapped to the ground as the ice-men.

“Babi?”

Emir’s body lay crumpled upon itself in a far corner of the alley, behind the blocks of ice. His head was turned away from her, and the length of him was covered in a fine film of icy-white frost...but the beautifully-tailored coat that he always hung by the door was unmistakable. Her mother had made it, imbuing it with hours and hours of her expert needlework, and it was the only thing her father would wear to ferry his customers around in the Jiyanti.

It was as recognizable as the blood that soaked it, and the ground, tingeing the snow around his body pink.

Jiyanti’s brain couldn’t register. It seemed to be trying to think through mud. How could her father be laying there? Why was he bleeding? Couldn’t he get up, so that they could go back home and she could stop having this strange and terrible dream? 

The boy took a step closer to her, still seeming perplexed by her presence. If it was possible, he looked more confused now than before.

“Why are you sad? He got rid of them. He got rid of the bad men.”

Jiya’s eyes, trembling with tears that stung in the cold, dragged themselves back to his icy stare.

“Who? Who d-did this?”

“...He has no name.”

“Is he your friend? B-b-but… But he killed...he killed them.”

“So? They were bad.” He emphasized the last word, as if she were slow to catch on; as if it were obvious. “They hurt people. They wanted to hurt me, too.”

“What do you--” she began, when suddenly, from behind the frozen statues, a large figure arose. She would have sworn it wasn’t there, until it was; iIt unfolded itself, a walking shadow, with tendrils of frozen air radiating from its body and eyes that burned. She couldn’t look at it, so she dropped into a crouch, her eyes jammed shut, her hands against her ears. She couldn’t look at it. She’d rather die, she’d rather go mad, than look at that monster. In the dark she could hear the sound of furious shattering as the alley shook, and every piece of ice smashed in unison around her, spraying her face with cold. Then Jiya screamed, her tiny voice shrill, her whole body lead with terror and fear. 

And in the darkness of her room, separated by 17 years from this distant memory, Jiyanti Sainesh sat up with a jerk, eyes wide, a familiar scream tearing out of her throat. Although she clasped a hand over her mouth to stifle it, to stop the scream, it didn’t help the spasms of cold that wracked her body, as real as if she’d still been in that frozen alleyway. 

The memory of her father’s murder that never seemed to go away. 

There were footsteps outside of her room; a violent rapping of knuckles on wood and a hissed whisper to be quiet!, but then nothing. Jiyanti’s breath hitched and hiccuped into her lungs, forced around the confused tears. She always woke up at that part--she could never remember the monster’s face. 

Maybe everyone was right, and there had never been any monster to begin with. 

With a broken, exhausted sigh, Jiya lowered herself back onto the threadbare pillow, scrubbing a hand over her face and through her hair, desperate for more untroubled sleep. But as she could already see the dark sky growing light outside her window, she knew that wish wasn’t meant to be--just like the constant wish that her father had never met his grisly fate that day so long ago. Instead, she sat up again, planted her feet on the floor, and heaved a jaw-cracking yawn, hand fumbling around on the bedside stool for her uniform. 

Strangely enough, inside her mouth, she had a deja-vu taste of that chalky candy from so long ago.

It was time to start another day. Maybe this time she would find the boy from that evening, and get the answers she craved.

I know you’re out there, no matter what they say. And I will find you. I can promise you that. You owe me answers. You owe me the truth.

[damienthepious]

y’all already know why i’m here let’s just cut to the fic yeah? love you love youuuu

Something That Matters More

[ao3]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla, Lord Arum/Rilla

Characters: Lord Arum, The Keep, Rilla, Sir Caroline

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Lizard Kissin' Tuesday, Seasons of the Citadel, Pre-Relationship, Canon Compliant, Suicidal Ideation, (canon-typical and kinda vauge but still), Alternative Perspective, Angst

Summary: When the Keep finally wakes again, Arum is still curled with his back against the front door.

Notes: The third and longest of my pieces for the @seasonsofthecitadel zine!

~

When the Keep finally wakes again, Arum is still curled with his back against the front door.

Perhaps he should have slept while the Keep did the same, but his mind races and roils without the buffer of his home, the soft influence at his edges. He cannot possibly rest while his thoughts are circling so, while he is haunted by the memory of Amaryllis’ voice and eyes and justified hatred, while the consequences of the loss of the Hermit loom large above him, while his knowledge of the Senate’s intentions grips him by the throat-

The Keep sings like stretching, a deep gradient of sound, and Arum scrambles to his feet again and he is relieved in a way he did not know he could be. His Keep is-

(saved, and he lifts Amaryllis without thinking, her warmth in his arms and her laughter in his ear and-)

Awake. Aware, again. It hums slow satisfaction and greets Arum with gentle vines and informs him that it believes the petrification has been reduced by half, at least, while it slept.

It pauses for a long moment then, and Arum can feel the Keep shivering off the metaphorical dust, can feel it pulsing its consciousness throughout the structure, taking inventory of itself besides just the shrinking blight. It hums confusion, and then-

A question.

Arum flinches, and drops his eyes.

“Gone,” he says, quiet. “Long gone by now, I should think.”

The Keep trills, confusion and concern and disappointment, and Arum… well, Arum agrees, but he cannot bring himself to say so. He sighs.

“The cause of your illness has been discovered, and we have made steps towards recovery. Amaryllis kept her end of the bargain.” His shoulders sink and he clings to the vines the Keep has draped around him. “I kept mine. We’re even, now. It is finished. She is gone.”

There is another pause, the feeling of a sigh drifting through their link. Then there is another sensation. A strange flicker of attention as the Keep takes stock of their wider territory, and then a sharp little lance of worry.

Arum tilts his head, narrowing his eyes, and after a moment he understands.

“Still… she is still in the swamp?” he asks, though he already knows the answer. “She should have reached the edge by now, no matter which direction she chose. She should be… well on her way back to her h- back to that Citadel. Why…”

Arum and the Keep feel out into the swamp together, reaching and searching, and they recognize the danger at the same moment.

The amalgam- the vicious little construct that Amaryllis created in her bid for escape-

It is still alive. Alive, and quite close to where Amaryllis is, right at this very moment.

“Keep,” Arum says, frantic. “Keep please I- a portal, now, bring me close, I must-”

He pauses.

“I must hold up my end of the bargain,” he finishes, voice uncertain. “If… it is not… if she does not escape my swamp alive, I have failed to satisfy our deal.”

This explanation is, by any estimate, unnecessary. The Keep is already constructing the portal as he speaks.

He has to wait an impatient moment as the Keep brings him a set of knives, but as soon as he is armed he is through to his wilderness, and he hears Amaryllis’ voice that very same moment.

“-and if we don’t get back and tell the Queen—” she says, her tone sharp, and Arum flinches hard when he hears another voice. Another human. The bisected corpse of the amalgam lies in the mud a few feet away, and the Keep informs him belated moments later that the creature is already dead.

“It sounds like we’re running out of time, then.”

Arum buries an instinctive hiss at the mocking in the unfamiliar voice. He creeps closer, slipping into the branches above as silently as he is able. An argument, then? Why would this stranger, a knight judging by the armor and the sword, why would they destroy the amalgam and protect Amaryllis only to speak to her so unpleasantly?

“We are!” Amaryllis cries, and Arum slips just close enough to see her from above, then, through the green. He sees her glaring up at the other human, her jaw set and her lips turned stubbornly down. She has only been away from him for so brief a time, but still he feels her presence again so keenly, so strangely.

“A fact which concerns you greatly.”

“It does,” Amaryllis grates out.

“Then in that case, I think you ought to get on with it,” the knight says, “and tell me: where is the lizard I must slay?”

Arum does not breathe, for a moment. It does not look as if Amaryllis breathes for that moment, either.

“Please…” Amaryllis says, and her eyes are wide and desperate, and Arum does not understand why she is hesitating. “He’s…”

“He’s what?” the other human says, hungry and eager.

There is a breath of pause, and then Amaryllis’ shoulders sink, her head drooping. “He’s… that way,” she says, halfway a sigh, hopeless and dull.

Arum is not disappointed by this. He is not surprised. He held this human against her will, kept her a prisoner, and despite any understanding they may have come to, they were only ever going to be enemies when all was said and done. A war is on, he had told her, and clearly she understands that. Arum is a monster, responsible however indirectly for countless deaths, and soon to be responsible for countless more. It is perfectly logical for her to explain to this knight where to find him. How to kill him. He never asked for her forgiveness, and he never expected it. He is not disappointed-

But when Arum pushes past the pressure in his lungs, when he makes his eyes focus on Amaryllis again, she is pointing in the wrong direction. She is pointing- as near to the opposite direction from the Keep as she could possibly manage.

Arum stares, his claws digging into the bark of the tree he is clinging to. What is she- why-

Her shoulders are tight, and when the knight looks in the direction Amaryllis is pointing with a satisfied half-smile, Amaryllis’ eyes raise again, narrowed and angry for only a moment before the knight turns her attention back and Amaryllis flattens her expression to something resigned.

She is- Amaryllis is-

She is aiming the knight away from Arum and his Keep. Deliberately. Intentionally.

Arum cannot focus on the words that follow, because he is staring at the little doctor, his mind turning and turning as he tries to reconcile that knowledge, the idea that she- that Amaryllis- that she would protect him. That she is protecting him. That she would look a knight in the eye and lie for him.

The knight is helping her move, now, and Arum understands what Amaryllis means to do only a moment before they step into the sunlight. Into the patch of gold, pooling among the duller green.

A stubborn, stubborn part of him wants to leap to save the Hermit, to protect it from that light it so dearly desires, but-

Arum knows what it is, to cling to the desire for life for so very long. An unceasing and unrelenting toil, because to loosen his grip on that desire will spell his end. Yes, Arum knows how it feels to live because he wants to live in some obstinate, contrarian way. To live because he must.

Arum knows, also, how exhausting that is.

Perhaps the Hermit deserves to rest, now.

It chimes one last time before it is kissed once, and only once, by honeyed light.

Its creations, Arum’s creations- those that remain will live on, their impact yet to be seen, but the potential of the Hermit ceases in an instant. The knight complains, but Arum is not listening. He spares attention for Amaryllis’ deflection only because he is- he is unsure he has ever seen her fully in the sunlight before.

He does not have the words for Amaryllis in the sun. Not even in his own mind. Some moments are too big for such small things as words. He hopes this moment is not too big for memory, as well.

He feels her absence, stretching into his future like a missing limb, like a wound. She steps out of the narrow shaft of light, and Arum’s eyes follow her. Of course they do.

She is brighter, by far, than the light she leaves behind.

Arum exhales, slow and unsteady, and forces himself to stop watching as she walks away. He- he came out here to ensure that she would not die before she left his swamp, he reminds himself, and he needs not worry himself over the matter, now. His assistance is not required.

She is with a knight, one dangerous enough to slay a magical construct that even he and his Keep failed to effectively destroy. Amaryllis will be safe, even if the knight seems- obnoxious and unpleasant. She will be safe. She will be…

He stills, claws digging into the wood.

No.

No, Amaryllis will not be safe, even with her grim-eyed bodyguard. She will not be safe.

She will leave his swamp with her eyes sharp and her heart still beating strong, but out there, out in the wider world, out with the rest of her kin-

She will die.

The thought hits Arum with the force of an arrow as he watches them walk away, the knight urging Amaryllis ahead of her despite the limp and the shoddy crutch. The both of them are going to die. All of them. Amaryllis, and- and every human. The entire Citadel. The place Amaryllis claims as home. If the Senate is successful, if they manage to force his prototype into a quicker growth-

They are all going to die.

Arum already knows this. Of course he does. Arum knew, when the Senate came to him, what they intended. He knew, with the power of the Hermit, that their goals might even be possible.

He knew, and did not care. Or- worse. He cared only that the end of this war would mean that the Senate would have no call to ever contact him again, or to conscript his services. If the war were to end, if humanity were eradicated-

It would have been convenient, for Arum.

Convenient. Amaryllis dead, and he would never have…

Without her, his Keep would be dead as well. He has no misapprehensions about that. And now, now she has aimed this knight of the Citadel away from him, and from his home. She has destroyed a tool she could have used to defend her people (he knows she is clever enough to learn to use the Hermit to its potential, he has no misapprehensions about that, either), but she chose to destroy it rather than allow it to be used and misused, and Arum-

Arum would have destroyed her, sight unseen.

(Would have destroyed Sir Damien, as well. Another bright, stubborn, fascinating creature he never would have known, another clever, infuriatingly charming-)

She is gone now. Step by step, further and further from Arum and his Keep. Far, far beyond him. Arum is alone in his own domain again, just as he desires. Alone, and the Keep on the mend, and he could simply return home now. He can tuck himself into the safety of his Keep and duck his head and wait to see who triumphs, the humans or the Senate. He can hide away in safety as he has always done, until the dust settles at last on this pointless conflict.

But there are consequences to his actions, and there are consequences to his inactions, as well.

If the humans perish, he will bear his share of responsibility for their fate. He will have their blood on his claws.

(He has already suffered honeysuckle’s blood on his claws.)

If the Senate destroys them, it will be with the weapon Arum created.

Arum chose not to kill Sir Damien in their duel, chose to let him stand and fight again. He chose not to kill Amaryllis, chose to let her walk away.

It is- ridiculous, of course, but-

Arum could be content to continue on alone, secluded from the world, if he knew they were somewhere, safe and bright and alive, even if they were far from him. Knowing that they will die, from his action and inaction-

It is unacceptable. He cannot bear- he could not endure it.

If that is the price for his survival, Arum- Arum refuses to pay it. He would rather pay his own life than theirs.

A strange realization to come to, ten feet in the air with his claws digging deeper by the moment into bark. He releases his grip on the poor flora at last, and drops down to the muddy ground below. He steps closer to the little pool of sunlight where the Hermit met its end, but he does not quite step into the light.

There is no trace left of the bloom, not a glimmer of magic or a sprinkling of dust.

The Senate intends to use Arum’s creation in their plan, but it is still… flawed. Slow-growing, unpredictable, and perhaps just as dangerous to monsterkind as to the Citadel, despite the focal object Arum managed to obtain.

… perhaps Arum could petition the Senate for the opportunity to amend those flaws. Perhaps, if Arum could just get close enough, he could-

Arum could… what? Sabotage the thing? Endeavor to destroy it? Even if he were successful, he would never survive the attempt. The Senate would annihilate him, burn him out from his bones, and then-

(Amaryllis aims the knight towards a false trail, fire in her dark eyes, and holds the Hermit out in sunlight)

(Damien gives a scrap of silk not his own, and allows Arum to rise again)

(the nature of caring is sacrifice)

And then, even with Arum dead, Amaryllis would be safer. Honeysuckle would be safer. The Senate would not even be able to then use Arum’s talents or the Hermit to further endanger their species. The Keep would grow a new familiar to follow him, and the Universe would continue on as it always has.

It is not a meticulously constructed plan, but it is not without merits, he thinks with a breath of grim laughter. The Keep will certainly not approve, but the Keep nearly died because Arum failed his duty as caretaker, because he failed through inattention to both of their needs.

Perhaps the Keep deserves a better Lord than he.

He will not resign himself to that fate, though. Despite all likelihood, he will choose to believe that he will survive this mad new strategy. In any case, he would rather not cause the Keep to mourn, and he suspects, as well, that Amaryllis would disapprove of that sort of hopelessness.

He crouches down and reaches to scrape up a clawful of rich, wet soil, watching as some tumbles dark between his fingers to find the ground again. He smiles, wistful, and tucks the dirt into a satchel at his side.

Arum will come home, if he is able. If the universe grants.

But first, there is something more important he must do.

[monicalorandavis]

The Crown is back: Colman’s rule.

Olivia Colman is so good we’re all like, “Claire who?“

And slow your roll. I stan The Crown. I gobble up all things British royal family. My favorite house in Game of Thrones is House Windsor. And y’all don’t even know about it because in spite of it being the most vicious, it is also the most secretive. The Windsors are horrible and seductive and, above all else, secretive, and now you’re beginning to understand, that I truly ride for The Crown and those shady goofballs of Buckingham Palace (though Prince Andrew can kick rocks TODAY).

So I know The Crown. I know how good Claire Foy was. I left season 2 in shambles. How dare she leave us? We’d just come around to Elizabeth! Her life, with all her dull, unfashionable, yet dependable ways were imbued with a tenderness that Claire Foy brought. The young Queen that so many of us know is a portrait that Claire Foy created during her two astounding seasons. Peter Morgan struck gold with the first cast. And, as everyone will tell you, as good as Claire Foy was, we shall not forget to give Matt Smith his props. Oh baby, can he act.

Prince Philip, by all estimations, should be an insufferable, entitled man-child. And while he is all of that, he is so, so much more. Meticulously researched, The Crown delved into Philip’s childhood of abandonment and isolation. His air of indignation was as much with the world who’d let him down in his early years as it was indignation with himself.

And from there - from the personal insecurities that tie us all together in this fabric of humanity, did we find the heart and soul of Elizabeth and Philip. We fell in love with Matt Smith and Claire Foy as they seemingly fell in love with each other and embarked on their path as husband and wife. Something about them, actors and royals, just works. A natural chemistry emerged. Even when Philip is horrible (and he’s horrible sort of a lot), I rooted for him. I even rooted for Philip when he screwed around. But how he begged Elizabeth to take him back still remains one of my favorite moments of the entire series. Not very “I am woman, hear me roar” of me, but nonetheless, I rooted.

And while the first two seasons took place nearly 60 years ago, you’d think I’d be bored to death by the predictability of every story line. Yet, I know nothing. (We’re still decades from Princess Di and the crash that turned everyone’s attention onto Buckingham Palace.) The public eye should make the show predictable. And yet, we only know their public personas. (What would someone know of you if they’d only seen photographs?)

They live behind a window of double paned secrecy. We think we’re looking in, or rather, being let in, but we’ve never been privy to their private conversation. We’ve never heard who they really are.

Enter season 3. The middle age years.

Not the sexiest time frame, admittedly, but it does provide a new element into the royal marriage to which we can all relate - informality. These are people who have been through some shit. They’ve let go of pretending in their marriage and, too, to some degree, in their public personas. Long gone are the days of wearing makeup to bed and only eating salads. These are two grown people who have settled into marriage for the long haul. Yes, they nearly called it quits, but they fought through it, had some kids, and now they’re suffering through the normal bumps of having children - Are they normal? Will they fit in? Are we screwing them up? (For those keeping track at home: no, no, and yes.) But the gift of middle age could also be a curse for the actor portraying the royals during their “regular” years.

However, a curse it is not. 

Left in the hands of Olivia Colman and Tobias Menzies, the characters of Elizabeth and Philip have never sizzled with such lived-in chemistry and humor. And I am using “humor” here very, very loosely. These are not people who take to spontaneous fits of giggles. Instead, the tight-lipped chuckles Colman’s Elizabeth elicits from Menzies’ Philip ring loud, brightening the face of a man who, at any moment, looks like he’d rather be anywhere but where he has the misfortune of finding himself.

For whatever reason Prince Philip only becomes more charming the more bristled he becomes. Whether this forever annoyance is a natural trait of Tobias Menzies or not is of no importance because, boy, he does it well.

The ungodly rich perform disinterest like it’s an Olympic sport and Menzies’ Philip is an all-time gold-medal winning champ. His face holds entire chapters of stories he refuses to tell. But just under the surface, Menzies shows us the tiniest flickering of light behind the eyes. You see, to be enthused is to admit interest, which is basically announcing that you care, and to care is just so, so dreadfully middle-class. No, no. These are people who wouldn’t care if their house was on fire. They’d buy a new one...a bigger one!

We should hate them. But, we don’t, and, we won’t, I fear.

I fear it because I hold onto the idea of democracy. Fair elections. Proper representation. All of that. We’re Americans. We fought the British. We should rule ourselves.

But then again, should we?

Trump got elected in a democratic America (if you count all that voter suppression and constant meddling from Russian moles it starts looking less so). And I think even the knuckleheads who elected him regret their decision.  We’ve shown the world that democracy is a weapon in the hands of fools.

But tabling the larger political conversation for now, I push on. This, so far, has been a seamless transition from cast 1 to cast 2. And I would be remiss if I did not sprinkle a few words of praise onto Helena Bonham Carter’s portrayal of Princess Margaret. Talk about a revelation. (To be fair, I find Carter to be one of the most underused actresses of today so for her to have found her way onto one of my favorite shows, I could not be happier.) She is an actress that enlivens every role with a unique strangeness that never feels fraudulent.

Princess Margaret, ever the counter to her sister, grows even further from Elizabeth in middle age. Desperate for her place in the royal family, and her marriage, she flounders in excessive drinking. Her husband is distant, running off to corners of the world without any notice, leaving her to her own devices where she finds herself regretfully unfulfilled.

In a lesser actress’ hands, a rich, bored, drunk lady would come across a whole lot more Real Housewives of Orange County, but this is a woman that Carter has sunk her teeth into. Margaret is the role of a lifetime. The tragically younger, thus, forgotten sister to Elizabeth. Margaret always craved the spotlight and reveled in it. As queen, she would’ve made waves. She would’ve reinvented the entire monarchy. It’s the exact reason she was pushed to the margins. And Helena Bonham Carter does not exist in the margins. Ever the rebel, like Margaret, these are women who were born to perform. The parallels don’t stop there.

Carter herself is a woman that’s perhaps never been taken seriously enough in Hollywood. Yes she’s won BAFTA’s but stateside she’s never garnered the praise I thought she should. Has she, like Margaret, grown tired of living in the shadows? Could it be that through the role of Princess Margaret, Helena Bonham Carter has found the perfect disguise to finally get the proper recognition from Hollywood? I think yes. I think we’re watching the start of a second act for her.

The royals, though they possess a treasured space in pop culture in the States, also represent an old-timey class system that is deeply un-American. The Brits have their complicated feelings towards the royals, too. But we can look on at the royal family as these glamorous, bored robots. They affect none of our political decisions. They don’t even seem completely human. They aren’t on our currency, our stamps. So we can remain distant and removed. We can watch the stories about them, true or fictional, and restrain judgment. And that feels very...British.

[lettuceknighted]

wild boars are not to be messed with

Decent chance some of y’all might’ve seen this already but I figured I’d officially post it especially considering how productive I’ve been lately. 

[CW: animal death, field amputation, swearing?] 

--

Clang.

A yell pierced the quiet of the forest morning, full of surprise and pain, mingling with the loud clash of metal on limb on metal. A family of birds above startled, their calls echoing throughout the bracken and slow-lifting fog. Devi dropped to one knee. Already dew formed patterns of wet on her pants, but that wasn’t why she grimaced.

“Stupid fucking traps,” she growled out loud. She should have worn her fucking greaves but there wouldn’t have been a need for them at the moment, they could chafe or break. Light mail was the only piece of armor she wore now, and that wouldn't have done shit to prevent this. The creatures of this forest were big, strange, and dangerous. It was only fair the traps here would be just as vicious. What kind of idiot hunter would be trying to catch shit out here anyway? Air hissed between Devi’s teeth as she eased herself towards a nearby rock to sit down and see just how bad it was. Her pack dropped to the moss creeping up the side of the stone. Unless they thought some dumbass dragon was just gonna waltz right into… well… fuck. Sighing, she peeled back the leg of her pants. Iron teeth sunk into the skin of her calf, preventing her from making any attempt to slip out. She tugged at it anyway, frustrated. “God fffffucking dammit, fuck. Shit.” 

When she’d set off on the quick scouting mission she’d expected to maybe have to fight off a dragon or two, imagined returning home with the head or scales, a trophy to hang in the shack she never actually stayed in if they wouldn’t let her keep it in her cabin at the castle. The trophies taken from the pits disgusted her, there wasn’t any real glory in offing something injured and tied down. Slaying a dragon on the field? That was the shit. This was not the shit. This fucking sucked.

Captain Devi, stopped fucking short by a fucking hunting trap. She’d seen a few like this around the farmlands she grew up in, it was probably secured in the ground somewhere nearby judging by the annoying rattling of the chain every time she moved. That wasn’t going to be easily dug up. It wasn’t like it was fucking made to catch beasts way too many times her size or anything. She’d just have to wait for some hunter to come by, get their attention, and continue on with the quest once she was freed cause she wasn’t a fucking wuss.

It felt as if hours passed, though the sun hadn’t actually moved much. Any trace of fog had dissipated and the occasional small animal scampered through the bushes. Small stones littered the roots of a tree, flung out of anger and pain, and then out of sheer boredom. Devi--

Devi froze.

She could hear something moving in the distance, something that definitely wasn't a rabbit or squirrel. One hand found the pommel of her sword without even thinking about it. Shifting into a more prepared position hurt, but Devi set her jaw and focused on listening. She could hear it breathing, great heavy puffs of air spanned out in clusters. It almost sounded like it was… tracking… something.

Realization hit her and her gaze followed the short trail of red leading to the rock she was sitting on.

Shit.

Shit shit shit shit. Devi slid her sword from the scabbard, nothing that big in these woods could ever be any sort of good. The metallic sound rang quietly over the small clearing just as the wild boar’s head thrust its way through the brush. It stamped, snorted. It had found what it was looking for. Devi’s blood ran cold. The tusked beast was nearly Devi’s own height, it could comfortably fit her entire upper body in its mouth if it wanted to. And it sure looked like it wanted to. The boar lumbered up to her. She could smell it now, unwashed animal with the stench of rot lingering on its breath. She laid still as it examined her, startling it would mean a tusk or two to the face and maybe it would realize this was not a good target, that it wasn’t worth the effort of finishing her off. Maybe it would go find some other unfortunate bitch to eat.

The boar reared back.

Devi flung her body to the side seconds before the its trotters came down on her. Pain bloomed in her calf as it jerked forward, for a moment everything reduced to a muffled blur. Her left hand scrabbled against the bark of a tree and she caught herself, stumbling but upright. Tusks scraped against stone with a bone-rattling shriek and the whole world came rushing back. Devi felt her heart pumping with familiar adrenaline, and she steadied herself. All those years of fighting weren’t going to mean shit if she got her ass kicked by one stupid oversized pig.

Just standing hurt like a son of a bitch, but there was no way this piece of shit was going to do her in. Devi was better than that. A sick kind of almost-grin turned up the corners of her mouth, she was going to make fucking bacon out of this motherfucker. The animal snuffled, shaking its great head and wheeling to face her again. She stared it in its beady little eyes, gripping her sword, waiting. 

The boar charged. 

Devi set her jaw and lunged forward, landing in a roll and coming up on the side of the pig. 

On her right leg.

It felt like it was on fire. Nerves begging and wailing for her to stop but Devi kept moving, yelling as she slammed all of her weight sword-first into the off-balance pig. Her blade sunk into its throat and the boar screeched. Branches cracked and splintered as it lumbered blindly into a tree. Devi drove the sword deeper into its flesh and a triumphant cry left her lips and something caught.

Devi barely managed to keep hold of her weapon as the trap chain pulled taut and she was yanked hollering back to the ground. Branches scored across her face and arms but that couldn’t even try to compete with the agony coursing through her leg. It clouded her vision, turned every exhale into a whimper. She grit her teeth and pressed up into standing anyways.

The wild boar was losing steam now, blood gushing from its throat and painting the forest floor in streaks and splotches. It careened into trees, each time stumbling away more and more disoriented, until once again it glared at Devi. She tensed as it lurched towards her, unsteady. For a moment the two of them faced off, staring each other down. Red speckled the boar’s hide and its little black eyes bore into hers with anger and desperation. Then with a roar, the beast made its choice. And Devi’s footing failed her.

One wrong shift of her weight and her leg simply couldn’t fucking take it, she fell back and the boar turned towards her and she braced herself.

The boar stumbled.

Tripped.

With a thunderous crash and a sickening crack the boar fell. Devi gasped for air, crushed partially beneath it. Bile rose in her throat, the scent of blood and fear filled her nose with each strained hyperventilation. Everything was a whirlwind of dust and hog and pain.

The weight in her right hand brought her back to where she was. She could feel the pig against her, see its legs. She knew where she was, and she was far from unarmed. In one swift motion she plunged the sword under the armpit of the thrashing pig and it screamed. Flailing trotters struck out against Devi’s battered body in jerky, panicked motions. 

And then it stopped.

She lay still for a moment, trying to remember how to make her lungs work again. Just breathing made it feel like someone was taking a hammer to her ribs. She didn’t want to move. She couldn’t move. She had to move. Withdrawing her sword only yielded a trickle more of crimson and a horrible squelching noise. Devi inched her way out from under the boar, struggling not to succumb to the fog of pain and exhaustion. 

“Eat that,” she muttered to the pig, knowing full well it wasn’t over yet.. She went for a step and collapsed. What could only be described as a sob wracked her body. The rush of the fight was leaving her, and the toll it had taken on her leg as well as the rest of her was becoming agonizingly evident. 

But she had to get out of there. And soon. Devi tried again but the trap was so heavy and painful and she just couldn’t. She made it two steps, and then the trap’s chain clinked as it reached the edge of its perimeter once more, and with a yelp she hit the forest floor again. Sticks and rocks prodded at her bruised skin, almost taunting her with every tiny stab and bump. 

She wasn’t going to make it with the trap tethering her there. Devi wrenched the sword from the ground and scooted up to a nearby tree, leaning back against the solid bark. Just that movement was enough to send flares of pain coursing through her throbbing leg. 

            This was stupid. This was probably going to get her killed, she had absolutely no idea what she was doing, but this was her only option, unless she felt like fighting off whatever came for the boar's body. Ripping cloth from her shirt she tied it a good few inches above where the teeth closed on her mangled calf, whimpering as she pulled it tight, pulled it tighter. Her hands shook as they took hold of her sword again. She wiped as much boar blood as she could off on her sleeve, trying to steady her breathing. The suffering already encompassed her whole mind, how much worse could it get? Devi raised the blade before she could have second thoughts.

So, so much worse.

Her teeth pressed together were not enough to muffle what ripped through her raw throat. It was dizzying, it was torture. It hadn’t gone all the way through. Devi took a deep breath and swung again. Chips of bone and flesh flew from the wound. Again. And again. Until at last she was relieved of the iron jaws and left half-delirious with pain. Devi allowed her body to crumple sideways. If she thought she hadn’t wanted to move beforehand, there was nothing that could make her move now. But once again, she had to. Her sword was probably fucked but she didn’t even consider leaving it behind as she half-crawled, half-dragged herself away. It would be like leaving behind a limb, and she’d already done that once today.

She didn’t know how far she’d made it when wet leaves sent her tumbling into a ditch. It didn’t matter. Hopefully the corpse of the boar would be interesting enough to keep anything else from sniffing her out, hopefully it would be far enough. The trees blurred, vision swimming in and out of focus. Pain was everything, yet laying there felt so good. She was alive. She fucking won. The pig could suck it. In agony and in exhaustion, Devi finally slipped into oblivion.

[varietydisco]

Catch of the Day

Pairing: Arthur Morgan/Kieran Duffy Rating: Teen and Up Tags: Mutual Pining, Crushes, First Kiss, Both of them being mildly touch-starved, Kieran rubbing down Arthur “butterball” Morgan with aloe vera Word count: 4500

Description: Arthur and Kieran let their minds wander on an unsuccessful fishing trip, and Arthur gets a sunburn.

Arthur felt his presence before Kieran even had the chance to say a word.

Kieran walked quietly, as if he were afraid to make too much noise or to assert himself into his surroundings. He seemed to slink around camp, shoulders slumped and head down, despite being surprisingly tall and just as lanky. He had an air about him, though, that was impossible to miss; sitting alone at the table scribbling in his journal, it made the hairs on the back of Arthur’s neck stand up when he felt Kieran looking at him.

Kieran seemed to do a lot of looking these days, though that could have just been a coincidence.

Arthur glanced over his shoulder.

Sure enough, Kieran was standing a few feet off, all gangly limbs and strange uncertainty about himself. He held a fishing pole and a bucket in both his hands, with a worried expression. When Arthur looked at him, Kieran seemed to jolt, as if he weren’t expecting this development, and a little like he was ready to take off and run.

Arthur gave Kieran a second to speak, and when he didn’t, Arthur took the lead into the conversation.

“Mornin’.” He greeted, despite it being closer to noon by then. He flipped his journal shut and twisted around in his seat. “Whaddya need?”

“N— nothin’,” Kieran replied almost instantly, tripping over his words.

“Well, obviously there’s somethin’,” Arthur said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be ooglin’ me.”

Kieran’s cheeks flushed hot. His eyes dropped to the ground and the words sounded as though they were tumbling out of his mouth.

“I— I wasn’t ooglin’ ya! I was just… Well…”

A lot of people commented on how much more confident Kieran had gotten since they let him loose from the tree. He still had that damn stutter, but he was slowly getting less afraid to talk to people and speak his mind. Awful with looking people in the eye yet, which was something that bothered Dutch to no end (but really, what did he expect from a glorified ex-O’Driscoll-whipping-boy?). Otherwise, he was getting better, according to the others.

Arthur didn’t seem to get that from Kieran; he got an awkward man with a secret on his mind that was eating him inside out. If Arthur were better at reading people, he might try to figure out what Kieran was hiding, but he just wasn’t, so he stayed weary of the other man best he could.

“I’m tryin’ to rally my nerves, is all.” Kieran finally finished.

“So, you do want a favour.”

“No, not exactly. I— Well…”

“You’re wastin’ my goddamn time, O’Driscoll.”

Kieran’s freckled cheeks flared red. Despite the nerves which still wracked his voice and held his shoulders, he managed to sound more assertive.

“I told yous a million times over— I ain’t no O’Driscoll. I hate when y’all call me that. I’m… I’m more van der Linde than I ever was O’Driscoll.”

Arthur sort of half-shrugged his shoulders, before settling back and crossing his arms. Quickly, he scraped his eyes over Kieran’s lanky body. There was nothing in particular to note, except that when he got defensive and annoyed he stood a little straighter and a little taller, almost enough that it made him look good. Or at least better.

Arthur didn’t want to approach where that thought came from, so he quickly pushed it right back down.

“Just tell me what you want an’ be done with it. No sense runnin’ circles.”

“I’m only— I was wonderin’ if you’d wanna go fishin’ with me.” Kieran finally said. For emphasis, he shook the bucket in his left hand; it rattled presumably with extra hooks and bait.

Arthur looked at the bucket, then Kieran, then to the rest of the camp beyond him.

As the afternoon heat started settling in, most of the people had drifted away from their work towards whatever shady spots they could find instead. Either laid-up under tents to sleep away the heat or tucked under outcroppings from the waggons while they chatted quietly among themselves, the entire camp had fallen into a peaceful hush. There was no loud talking, or nagging, and most surprisingly of all, no arguing. Usually the heat brought out the worst in people, but for some reason, not today.

A secret little part of Arthur loved the thought of getting away from camp today. If he waited too long, Dutch or Pearson or one of the girls or someone would come wandering around, asking him for this or that. An errand to run in town, a trinket to go find, a harebrained scheme that would promise them big pay for a little elbow grease. Frankly, Arthur wasn’t in the mood for any of it. A day of peace might do him good.

Arthur turned his eyes back to Kieran and narrowed them. Being skeptical was always in his best interest.

“Why?” Arthur inquired. “I thought the fish didn’t bite this time of day… Somethin’ about the sun, or the bugs on the water.”

Under his intense gaze, Kieran acted funny. He wet his lips, shifted his feet, and dropped his eyes. His shoulders slumped forward again, as if what little confidence he had before was sucked out of him.

“Well, you’re— you’re the nicest person here to me. We did good the last time we went fishin’, too.” Kieran admitted. “And I figured you— well, I figured you needed some rest. You’re always runnin’ around for the others an’ I ain’t ever— p- pardon me sayin’, but I ain’t ever seen you sit your ass down anywhere for long. An’ fishin’, it’s just…”

The words were falling quick and nervous out of Kieran’s mouth. “It’s just sittin’ on your ass. Relaxin’.”

Arthur tilted his head back a little bit. Despite himself, he cocked his brow and smirked with the corner of his lips.

“Spend a lot of time thinkin’ about my ass an’ what I do with it, O’Driscoll?”

Kieran’s eyes bugged.

“That ain’t what I said at all!”

Admittedly, his reaction made Arthur laugh. Deep and quiet, Arthur settled back in his chair as he chuckled.

Kieran’s face went red up to his ears as he shook his own head. He chewed his lip and went to turn on his heels.

“Nevermind my askin’. M’ sorry to bother you.”

Arthur scoffed as soon as Kieran started to walk away. He uncrossed his arms, sat forward and waved his hand.

“Come on, now. I’m only teasin’.” Arthur said. He waited until Kieran looked back at him to keep talking, carefully. “I never said I wouldn’t come. I reckon it’d be nice… Relaxin’, an’ whatnot.”

Kieran perked up. Despite his nerves and doubts and every other weird, squirming feeling inside of him at the sight of Arthur’s bright blue eyes that he’d rather ignore, Kieran couldn’t help himself being drawn in. He smiled, a small quirk in his lips that quickly broke into something more excited.

For a second, the sight of it made Arthur forget what he was going to say.

Kieran didn’t seem to smile a lot, but then again, why would he? Not a lot to make you smile when you were the butt of everybody’s jokes.

But he had a great smile, Arthur had to admit, whether he wanted to or not.

Arthur cleared his throat and rose to his feet. As he went, he grabbed his journal and tucked it firmly under his arm.

“I ain’t much of a fisherman, though.” Arthur warned. “You know that.”

“Don’t matter. Most of the fun’s in the company, anyhow.”

Arthur pursed his lips. He couldn’t help but notice how Kieran’s eyes flickered to his mouth.

“Hold yourself in pretty good esteem?”

Even though Kieran still had that same nervous look to him, he kept smiling.

“Not hardly. I just think… We get along good, is all.”

Something about Kieran’s genuine smile made Arthur’s heart ache. He pushed it down, forced away his own smile, and only offered a nod in reply.

“…Yeah, you’re alright.”

—30—

By the time they got to their private nook on Flat Iron Lake, the sun was high in the sky and impossibly hot and stifling. Sweat rolled liberally down the sides of Arthur’s jaw and collected in his stubble, sticky and uncomfortable. There was hardly any shade for them, so the sun beat down awful vicious. Arthur felt the burn of his shirt against his shoulders.

But, for some reason, the peace was nice. All things considered.

Kieran talked, mostly about nothing and mostly just to fill the silence. His voice regained some of that confidence people were always commenting on. While they casted their lines and slowly reeled in, Kieran’s words floated up into the hot summer air and kept Arthur entertained.

“You know I— I heard once that there’s catfish in some lakes that’ve gotten so big they could eat a man,” Kieran said. His eyes were trained on the water, as he sat on the sandy bank and reeled his rod. “Heard that’s why in some places, they… They don’t eat the catfish. ‘Cause they’ve fed on humans.”

Their conversation was following a train of thought, constantly shifting topic and moving this way and that. Considering how quiet he normally was, Arthur just appreciated that there was someone to take the lead in the conversation.

“So, if we catch a real fat one,” Arthur mused. He reached up to wipe his forehead on his arm. “We ought to assume Pearson fell in the lake and got made dinner?”

Kieran laughed, short and surprised. Arthur glanced to the side in time to see it happen, and almost wished he hadn’t.

Seeing Kieran smile and watching his eyes crinkle as he laughed made Arthur’s heart ache again. There were so many implications to it that Arthur didn’t want to think about, much less dwell on or try to dissect.

He didn’t want to think about how Kieran’s presence made him feel, or the way the hairs on his arms and neck rose when he felt Kieran looking at him. And the last thing Arthur needed to be thinking about was how Kieran looked then, and how he wished he could have immortalized the scene in a drawing, with Kieran’s straw hat pulled low to his eyes, his body pitching forward slightly as he laughed, the quirk in his thin lips and the way his eyes crinkled at the edges. Arthur didn’t need to think about how much warmth and light Kieran managed to hide in that nervous face of his.

Maybe Kieran felt Arthur staring at him, because as his laughter died he looked to the side. His smile kind of dipped, shifted towards uncertainty.

“S— somethin’ wrong?” Kieran asked. His own heart thundered so loud in his chest, he prayed that Arthur couldn’t hear it.

Arthur never had a way with words. He had them all in his head, but never the means to express them proper. Instead of answering truthfully, Arthur shook his head, turned his eyes down, and drawled out a, “Naw. It’s nothin’.”

—30—

They didn’t catch a lot, and most of what they did were too small to keep. Even though their bucket was mostly empty, it was still in good fun; the peace and the quiet was better than anything else. For a few hours, at least, Kieran was glad to be away from the loud voices at camp mocking or teasing him.

Arthur was great company, all things considered. While they fished, and after their conversation had tapered off into sparse silence, Kieran kept stealing little glances at the other man.

Progressively, over the course of their fishing trip, Arthur had been undoing buttons from his shirt, trying to invite the weak breeze onto his skin. He had the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and all the buttons undone on his front. His shirt basically hung off his shoulders, presenting all the soft, hairy rolls underneath.

Even though he was an outlaw on the run, he was still pudgy and heavy-set. Kieran knew better than to stare, lest he be caught and teased or chastised for it, but it felt impossible to look away. The sight made Kieran smile, and a collection of feelings and thoughts rush through his mind.

Arthur’s line snagged and immediately he jumped into action. He jerked the rod, and started to reel, though quickly the line went slack again.

As frustration crossed his face, Kieran laughed gently.

“You ain’t caught a single thing, just about.” Kieran pointed out with a grin. “You’ve just been feedin’ the fish all day.”

“I told’ja, I ain’t no fisherman.” Arthur replied, trying to mask his annoyance.

He reeled in his line quickly, shook his head at the empty hook when he examined it, and then baited it up with another worm.

Kieran watched Arthur’s hands work, impossibly big and rough, yet still deft and delicate in their movements.

“It’s all in how you reel,” Kieran eventually said, after Arthur casted his line again. “I could show ya.”

Arthur held his rod out to the side. “By all means.”

Kieran took the chance to scoot in closer to Arthur. The sandy beach shifted, hot and imposing under his legs; somehow, though, when his shoulder brushed with Arthur’s, it felt even hotter.

“You’ve got a good cast,” Kieran explained, keeping his eyes down on their hands. “But when you feel a bite, y’ gotta give it a hard, quick yank. Make sure that sucker stays on…”

Kieran placed his hand over Arthur’s and adjusted it. Arthur fell completely silent, settled instead on watching Kieran.

His eyes flicked between Kieran’s face and their hands, his heart starting to race. Maybe it was because people’s hands on Arthur usually had the intent to hurt, and that’s why it felt so hot and odd. Not exactly unfamiliar, just… Different. Good, in a way. Too good. Arthur’s mouth felt kind of dry.

Then, just as soon as Kieran’s hands were there, they were gone again; taken back quick and wrapped around his own fishing rod again, as though it had been a mistake to make contact at all.

“Then you just gotta… Keep reelin’.” Kieran finished. He wet his lips and glanced towards the water, away from Arthur. Feeling awkward and strange himself, with the lingering sensation of Kieran’s hands on his own, Arthur did the same. “If you pull the line too much, it’ll… It’ll dislodge the hook. Then the fish gets away with the bait.”

Arthur nodded. Under the brim of his hat, his shaded cheeks felt hot.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

“No problem.” Kieran replied just as weakly.

Silence overcame them, aside from Arthur clearing his throat and them quietly reeling in or casting out. It took a few seconds, but Arthur soon realized that Kieran never moved back to his spot. They stayed together, shoulders barely touching.

“You’re awful close,” Arthur pointed out, maybe because he felt an obligation to. It didn’t feel quite right to admit that he liked it.

Kieran glanced to him.

“Oh. I guess I am.” There was something uncertain in his expression as Kieran smiled with the corner of his mouth. “Do you mind it?”

Arthur didn’t know what to say right off, so he mumbled, “Not especially.”

Kieran didn’t look away immediately and neither did Arthur. They kind of gazed at each other for a long moment and it left Arthur unsure and nervous, because sitting this close he noticed how pretty Kieran’s eyes were, and that was something he would rather have not to think about.

“This is nice, don’tcha think?” Kieran asked. “Nothin’ to worry about, nobody wantin’ anythin’ outta ya.”

“It’s different.” Arthur admitted. He couldn’t be sure if he were referring to Kieran’s statement or his own feelings.

“We ought to do this more often. At least for your sake.” Kieran laughed weakly. He turned back towards the water. “What, with the way they’s run you ragged at camp…”

“How many times can you see my ugly mug before you get sick of it?” Arthur inquired. “Or do you just enjoy bein’ the most competent man in the area?”

“What? No! ‘Course not.”

The corner of Arthur’s mouth quirked with a smile.

“Oh, sure.”

“Honest and true,” Kieran insisted. “Its like I said, I— I just enjoy your company.”

“Nobody just ‘enjoys my company’ unless they want somethin’ or they’re sick in the head.” Arthur said it as a joke, in his own gruff way, but Kieran didn’t laugh or smile. Instead, Kieran paused, kind of furrowed his brows together in worry.

“You don’t really think like that, do ya?”

Arthur’s stomach twisted and he quietly faltered. It took him a second to shake off the comment.

“Come on, I don’t need pity from an O’Driscoll. It’s just a joke, is all.”

“Well, alright…” Kieran’s voice trailed off, and even as they both looked back to the water, he stole glances at Arthur through the corner of his eye. “…I don’t think it’s true, though. I think you’re fine company to keep.”

“You don’t know me very well, apparently.” Arthur felt a tug on his line, so he jerked the rod and did as Kieran showed him. “Or you’ve got a terrible judge of character. I kept you chained to a tree.”

“We all done things we ain’t proud of,” Kieran said. He let his own line lay to waste as he watched Arthur reel.

Arthur grunted with effort. “Who says I ain’t proud of it?”

“I like to think I know you better’n that.”

“You barely know me at all.”

Arthur tugged and reeled, and then stood up to get a better grip. Whatever was on the end of his line put up an awful fight.

Kieran’s eyes quickly looked over Arthur’s form, before they settled on his face.

“If that’s what you think, then I…” Kieran hesitated a second. “…I’d like to get to know you better, Mister Arthur.”

Arthur casted a quick glance to Kieran, part flustered and confused and unsure what to think, then pulled his catch out of the water with a great yank.

—30—

Arthur caught their biggest catch of the day because of course he did. As with all things, even though he put himself down, he excelled in the end.

Kieran didn’t have it in him to be jealous or angry about it, though. If anything, he was impressed, enthralled; starstruck, maybe, if it didn’t sound so cheesy to admit. When they came strolling back into camp that afternoon and Arthur handed his catch off to Pearson to be gutted and cleaned, people gawked and congratulated him and commented on how the fish had to be as big as Jack. Per usual, Kieran hung to the background, mostly forgotten and unnoticed. He didn’t mind.

He spent the whole day with Arthur, and that was more than he could have asked for. Except at one point, while a few people admired his catch, Kieran caught Arthur glancing over at him and giving him a small, crooked smile.

It made Kieran’s heart leap, his knees feel weak.

The smile only lasted a second, because quickly Arthur had to return to his scowl, lest people know that he wasn’t as rough, tough, and mean that he tried to sell himself as. Kieran didn’t mind, not really; he savoured the thought of Arthur smiling at him, then went about his work. He offered to help clean the fish for Pearson while the excitement around camp died down, and after that was done Kieran slunk back towards his own station by the horses. Back to the routine he knew.

Except he couldn’t stop thinking about Arthur. From his small smile to the power in his body when he rose up and reeled his fish in— it all stuck with Kieran, made him feel antsy and flustered like a teenager.

It also made him pause as he passed by Arthur’s tent, and note that the door of such was wide open.

Kieran didn’t try to be sneaky as he looked in. Struck with curiosity, Kieran openly peaked inside.

Arthur was sat on the cot, shirtless, as he rubbed ointment up and down his strong arms. His expression was stern and set. It twisted a little here and there as he rubbed himself down, no doubt dealing with the on-set sunburn from the afternoon. He applied more ointment to his hand, then reached behind himself to get at his shoulders.

Arthur didn’t look up, but his voice rang out, deep and commanding, “Kieran Duffy, quit that starin’. What d’you need?”

Kieran jolted and was suddenly overcame with the desire to run. He felt shame swell in his chest, like he was a peeping tom that had been caught in the act.

“I— I don’t need nothin’,” Kieran replied. He shifted towards the open front of Arthur’s tent. “How come you keep thinkin’ I do…?”

“Remember what we talked about? With you wastin’ my time?” Arthur twisted his body to try and reach his back with the ointment, but seemingly he had little success.

Flustered, Kieran looked at the ground.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. His eyes trailed back up to Arthur, quickly scanning over his heavy-set and half-naked body.

Watching Arthur struggle to apply his ointment was comparable to watching a seal try to wriggle back into the sea. It was like a disaster you couldn’t look away from.

After a moment of Arthur pretending that he didn’t notice Kieran was still there, and that he wasn’t getting embarrassed, Kieran spoke up.

“I could help you with that, mister Arthur.” The words felt heavy and laden with unspoken thoughts. Kieran swallowed, and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Or I could… Grab one of the girls to help ya…”

Arthur gave up trying to rub himself down and motioned his hand with a scoff. He didn’t look Kieran in the eye.

“Just get in here. Close the door behind you.”

Kieran didn’t need to be asked twice. He didn’t want to see who might be watching them, so Kieran ducked inside and tied the tent door shut with his eyes set forward. It was warm and a little stuffy in the tent, as the remainder of the hot afternoon sun burned off, but it was shady, at least.

Arthur twisted himself around, to put his back to Kieran, and held out the tub of ointment. As Kieran slid down onto the edge of the bed, he took the tub.

“You look pretty worse for wear, mister Arthur,” Kieran commented. As he dug into the container, he eyed Arthur’s bright red and painful looking back and shoulders.

“Ain’t gotta tell me.” Arthur grunted. His voice tapered off and went silent a moment. “…Just call me Arthur. No sense in formalities.”

“Okay… You got it.”

Kieran hesitated a second, the ointment in his palm and his hand awkwardly held in front of him. It took more courage than it should have to actually lay his hand across Arthur’s back.

It was in part because of the tension he felt in his chest. Kieran felt almost lightheaded at the thought that he was getting to touch Arthur beyond a slap on the shoulder or a handshake or something like that. But it was also the uncertainty that it was Arthur Morgan he was touching— a man who, in the past, had shown he wasn’t to be trifled with.

They were both silent, deep in their own similar thoughts.

Kieran’s heart slammed. His eyes groped along Arthur’s naked back, as he tried to keep his mind clear. Similarly, Arthur did everything in his power not to think about Kieran— not the way he touched him, and how it was the gentlest anyone had treated him in a long while.

There was an undeniable stirring excitement between them, like a low rumble. Kieran slid his hands across Arthur’s broad shoulders and then down his shoulder blades, following the dip of his spine to the slight rolls at his hips.  Arthur shifted, grimacing and sighing, as he gripped the pantleg of his jeans to keep himself focused.

Briefly, they parted as Kieran dug more ointment from the tin and Arthur let go of a deep breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“Sorry if I’m hurtin’ you any,” Kieran mumbled.

“You ain’t, don’t worry. Been through worse than this.”

“An’ it ain’t… Weird, or nothin’?” Kieran treaded carefully. He slid his hands over Arthur’s lower back and he thought he could melt. “It bein’ me doin’ this for ya? ‘Cause I ain’t one of the girls, or, well…”

A shiver shot down Arthur’s spine.

“I don’t mind. Wouldn’t be my first choice havin’ one of them rubbin’ me down, anyway.”

“Really?” Kieran flushed and smiled a bit. His hands slid down to Arthur’s sides. “I figured you an’ Mary-Beth, just on how she looks at ya—”

Arthur couldn’t take much more. Despite the pain in his burnt shoulders which ebbed through him, Arthur twisted around. Kieran faltered himself, voice trailing off as Arthur stared him down.

“Trust me, Duffy, I’m sure.”

All the tension and emotions that had built up inside of Arthur were catalysed by Kieran’s touch. So, against his better judgement, Arthur grabbed Kieran by the cheeks and kissed him full on the lips, hard and uncoordinated.

Kieran’s eyes shot open with shock first. Arthur’s weight leaned into his skinny body and Kieran realized then that this was real; Arthur Morgan was kissing him.

So, Kieran took it in stride. He threw his hands into Arthur’s hair, pulled him in, and kissed him just as hard.

They kind of fell together like they were meant to fit against one another. Though weary at first, quickly Kieran fell into rhythm with Arthur’s moving lips and gained his own confidence. Arthur tilted Kieran’s head back and kissed more into his mouth, earning a soft moan from the latter. Ultimately, when Arthur leaned back, Kieran fell in on top of him.

Kieran’s heart raced and the extent it all hit him a second later. He realized then that he was mostly laid down on top of Arthur. With shaking arms, Kieran planted his hands on the cot beside Arthur’s head and pulled himself up, breaking their kiss.

“Uh,” Kieran started, only to be cut off by Arthur who shook his head. He sounded a breathless, and his lips looked incredibly inviting.

“Don’t say nothin’,” he warned.

But Kieran spoke anyway, with a slow smile and curious voice.

“How… How long’ve you been waitin’ to do that?”

A strange expression crossed Arthur’s face that was equal parts confused and shocked with his own actions. It settled after a second, when his eyes focused in on Kieran again. It made the latter’s heart race.

Arthur shook his head.

“Too damn long,” he replied, and then he kissed Kieran again.

[snake-eyes-11]

8 Year Anniversary! || Monologue

The waxing moon cast bars of golden light, dimly creeping between the shadows to allow fleeting rays of light into the desolate underground Lair. A few of the chains that hung from the ceiling creaked in the breeze, the bats chattering among themselves from high above. 

Oogie had been wandering the graveyard in order to gather his thoughts and find inspiration for scares. The ghosts, despite how irritating some residents found them, could provide decent company and certainly helped when awry intruders came wandering through. During his banishment, they had served as important informants for the burlap creature that couldn’t escape his dark, dank prison on the edge of the moors. But, that was a long time ago.

Pushing the door to the elevator cage open, Oogie stepped across the metal floor and ran a hand through his curls. No doubt the children would be asking about dinner by the time he made it back into the concealed living quarters. If he had it his way, he’d make them all a nice bowl of Snake and Spider stew, but only two of his children seemed to inherit his love of the food; then again, he thought, the twins would eat just about anything.

Tugging the door to the Iron Maiden open, he skidded to a halt. Pointed spikes had almost poked his eye out. There was no corridor on the other side of the door. Slowly backing away from the Iron Maiden, he listened carefully to the sounds in the room, able to detect a soft scuttling from somewhere in the room.

“Well, well, well...” A familiar voice drawled, echoing against the metal walls. 

Oogie whirled around, looking into the dark to see a pair of bright green eyes glaring back at him through the gloom. “You gotta be jokin’ me.” he whispered.

“...what have we here, then?” the voice continued, emerging from the darkness to stand in the moonlight. Another Oogie was spotlighted in the middle of the room, a paw on his hip. “Not every day I get a human in my Lair.” 

Oogie looked over his shoulder, as if he anticipated seeing someone else behind him, only to remember what form he was currently standing in.

“Oh, right...” he muttered through gritted teeth. “Listen, man-”

“You got some guts comin’ down here...” the other Oogie continued, flipping his hessian hair to one side and eyeing Oogie devilishly. “...unless ya fell down here or sumthin’.”

“Actually, I just used the elevator.” admitted Oogie, folding his arms.

“HA!” the other Oogie clapped his paws together. “You’re a funny guy!” Seconds later, his eyes narrowed and his upper lip curled. “Real funny.”

Oogie raised a sceptical eyebrow. An almost textbook attempt to try and intimidate him, although it was a decent attempt. If he was fully human, he might have felt a shiver between his shoulder blades at that one. 

“Do you even know who I am, human?” spat the other Oogie. 

Oogie considered giving some sort of flippant remark, but was genuinely curious to see what sort of response the other Oogie gave. “Alright, who are you?” he sighed.

The other Oogie smirked, tilting his head. “I go by many names.”

That confirmed Oogie’s prior suspicions. This other Oogie was another version of him from several years ago. He remembered introducing himself in such a way, although hearing it out loud made his face crumple. 

“Alright, hit me with a coupla them.” challenged Oogie, curving his hand in a semicircle against the air.

The other Oogie raised his chin. “The Boogieman, the shadow on the moon at night, the Lord of Flies, Bugs an’ Slugs-”

Oogie cringed. “Never did like that last one. Who decided that was a good idea?”

The other Oogie furrowed his brow in confusion. “What you talkin’ ‘bout?” 

Oogie stepped around to one of the metal walls, leaning his back against it. “Alright, Mr Boogieman. What is it you’re supposed to do?”

The other Oogie blinked, shaking his head as if snapping out of a trance. In seconds, a warped smile carved against his burlap face. Oogie had to stop himself from bursting into laughter at the sudden change in expression. 

“You ever wondered where your darkest nightmares come from? All those lil’ fears an’ scares you get? Well, that’s me. I create ‘em all.” the other Oogie admitted this with pride, prompting him to stand straighter. 

Oogie had to smile at his confidence. “It’s great, ain’t it? No matter how many times you watch somebody jump or cower in fright, it never gets old."

"Yeah…" The other Oogie folded his arms, the look of confusion resurfacing. "Just who are you, anyway? Don't think I got your name, human."

Oogie hesitated, considering what sort of calamities might happen if he admitted he was a future version of him, but something told him that the Boogieman standing before him was beginning to become accustomed to meeting a whole host of peculiar, bizarre and fantastical people. Meeting himself shouldn't have been too strange.

"I'm you." replied Oogie simply. “From the future, if ya like.”

The other Oogie paused, blinking at him for a few moments before he burst into a rolling guffaw. He bent double, wheezing in hysteria. Oogie remained still, watching him laugh. It was only when the other Oogie noticed this that he came to an abrupt stop.

“Y’all serious?” he asked with a deadpan expression. “Do I look like I’m jokin’ you?” sighed Oogie.

The other Oogie took a couple of hesitant steps forward, squinting at Oogie as if he was studying him. “Why am I a human in the future?” he spat the word as though it was a bad taste.

“Accident with one of Shock’s potions,” he admitted with half a shrug. “Kinda worked in our favour, though. This form’s real handy for a lot of things.”

The other Oogie ran a paw over his chin. “Handsome fella, ain’t I? Not that there was ever any doubt, huh?” He let out a lilting cackle. “Wait...you ain’t stuck like this, are ya?”

Without a word, Oogie snapped his fingers. The shadows drew up from the floor, spiralling around his body and engulfing him in darkness. When the shadows receded, he was standing in a patchwork burlap form. The other Oogie visibly cringed.

“Man, what happened to you?” he squeaked, his face the epitome of disgust. “What’s with all these-” He gestured to a spot where Oogie had been patched up. “-patches?”

Oogie looked down at the spots in his hessian. “You try livin’ for one hundred an’ twenty years without gettin’ into a coupla scrapes!” he huffed, folding his arms.

The other Oogie shook his head. “Don’t care. Ain’t a good look, man. People’ll think we’ve gone soft if we go ‘round lookin’ like a pin cushion!” He paused, tapping his paw against the air. “Speakin’ of soft...what’s ol’ Bone Man up to in the future? Did we crush his skull to dust?”

The revenge years. Years of isolation eating away at him, twisting his mind into a depraved, violent madness which made him murder, cheat and lie over and over again. It had been a vicious cycle; whoever entered the Lair would be subjected to his torturous games, forced to gamble for their lives. Oogie would make the rules up as he went along, never playing fair. He drove everyone away, making so many enemies.

“That’d be tellin’, wouldn’t it?” Oogie remarked, deciding it was likely best not to admit that Jack was one of his truest friends in the future. If his memory was anything to go by, the past version of himself may have just pulled his seams apart knowing that.

The other Oogie grumbled under his breath. “Take it that means no, then.” 

Oogie hesitated a moment, looking at the slumped burlap creature opposite him. He was so full of hatred for the life he had been forced into, yet, beneath all of his pent up rage, he was utterly lost. The Boogieman before him had only known Halloween Town and the life of a ruler, he had no memory of anything that came before that and he wouldn’t for a very long time. He’d make hundreds of plans, scheme countless attacks and fail every time, but refuse to give up no matter how many times his seams were split. 

While he made enemies of most, he’d find friends in time; both with fellow villains and even with a few heroes. He’d find the love of his life all over again and have four children. He’d become King again, leading the citizens of Halloween Town into successful celebrations and, over time, gaining their trust. All of this still lay ahead of the other Oogie, and the present Oogie could say none of it to him.

“You got a lot to look forward to, though.” was all Oogie could say. “Trust me.”

The other Oogie’s brow furrowed. “Like what?” Before Oogie could answer, he held up a paw. “Lemme guess, you can’t tell me?” Oogie shook his head and the other Oogie scoffed. “Figures. Well, if ya can’t tell me squat, you can get outta my Lair.”

“‘Bout time I was gettin’ back to my place, anyway.” admitted Oogie, drawing away from the corner of the Lair he had been standing in and heading towards the back of the room. “But, you gotta believe me when I say the next eight years are gonna be the best years of your life.”

The other Oogie hesitated a moment, seemingly taking in what Oogie had said before shaking his head. “Don’t go gettin’ all sappy on me, ya big dupe. Go on! Scram!”

Oogie snapped his fingers, switching back into his human form. “So long, Mr Oogie Boogie.” And with that, he ran to the edge of the Lair and ducked into the shadows, disappearing from the Lair.

[experimentalmadness]

Cin Vhetin Ch. 5: Into the Depths Part 3

Hey y’all! To those still reading, you are awesome. Hope you’re liking it. You get to FINALLY peak underneath that OC’s helmet this chapter and learn a little more about them. This is the slowest of slow enemies to lovers burn so there is still just...so much to cover. 

Chapter Summary: Last in the Depths trio of chapters as Din and the Rebel get out of the caves and maybe? Have a little? Bonding time? 

Pairing: Din x OC/Reader (however you prefer to read it) No warnings but we do have some good forward momentum in the enemies to friends to lovers deliciousness. 

Masterlist: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4

Ao3 Link

***

Heavy, static-filled breaths permeated the cramped air as Din and the Rebel made their way through the tunnel. It wasn’t as wide as the manufactured passageways, and sharp rocks protruded from the walls and ceiling, making the passage that much more harrowing. 

The kid was having an easy time weaving in and out of the small outlet, easily avoiding the rocks. It toddled into the occasional puddle, splashing about in the water before hopping out and trundling onwards. 

The Rebel’s modulator continued reverberating thick, strained breath as they ducked and crawled through the rapidly narrowing tunnel. 

“Were you injured?” Din asked.

“I’m fine,” the Rebel barked, awkwardly shuffling forward while trying not to put any weight on their slung arm. “Just...not overly thrilled about cramped spaces.”

It could be a bluff, Din thought. Why would a merc sent to kill him admit to being further injured after all? This truce only lasted for as long as they both proved useful to one another. Still, as Din watched the Rebel scrabbling through the rocky tunnel their discomfort seemed genuine. They reached a fork in the passage and without missing a beat the Rebel tilted her head to the right. “This way.”

“How can you be so sure?” but the kid was already following along after them. 

“Just a feeling.”

It wasn’t like he had a better idea of which way might lead them out, and crawling through this blasted tunnel left him with little energy to argue. Sure enough, after a few minutes of scraping by they emerged from the crevice into a wider cavern. The Rebel stretched out, “That’s better.” 

They were standing by an underground lake. Strange crystalline structures wove up out of the ground connecting to other crystals growing down from the roof of the cave. All around them was the steady drip of water. It was almost peaceful. 

“Hey, get out of there!” Din shooed the kid out of one of the bigger puddles. “You don’t know what’s in there.”

“Cute kid,” The Rebel remarked. “Worth all the trouble its caused?”

“So far.” Din did not like the way the merc was looking at the child. In all the chaos it had been easy to forget they were still only allies of convenience. The minute they set foot above ground he had to be ready to shoot to kill. This one was crafty. They’d have some kind of plan in mind. 

“Loyalty.” They said the word with extreme derision. The modulator’s cheery disposition somehow made the disgust more evident. 

“I don’t expect a merc to understand that.”

“Nah, I don’t. Loyalty gets ya killed and I like living, thanks,” The Rebel gave a little mock bow, walking backwards while balancing over a natural rock bridge as they made their way across one of the crystal water pools. 

Din swallowed his own venom towards the merc. Time enough to settle things, even if he was itching for that fight now. The water rumbled around them, nearly throwing both him and the Rebel off balance into the pool. Din took a step in front of the child as a vicious water serpent emerged, scaled mouth hissing into the darkness, spiked prongs emerging near its throat. 

The Rebel whirled about, firing off two blaster shots at the thing in quick succession to little effect. The creature gave a nearly silent, high-pitch screech before opening it’s fanged jaws wide and going into a dive directly for them. Din snatched the kid up and bolted to the right while the Rebel went left.

“Hey slimey, down here!” the Rebel made a show of waving their arms about. The creature took the bait instantly and slithered after them. Din fired off his cable, wrapping it around the serpent’s neck. 

In a contest of pure strength Din was bound to lose. Din pulled with all his might. The serpent flared its gills, wriggled, and opened its mouth in a furious hiss as the air was choked from it. “Gotcha, beasty,” The Rebel said, firing another blast down the creatures throat where the shot bypassed the armored scaled entirely.

The serpent let out one long gurgle before going limp. Din released his grip, snapping the cord back into his vambrace. Smoke curled up from the mouth of the beast as it slipped back underwater. “I really hate caves, have I said that yet?” The Rebel shuddered, holstering their blaster. 

“Quick thinking,” Din pointed out, wiping water from his beskar and setting a struggling kid back down on the crystal bridge path where he ran off after the Rebel. 

“You, too.”

“Who trained you?”

“Life,” The Rebel’s modulator gave a static laugh. “Not all of us get to be fancy Mandalorian warriors.” 

“You fight smart for a merc. I can only say that about a handful I’ve met. Most are just brute force,” Din replied. 

“Is that a compliment?” The Rebel turned about on their heel, hand outstretched at their side as if they were holding the train of an invisible dress and curtsying properly. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Mando. I’ll still kill you once I see daylight.”

“So...if we emerge and it’s night?”

“Shut up and walk.”

***

Din was starting to lose track of time. It had to have been at least half a day if not more that they were down here. Exhaustion was going to start creeping in soon. He glanced over at the Rebel, still gamely walking on, climbing over the occasional ledge. They didn’t seem to show any sign of fatigue. So neither would he. 

At every turn the merc seemed to know their heading. 

“How do you do that?” he finally broke down and asked as they pointed down a left facing passage. 

“Do what?”

“Decide which tunnel to take? They all look the same to me. And don’t say it’s ‘just a feeling.’” 

“Fine. Air smells fresher down this path. Keep walking in the direction you can feel or smell fresh air and before you know it you’ll be out of any tunnel.”

But the air felt more or less the same to him as they walked into another passage. The crystalline spires had faded away back to granite, and the damp went along with them. Suddenly the Rebel gave a little hop-skip, jumping and pointing with her good hand. “Hah! Do you see that?!” 

Din followed her line of sight towards a distant bright point. “Light.”

“Too damn right! That’s our way out. Charge up your blaster, Mando. I wanna get this over with.”

The Rebel couldn’t see the wry look that passed over Din’s face. They were scraped, bruised, covered in cave-muck, and had one arm in a crude sling, but still they were confident this would be an easy fight. Even after he had beaten them in their last encounter. They took off down the path at double speed. 

It was then the ground rolled under the feet, stopping them dead. 

“Earthquake?” Din hazarded.

The Rebel shook her head. “Maybe. We caused a lot of damage in that factory, some of it was built into the walls of these caves.”

Another roll, this one nearly knocking Din right into the Rebel. “Let’s just get out of here.”

Not needing to be told twice, Din matched the Rebel’s pace. The kid wouldn’t be able to keep up with them at this rate and he looked down to scoop the child up. Only it wasn’t there. Din whirled about, swiveling his headlight to find where it could be. The light fell on the kid as it was trundling over to a small pocket of multi-colored crystals etched into a rockwall. The colors must have caught its attention. 

The cave rumbled and shook, a couple of rocks rolled down from the walls. The shaking grew more violent, throwing Din’s balance off. He saw one of the columns crumbling near the kid even as he ran towards him, arms outstretched.

“Hey kid, look out!”

The Rebel had been further ahead of him and went tearing straight into the child, skidding to the side and forcibly pushing it out of harm’s way as the column collapsed in a shower of rubble. It gave Din enough time to snatch the startled child up in his arms. He pressed himself into a mostly solid wall, throwing his arms up over both himself and the child as the cavern continued to roar and shake, jarring more rocks and boulders loose. 

After a few moments the shaking ceased and Din was able to uncurl himself, brushing off bits of gravel. “That was close,” he said, checking the child over for any injuries. “Don’t wander off like that, ok womp rat?” The kid gave a small babble of understanding, its ears were pointed down in chastisement. 

“I think I owe you some thanks,” Din straightened and turned about, “if you hadn’t been—”

But the Rebel wasn’t standing behind him. There only a pile of rocks and stone, and where his light fell he could see one gloved arm, halfway out of the ruin. Instinct made him dash forward to help, but he slowed as he approached. 

This was a lucky break! If the Rebel was pinned under the rocks they weren’t going to prove a problem anymore. The gloved hand twitched and flexed under the rubble, a barely audible moan coming from underneath. 

He hesitated, reaching out to shift some of the rocks only to pull back. His Creed did not say anything about aiding a known enemy. He already had enough trouble. And this was no helpless babe in a crib. “Let’s go,” he said to the kid. 

The child gave a loud, affronted cry and slapped his tiny claws on one of the rocks. “C’mon,” he urged again. 

The child hit the rocks giving another indignant cry. “Look, I know this is hard to understand, but it’s better this way. Let’s go,” be bent down to take the kid’s hand. 

It wrenched himself out of his grip and slapped the rock again with a little ‘bap’ of insistence. Its eyes scrunched up, insistently, ears wiggling. Din sighed heavily. “Guess you do technically owe them a life-debt.” Was he imagining things or did the kid actually give a nod at that?

He had to stop making choices that would get him killed. With a groan of annoyance he grabbed one of the rocks, throwing it off the pile of rubble. The kid’s ears perked up at the action. He did not need the validation of a child! But he kept shifting the rubble until the merc was unburied. 

The Rebel gave a gurgling cough. Their helmet was smashed, the respirator broken and leaking air. He reached down to pull it off when he found himself with a blaster aimed at his head. “Don’t...try...it…”

“That thing is going to suffocate you, idiot. You’re not a Mandalorian, take it off.”

It was hard for the Rebel to get words out around the broken respirator. The modulator was busted as well, it gave them a distorted, multi-toned sound. “Why...help?”

“Don’t ask,” Din grunted, hauling the Rebel up over one shoulder and hoisting them out of the rocks. They were surprisingly light. Din carried them into the wider part of the cavern, away from the walls. He couldn’t be sure there wouldn’t be another tremor, but the point of light was so far distant there was no way he could carry them all the way there. He dumped them onto the ground where they gave an audible grunt of pain. 

The wheezing from the respirator was intolerable. “Stay here, I’m going to find something to get a camp built.” Not that there was anywhere the Rebel could go. Din watched in surprise as the kid voluntarily sat next to the merc. They looked over at it through the cracked lens of their pilot’s helmet, but kept their blaster trained on him. 

It didn’t take him long to pull over a few rocks suitable for benches. He made a ring of gravel and stones before setting down a firerod he had in his pack. It wasn’t much and they had no food or blankets to speak of, but at least they could have a little warmth and light while he figured out their next steps. 

The Rebel was in the same position he had left them. As the fire grew a little more substantial they painfully inched their way closer. “Still think you can take me in a fight?” Din couldn’t help but taunt. The Rebel said nothing. 

“Look, you’re gonna need a medic when we get out of here and I...owe you for saving the kid’s life.”

At the mention of the child it put it’s claws around the merc’s arm, blinking serenely up at them. “What’s...it...doing?” 

Oh, he should have known. The Rebel tried to pull back, but was too weak to move. The wheezing in their respirator picked up on their panic. With no more modulator to hide their emotions there wasn’t any static to drown out their small grunts of panic and distress. That kid had too good of heart. The little one’s eyes closed, forehead crinkling up as it concentrated on whatever magic it possessed before it fell backwards with a thump, completely passed out. As usual. Sighing, Din went over to collect the kid, wrapping him in his cloak and tucking him against his arms. He’d sleep for at least a couple of hours now. 

“What?” The Rebel repeated, sitting up, a hand over their chest, feeling down what Din could only imagine had been a broken rib cage a moment ago. “What the—” their broken arm was moving again too and they threw the sling away from them as if it was on fire. They continued to check over their other limbs as if they had all been replaced with prosthetics. Din was almost amused by their shocked antics before remembering the kid had just leveled the playing field for their inevitable fight. 

“What the…” with a low snarl the Rebel tore the broken helmet and respirator off their face. “What the hell did that thing do to me?!”

He had been expecting a number of things, but not the face that greeted him once that helmet had been removed. The Rebel’s skin was albino, completely devoid of all color, almost translucently moonbeam white against the fire. Her eyes were equally light, nearly the same pale white as her skin save for a few flecks of metallic gray. Short, mussed silver hair fell in front of her face, stopping just under her eyes. Her mouth was curled in an accusatory rage revealing sharp rows of teeth. And without the modulator Din could hear the husky, emotive edge to her voice. 

“It does that,” Din looked down at his charge, bouncing it a little as it slept. “I couldn’t explain how even if I wanted to. But I think it was trying to repay you for saving its life.”

She was breathing hard, fury burning in her unnaturally colorless eyes. She tried to stand but slipped backed down on shaking legs. “Yeah, it can heal, but it can’t restore all your strength. Rest up. Our truce still holds until we reach the surface.” He didn’t need to tell her he almost left her buried under the cave. 

She sat back, propping herself up on one of the rocks, blaster still in hand. “Guess I really have to kill you now,” she said, still breathing hard. “Can’t have you going around telling people what I look like...bad for business.” When she smiled her teeth bared themselves. She must have filed a few of them down to points. He had likened her to a vornksr before, he just hadn’t realized how right he had been. 

“You’re Arkaninan.” He hadn’t encountered many of the elusive people. Most of them weren’t in the guild or in the merc business. Scientists. Usually holed up in labs. 

“No,” the answer was torn from her throat with horrid derision. “I am not.”

“Oh,” Din shifted uncomfortably. He could have sworn— “My mistake.”

The merc blew a strand of hair out of her eyes, arms folding over her knees. She kicked out at the busted pilot’s helmet. “Took me months to find that. Now what am I gonna use?”

“You weren’t a soldier for the Rebellion?” Alright, he was officially confused. 

The Rebel turned those colorless eyes on him. “You think I look like the ‘sacrifice your life for the Cause’ type? Pff.”

Not Arkanian, not a rebel after all. The woman was as much of a ghost as her appearance. “Then who are you?”

“Is this an interrogation?” The merc raised a silver eyebrow. “Should have left me injured if you wanted some leverage, Mando.”

“It’s a conversation,” Din specified. “Not much else to do while this guy sleeps and you can’t walk.”

“Well stop.” 

No wonder she used a vocal modulator. Her voice gave away absolutely everything. Volatile, brusque, and full of quick emotion. The helmet, too. She radiated disquiet and anxiety from her huddled posture, to her fast flickering eyes and the snapping growl buried low in her voice. Din shrugged. He didn’t need to talk if she wasn’t game. 

The silence was only occasionally interrupted by the tremors in the caverns. Each time one rolled in the merc braced to run, only to uncoil when the tremor rolled past. Din had set up camp in the most central space in the wide tunnel he could think of. Wouldn’t do much good if the entire cave itself collapse, however. He looked down at the sleeping kid. If it didn’t wake up in the next hour he’d have no choice but to take his chances.

In that hour he watched as the Rebel made a concentrated effort to get herself back on her feet. She rose on shaking legs, holding herself against one of the larger rocks. Her knees knocked together at one point and she almost toppled. With a curse she righted herself again and began to hobble around the small camp, stretching her formerly broken arm at the same time. Din had never seen the kid heal more than a few bad gashes and cuts. Judging from how the Rebel was moving, he wondered if she still had a sprain or broken bone or two in one of her legs she was determined to trick him into thinking was also healed. 

“How long have you been a merc?” he decided to try for questions again, his curiosity getting the better of him. She looked young. Not so young as to hint at inexperience—her skills certainly put that debate to rest—but she only had a few faint scars to suggest a full vet in the business. At least what he could see. 

“Still trying?” she scoffed, bringing her left arm around her chest, swinging it out and trying a few experimental draws of her blaster. That was good. Now Din knew she was ambidextrous. Maybe that’s where some of the bravado about their fight had come from. One arm down wouldn’t have necessarily stopped her at all. She exhaled sharply as she came down from the stretch. 

“Fifteen,” she finally said. “Assisted with a crew then, went my own way around twenty.”

“So, how old—”

“Rude.”

He laughed, but fifteen was young for the trade. He’d seen a few younger hunters and merc in his time...most didn’t make it. The kid stirred in his arms and he looked down to see it blink up at him briefly, before rolling over and fitting itself near the crook of his arm and settling down again, fingers curled around the bit of shirt it could find between the plates of his beskar. 

“Time to go, Mando,” the Rebel said, standing over him. 

They had stalled long enough. Din rose to his feet, kicking gravel and dust over the fire to douse it. Shifting the kid in his arms and slinging his amban rifle over one shoulder he fell into step alongside the merc. She was still limping as they walked, and with no helmet on he could see her trying to hide a grimace. 

She wasn’t going to give him much choice, but Din had to admit...he wasn’t going to enjoy what was about to come next. It would have been easier leaving her behind in the rubble. 

“Hey,” his voice was soft through his own modulator. “What’s your name?”

“You gonna tell me yours?” In the silence that followed she smirked, “Didn’t think so.”

The light had been further away than either of them thought. By the time they approached a small opening in the cave the merc was covered in sweat and her limp had gotten worse. Her eyes never lost that determined, focused glare, however. And whatever pain she was in didn’t stop her from slamming her body full force into the rock-covered opening to widen the exit. 

Rubble shifted and spilled outward as they crawled through the opening. Din blinked fast against the light of day. They were on the other side of the canyon now, and the sun was in much the same position it had been when he had been first sucked down through the underground. A day must have passed. 

He pulled out his blaster, leveling it at the woman who was holding her own out at him. With his other hand he held the kid as far back against his armor as he could. The merc curled her fingers around the blaster, her triggerfinger wrapping and unwrapping. Those colorless eyes flashed with merciless certainty. 

He had her. She could fire first if she wanted, it wouldn’t matter. That blaster she was carrying wasn’t strong enough to tear through his beskar. But he’d cut her down in a second. 

Maybe she had noticed the unfavorable odds as well, because to Din’s immense surprise she lowered her blaster. “Get going, Mando,” she said. “Consider this your headstart before I change my mind.”

There was more honor to this merc than met the eye. Din slowly lowered his blaster until he was certain this wasn’t a trap. “This isn’t a mercy,” she was very clear to say. “But I owe that kid a debt for what it did. I pay upfront. Next time, no such luck.”

“Noted,” Din holstered the blaster. “Enjoy your deathwish.”

She fired so fast Din had no time to react. The first shot spun off to his left, just singing the very edge of his cape, the second landed right at the tip of his boots, and the last edged so close to the side of his helmet he could almost feel the flash-fire of the shot. His blaster was back out in seconds while she laughed, twirling her weapon and re-holstering it. “Zethu Desh,” she said, turning her back on him and walking away. 

“What?” Din’s voice had a hard bite of steel to it as he absorbed the outrage of the merc’s sudden fire. Was this her idea of a joke?

“My name,” She raised a hand behind her, giving him a mock salute high in the air. “It’s Zethu Desh. See ya around, Mando. Next time I won’t miss.”

[minty-fresh-21]

Boy in the Dog Park (Ch.2)

Summary:  “Hello listeners! The local police station asked me to remind all of you out of the roads tonight that, here in Gainesville, we believe in a speed limit of 19 miles an hour. If you go 20, well, you’re going to jail.”

Gainesville is a strange town. Virgil should fit right in.

Now if only Virgil could figure that out. Luckily, he’s got three friends, and maybe eventually something more, to help him along.

Warnings: Non human characters, Past violence, non descriptive violence

Chapter Title: The Second Meeting

Chapter Summary: In which having a nice conversation does not go as well as the pariceipencts would have liked, and Patton ships Viremy

Words: 3227

Need to Catch Up? Previous/Next  Also posted on AO3 

They were back at the park again. This time there was a chill in the air, and all three of them were wearing their Midwinter Festival sweaters. Logan had protested that ‘it wasn't even All Hallows Eve yet.’ Patton just laughed at him while Roman forced the sweater over his head.

None of them mentioned it, but all three of them had an apprehensive air about them. It had been a week since they had met Virgil. Though, Logan thought privately, meeting was a rather strong word for someone running away from you when you tried to introduce yourself.

That Forest had moved away and was now encircling the local library. (All the Librarians were trapped, and there hadn't been any contact with them for three days. They were probably fine. On the other hand, Logan hoped it moved soon, because if it didn't he would be racking up huge late fines, with the amount of books he currently had checked out. No one in Gainesville liked late fees. No one. Hiring demons from the underworld as your librarians probably was not the library director’s smartest idea.)

Patton had told them yesterday that he was going to the Park with Blue again tomorrow. He hadn’t asked them to come this time, but they dragged themselves out of bed to tag along with him anyways. (Both Roman and Logan had quietly agreed that Patton’s habit of getting up so early was outrageous.)

Patton was the one who finally brought up the topic they were all thinking about. “Do you think he’ll be here?” Before Logan could reply, a voice interrupted

“Hmmm, Gurl, Probab-!”

Roman reacted as dramatically (as usual) to Remy sneaking up on them, shrieking loudly. “MOTHER-”

“FATHER!” Patton quickly cut him off. “Now you!” he squealed, pointing at Logan.

“BROTHER!”

Remy paused, raising an eyebrow at the three of them. “Y’all are insane.”

Logan chuckled internally, and nodded. You would probably have to be crazy to survive in this town, anyways. “That’s fair.”

“Where did you even come from?” Roman gasped, still recovering from his shock.

“I’m a minor chaos god. I can teleport.”

“...”

“...”

“...”

“Well anyways Patton, how’s your garden going?”

As Patton happily rambled about how his chrysanthemums were coming along, Logan subtly leaned over to Roman.

“What did he mean? He’s not actually a god, right?”

Roman looked affronted, hissing back at him. “What the hell, Logan? Don’t you know it’s rude to question someone’s mortality status? Why would anyone lie about that?”

Logan blinked, sitting back in his original position, suitably chastised. “Ah, my apologies, we didn't really have, uh, that, where I come from.”

Roman’s face softened, and he nodded, straightening back up as well. Though Patton continued to chat with Remy, Logan and Roman started to scan the edges of the park, attempting to spot Virgil.

All three of them were hoping to see the mysterious Virgil again, for various reasons.  

Roman wanted to see the tiny man again, not just because he was adorable, but mostly. Logan wanted to make sure that Virgil was alright. They had startled him badly last week, and he had panicked a little too much to be normal. Patton wanted to apologize to the man, having worried about him all week.

Roman was the one who spotted Virgil first this time. He grinned triumphantly, poking Logan in the side to draw his attention to the approaching figure edging it’s way along the fence.

While Virgil walked over to Holly, who was still on her leash at Remy’s side, Roman and Logan had a quiet squabble where Roman crowded about how he “Saw him first, suck it, Microsoft Nerd!” and Logan glared and hissed back that  “It wasn’t a competition, Roman.”

When Virgil reached Remy’s dog, he plopped down on to the ground, glancing up at them warily.

Remy broke off his conversation with Patton to grin down at him with an almost predatory smirk.

“You did show up, how nice!”

Virgil flushed, scowling as he glared adorably up at Remy. Patton let out a small “Awwww…” at the expression.

Ignoring Patton's reactions, though they did cause his cheeks to darken, Virgil quipped back at Remy. “Shut up Rem. No one asked for your opinion.” Logan raised an eyebrow at the odd exchange, but decided that they must have met up at some point between when the three had seen them last week and this saturday, and this was a continuation of a conversation he wasn't privy to.

Remy snorted at Virgil’s response, but turned to introduce Virgil to the three of them formally.

“This is Virgil, as you already know. Vee, this is Patton,” Patton gave the man a brilliant grin, which caused him to blush a beautiful shade of violet. Observing this, Logan to wonder whether Virgil’s blood was a similar shade. “Roman,” Roman gave a dramatic bow to the man sill sitting on the ground next to Holly. “And Logan.” Logan gave a soft nod towards him.

“Salutations.”

Virgil gave them a nod, but didn’t say anything, his spitfire attitude from earlier gone.

“So Kiddo,” Patton began. “I know we gave you quit the scare last week…” He trailed off, not knowing how to proceed without making the apology awkward, but knowing that pausing was only making the situation more awkward. He looked at his boyfriends, growing slightly more panicked as the seconds wore on, hoping one of them would save him from himself.

Logan took pity on Patton and picked up where he left off, deciding to just go to short and simple route, and get straight to the point.

“We started you badly last week, and we wish to offer our apologies for it.”

Virgil offer them another smile, this one more shaky and hesitant. He flushed an even deeper shade of violet.

“It’s okay. I overreacted.”

And awkward silence came over them before Patton realized that standing in the dog park with the dogs on leashes was kind of silly. Blue was tugging on his leash, eager to run. Patton unclipped him, releasing him onto the various squirrels throughout the park.

Remy followed suit, unhooking Holly from her leash and watching her try to catch up to the hyperactive puppy. When Blue took a rather sudden turn, changing course to pursue a particularly chunky squirrel, Holly, doing her best to follow him, managed to perform a spectacular backflip as she lost her footing. A laugh was startled out of Virgil, which in turn, startled the three of them. They hadn't talked with Virgil much yet, but he didn't seem like the laughing type. A snicker wouldn't seem out of place coming out of his mouth, but not a laugh. Yet here he was, giggling, at Holly.  

Too cute.

Remy snorted at his dog, then poked at Virgil with his foot. “Go on, go play with the dogs and let the grown ups talk.”

Virgil scowled at him. Then, after a moment of thought, a vicious smirk came over his face that made Logan become wary of what mischief he could be planing. In a few swift movements, Virgil grabbed Remy’s leg from where it was still digging it into Virgil’s side, and gave it a quick yank. Remy yelped and fell back. Before anyone could even react, Virgil was gone, running after the dogs at a speed that was a bit too fast to be human.

Remy, still lying on the ground, sighed. “I’m not sure if I should be angry or not”

“To be fair,” Roman said, “you kind of deserved that.”

~~~

Almost a half hour past with the three making idle chatter between themselves and watching Virgil running around with the dogs. He somehow managed to keep up with Blue, occasionally even out pacing him. At several points, Patton had to gently reach over to shut Logan‘s mouth. (Greyhounds can run up to 43 miles per hour, the fastest human to date had clocked in at only 28 mph, how…?) Virgil finally came back over, painting lightly.

He flopped on the ground, in the same spot he had been sitting in before, next to Remy who had never actually moved from where he had fallen. Logan was half convinced that he was asleep at this point, but was unsure because of the shades that the god was wearing.

Patton happily flummped to the the ground on the other side of Virgil and struck up a conversation.

~~~

Eventually they had all ended up at the ground. Patton was throwing a ball for Blue to chase. Holly, who had worn herself out already, had joined her owner in dozing off. Roman was sprawled out, with his head in Logan’s lap, Logan leaning against the fence of the dog park.

Casual conversation was flowing between them for now. Remy was almost certainly asleep, having started snoring 15 minutes ago. This was the subject of the conversation now, Roman poking fun at him.

“Is he snoring, or trying to start a lawnmower?” He snorted, as a particularly loud sound left Remy.

Virgil laughed, which startled the three once again, still not expecting such a light sound coming from such an emo nightmare.

“No, he snores like that all the time,” Virgil snorted, “especially when he’s sitting up or laying on the ground.”

“How do you know?” Logan’s comment was absent minded, no real purpose to it besides curiosity. He regretted asking when this small smile easily slid of Virgil's face.

~~~

Sometimes, Virgil regretted opening his big stupid mouth. Why did he say that? He was just felt so relaxed with the three, he let slip details that prompted them to ask questions about his past.

Questions he didn't want to answer. Questions that took him right back to when he was sitting in a strange bed with a strange man sitting slumped over next to the bed in a chair. Terrified to move, to make a noise, terrified that he was going to wake up this man. This man who must have healed him, but also must have seen his deformity, the most disgusting part of himself, because he wasn't wearing his jacket and the stranger had seen him and he was going to hurt him, maybe cut off his tentacles, maybe that wouldn't be so bad-

“Virgil, are you okay?��

Oh Damn it. He had zoned out. They probably thought he was a freak now, not they wouldn't have realised it soon anyways because he so stupid and can’t even control his own limbs when he got excited. He-

“Virgil, can you hear me?.”

That was Remy. When did he wake up, did Virgil wake him up? He did, he did, he did. That was bad bad bad bad.

“It’s gonna be okay, Virgil. Do you need to leave?”

Yes, he wanted to leave! Where was he, where-

Where was he? He was outside. Outside, not in a bed.

Outside. There was dirt. Pebbles pressing into his palms and in a flash he was aware of his hoodie still around him. Not in a bed, or a house. Outside.

“Virgil? Can I touch you?”

The dog park. He was at the dog park, with Remy, who wasn't a stranger, not anymore, who would never do those things to him. Remy was safe.

“Yes.” His answer startled himself. He took a shaky breath to steady himself and repeated “Yes, you can touch me.”

Remmy was hesitant at first, reaching out to rub Virgil’s back. Virgil grabbed Remy’s arm and curled into his side where he was crouched next to him. Virgil shivered in his jacket, breathing coming unevenly.

“Remember your breathing, Virgil” Remy murmured still rubbing his back. “One.., Two… Three…” After a while of that, Virgil was calm enough to remember what had started his attack.

He jerked up, spinning around to face the other three sitting next to him, ready to apologize for freaking out- but they weren’t there.

“Virgil? Are you okay?” Remy asked cautiously, his hand stilling on Virgil’s back.

“Where did they go?” Virgil asked “Why-”

“When you started to zone out, they woke me up. Once they saw that I could handle it, they thought they would be better more of a hindrance to than help. And they left to give you some space.”

“Oh.” Virgil let out the breathe he just now realized he was holding. At least his extra limbs hadn’t busted out of the back of his jacket. Now they knew he was a freak, but at least not how much of a freak he was.

Remy was looking at him now, intently peering over the top of his shades. Virgil shuddered slightly when he met him at Remy's inhuman, hypnotic (literally) eyes. It was times like this that Virgil was reminded that Remy was a god.

“You’re not a freak, Virgil.”  Virgil started, starkly reminded of how Remy was so good at reading his thoughts. Remy had assured him many times that he couldn't actually read minds, but Virgil still doubted sometimes.

He looked at the ground, using to meet Remy's eyes. “I'm tired.” Closing his eyes, slumping into Remy’s chest. “I'm just tired.”  

Thankfully Remy drop it for now, though Virgil had no doubts he would bring it up again later. “I’m going to teleport you to your clearing, close your eyes.” Virgil nodded faintly, and did as instructed.  

He felt a faint squeeze, and heard the whispers you hear when you're alone. Remy had teleported him before, and had already warned him to never open his eyes, otherwise the old gods, the ones who lived in the space between where you were and where you were going, who weren't quite as kind as Remy, was would try to tempt him to stay.

Thankfully teleporting didn’t last long at all, and they were soon surrounded by bird song and the sounds of the stream instead of those Whispers. They were inside his tent, though. He could tell because of the still air, instead of the near-constant breeze of the forest. His eyes refused to open now though, the loss of energy from his attack hitting him in full force.

Remy placed him on his sleeping bag and drew back. Virgil was just awake enough to realize that he was going to leave.

The thought of being alone out in the open hit him hard, as it's often did, and he desperately flung out his hand to catch Remy’s sleeve.

“Don't go, please- please.” Remy didn’t reply, but laid next to him, and Virgil relaxed.

He was lulled to sleep by the sound of Remy’s steady breathing, and the sparrow that was singing in the trees.

~~~

When Roman, Patton and Logan got home, Patton squirreled himself away into his bedroom, and tried to forget about the days events by watching the newest episodes of his favorite cartoon, Moon Stories (An animated show about the adventures of one of the moon goddess’ children.) He wasn't very successful.

Roman has brought him lunch at noon, just a ham and mushroom sandwich and some chips, but other than that, no one bothered him, which he was glad for.

At the moment, he could hear Logan and Roman talking in the living room, but didn’t feel like joining them. He flopped onto his messily made bed and flung his arm over his eyes. The events in the dog park had shaken him. Virgil’s blank, stricken face, breathing shallow, not responding to them was seared into his mind.

He felt tears well up in his eyes thinking of how much terror he must have been in. The poor thing was so scared! And they had left him!

Paton wished they could have stayed and comforted him. But they had woken up Remy, who, once he had come to his senses, was quick to help Virgil. They would have made it worse if they had stayed.

Remy was obviously well equipped to help him. If Patton had to guess, he would say that they were more than friends. They were obviously close. Virgil seemed very relaxed in Remy's presence. Logan may have been confused as to why Virgil would have slept with Remy before, but Patton thought it was rather obvious.

The two down stairs had stopped their conversation, and were coming up the stairs now. The lighter set of footsteps headed for Logan's room, while the heavy pair stopped in front of Patton's own door. Patton smiled, as he knew roman was deciding whether or not to disturb him and knock.

Saving him the trouble, Patton stood up and walked over open the door.

"Hey, Ro." Patton flashed him a small smile. "How’re you doing?"

"I'm good Pat. I actually wanted to ask you how you’re feeling. You looked pretty shaken."

Patton shrugged, refusing to meet his eyes. How do you respond to that? He just saw his friend- at least he hoped Virgil was his friend, despite having only met him recently - having a panic attack. That's not something you got over quickly.

Roman let out a breath, not quite a sigh, but close. He swept Patton into a gentle hug, just as much for his comfort as Patton’s

"Next Sunday, if he comes -," Roman broke off, clearing his throat. "When he comes, we can apologize."

"Yes. " Patton smiled a little brighter. He hooked his chin over Romans shoulder. "I could bring him cookies!"

Roman chuckled. "That you can."

"You talked with Logan?" Patton mumbled, the mood lowered again.

"Yes." Roman released another breath, this time it was definitely a sigh. "I think I managed to convince him it wasn't his fault."

Patton nodded as best he could with his chin still hooked over Roman's shoulder.

"And how is he feeling?"

"I don't know. He's closed off again. But I think he just needs some time alone."

Patton hummed sadly. When their relationship had still been in the beginning stages, Logan had a hid a lot his emotions from the two of them, especially his negative emotions. They had been working on open communication, but it seems that Logan had regressed. Their nerd was a genius, but he struggled with emotions and social cues.

"Well," Patton let out of breath, blowing his bangs out of his face. "Remy is good for Virgil, at least."

Roman hummed, nuzzling into Patton's hair. "We can't just assume that they're together, Patton."

Patton's finally broke the hug and flopped back onto the bed. "We can't just ask him either, though. We don't want a repeat of today."

Roman fell onto the bed next to him, spreading himself out dramatically. "It's not our business, really, but if you're that curious, ask Remy. He might give you a straight answer."

"Yeah..." Patton trailed off tiredly." I just feel terrible about scaring him so badly..."

Roman only replied with a sleepy sigh. When Patton looked at him, he was sleepily blinking at him, half asleep already. It had been a long day. Patton let out of small, sad sigh. Normally, all three of them slept in the master bedroom, but it seemed that tonight they were sleeping in separate rooms. He understood that. Logan needed some space at the moment, but he still missed the extra body in bed. He nudged Roman under the covers, where he murmured sleepily at him, then Patton slipped under the covers next to him.

He fell asleep to the sounds of wolves howling out in the street.

Tag list: @moxietea @nightwolf713 @fandersunite @shedglitter

[goforwardgreenwriter-blog]

The Worm Reads: The Assassin’s Blade, Ch 11-12

Hopefully this next story is more interesting than the last!

This next story is The Assassin and the Healer. Also, since this is a new story, this is technically Chapter 1 again, but for the sake of this review, we’ll call it Chapter 11.

The strange young woman had been staying at the White Pig Inn for two days now and had hardly spoken to anyone save for Nolan, who had taken one look at her fine night-dark clothes and bent over backward to accommodate her.

The strange young woman, in case you’re wondering, is actually Celery herself. Meaning that we’re in a new POV! Thank god, I needed a break from being in Celery’s head.

Yrene Towers had been watching the young woman from the safety of the taproom bar. Watching, if only because the stranger was young and unaccompanied and sat at the back table with such stillness that it was impossible not to look. Not to wonder.

Yup, this story features Yrene, the healer who would later be in T0D. I can’t bear to read T0D and witness the butchering of my sweet innocent Chaol, but I’ve heard the horror stories. *shudders*

Yrene glanced at the mug she was currently cleaning and tried not to wince. She did her best to keep the bar and taproom clean, to serve the Pig’s patrons (...) with a smile. But Nolan still watered down the wine, still washed the sheets only when there was no denying the presence of lice and fleas, and sometimes used whatever meat could be found in the back alley for their daily stew.

Fucking nasty shit right there. Disgusting. I’d say let Yrene move somewhere else, but, well..... T0D showed what a mistake that was.

Yrene quickly poured ale into the mug she’d just been drying and set it on a tray. She added a glass of water and some more bread, since the girl hadn’t touched the stew she’d been given for dinner. Not a single bite. Smart woman.

Yrene is under the impression Celery is aware of how contaminated the food is and that someone might have tried to spike her food, so she’s wise not to eat it. Keep this in mind for later.

Yrene brings up another server named Jessa who takes most of the tips from the inn so SJM can slutshame another female character for using her sexuality and daring to be *gasp* feminine. SJM can kiss my ass.

Like most who hailed from southern Fenharrow, Yrene had golden-tan skin and absolutely ordinary brown hair and was of average height.

So is Yrene just a white girl with a tan, or......? I mean, golden-tan implies a tan in my eyes, but who knows.

Celaena Sardothien sat at her table in the absolutely worthless inn, wondering how her life had gone to hell so quickly.

Big Mood. Also, ungh, we’re back in Celery’s POV.

She’d been here for two days now—two days spent either holed up in her despicable room (a “suite,” the oily innkeeper had the nerve to call it), or down here in the taproom that stank of sweat, stale ale, and unwashed bodies.

Am I the only one umcomfy with how much SJM puts emphasize on all the evil/greedy characters being ugly? Like I know it’s just a book series, but coming from someone who is average looking and has very difficult hair that gets oily if I don’t wash twice a day, this just makes me uncomfortable. Maybe that’s just me.

Celaena sighed and took a long drink of her ale. She almost spat it out. Disgusting. Cheap as cheap could be, like the rest of this place. Like the stew she hadn’t touched. Whatever meat was in there wasn’t from any creature worth eating. Bread and mild cheese it was, then.

Nope, Celery isn’t concerned at all that flaunting her wealth around might cause her to gain a few enemies. The stew simply doesn’t live up to her expectations! I’m laughing.

She fought the urge to touch her face. The swelling from the beating Arobynn had given her had gone down, but the bruises remained. She avoided looking in the sliver of mirror above her dresser, knowing what she’d see: mottled purple and blue and yellow along her cheekbones, a vicious black eye, and a still-healing split lip.

Just throwing this out there in case anyone wants to defend Arobynn or say that he’s not all that bad because he took Celery in, he beat the shit out a sixteen year old. Real standup guy! Maybe I should review Q0S just to enjoy what happens to him...

There was no denying it: she’d merely been spoiling for a fight. No blades, no weapons. Just fists and feet. Celaena supposed she should feel bad about it—about the broken noses and jaws, about the heaps of unconscious bodies in her wake. But she didn’t. She couldn’t bring herself to care, because those moments she spent brawling were the few moments she felt like herself again. When she felt like Adarlan’s greatest assassin, Arobynn Hamel’s chosen heir.

Hmm, I like this? Yeah Celery is a violent asshole, but it explains her mindset and trauma well because she feels as an assassin she has to fight, that the thrill of a fight keeps her going since she’s been raised that way since she was young. Very nice. I’ll admit, this book isn’t nearly as bad as the later novels in the series. It’s got Sammy and a few good moments like this.

Celery toys with the idea of running away, but she knows that Arobynn would hunt her down to kill her and informs us she still has no idea where Sammy is. I swear, if he’s hurt-

Chapter 12 switches back to Yrene’s POV.

Yrene couldn’t have left even if she wanted to. Last call wasn’t for another forty minutes, and she’d have to stay an hour after that to clean up and usher intoxicated patrons out the door. She didn’t care where they went once they passed the threshold—didn’t care if they wound up facedown in a watery ditch—just as long as they got out of the taproom. And stayed gone.

Damn, I feel for you, Yrene. Let me just say as someone who had to volunteer dozens of hours in the Girl Guides to serve as a waitress for charity suppers and teas? I know that #feel of dealing with the most unbearable costumers.

It was common knowledge that [Celaena] was leaving tomorrow at dawn.

Um.... how? Nobody knows she is a famous assassin, and only the workers of the inn would know how long she’s paid to stay. Did Celery just announce to all these sketchy drunks she’s leaving tomorrow?

Yrene swallowed hard, pouring another mug of ale. Her mother wouldn’t have hesitated to warn the girl. But her mother had been a good woman—a woman who never wavered, who never turned away a sick or wounded person, no matter how poor, from the door of their cottage in southern Fenharrow. Never.

Another dead YA mom. Okay, I’m not against dead parents on principle (how can I be when one of my WIP’s protag’s arc is about discovering the past of his dead father), it’s a cliche old as time itself and for some stories, yeah it works. I just wish there were more YA moms who were alive and had a relationship with their kids, you know?

A bunch of costumers sexually harass Yrene because SJM novel, then we’re back in Celery’s POV.

Reckless and stupid, Sam would say. But Sam wasn’t here, and she didn’t know if he was dead or alive or beaten senseless by Arobynn. It was a safe bet Sam had been punished for the role he’d played in liberating the slaves in Skull’s Bay.

I miss Sammy... I want him and Yrene to become friends and abandon this shitty kingdom.

Sam had become her friend, she supposed. She’d never had the luxury of friends, and never particularly wanted any. But Sam had been a good contender, even if he didn’t hesitate to say exactly what he thought about her, or her plans, or her abilities.

Huh... SJM isn’t immediately playing up the romance drama just yet and actually acknowledges they need to be friends first? Color me both shocked and impressed. Idk why SJM dropped this for later novels, but I’ll give her props for this.

Sighing, she slipped into her room and bolted the door. After a moment, she shoved the ancient chest of drawers in front of it, too. Not for her own safety. Oh, no. It was for the safety of whatever fool tried to break in—and would then find himself split open from navel to nose just to satisfy a wandering assassin’s boredom.

I’m telling y’all, Celery is a psychopath. it’s one thing for an assassin character to be neutral towards killing and murder, it’s another for them to want to slice open randos just for fun.

But after pacing for fifteen minutes, she pushed aside the furniture and left. Looking for a fight. For an adventure. For anything to take her mind off the bruises on her face and the punishment Arobynn had given her and the temptation to shirk her obligations and instead sail to a land far, far away.

Bitch I wish you would. Take the rest of this shitty series with you while you’re at it.

Yrene lugged the last of the rubbish pails into the misty alley behind the White Pig, her back and arms aching. Today had been longer than most.

And another POV switch in the same chapter? Damn, if this book was written today, this entire chapter would’ve been split up into like, 3 separate chapters.

Unsurprisingly, Jessa had vanished with her sailor, and given that the alley was empty, Yrene could only assume the young woman had gone elsewhere with him. Leaving her, yet again, to clean up.

It is shitty of Jessa to leave Yrene to clean up all of the mess but I still don’t like that lowkey slutshaming from earlier.

I told you to wait until it’s past—” she started, but paused as four figures stepped from the mist. Men. The mercenaries from before. Yrene was moving for the open doorway in a heartbeat, but they were fast - faster.

Before you recoil in horror, no, SJM isn’t stupid enough to write a sexual assault scene. We aren’t at AC0TAR levels of disgusting and offensiveness, yet. The mercenaries only try to rob Yrene.

“Saw you making some hefty tips tonight, girl. Where are they?”

But it was Jessa making the tips and not Yrene, right?

The man farthest from them was yanked into the mist with a strangled cry. The mercenary holding her whirled toward him, dragging Yrene along. There was a ruffle of clothing, then a thump. Then silence. “Ven?” the man blocking the door called.

You get three guesses as to who is rescuing her. The first two don’t count.

“Come out, you bleedin’ coward,” the ringleader growled. “Face us like a proper man.” A low, soft laugh. Yrene’s blood went cold. Silba, protect her. She knew that laugh—knew the cool, cultured voice that went with it. “Just like how you proper men surrounded a defenseless girl in an alley?”

If only it wasn’t Celery to the rescue, I might be able to delightfully enjoy this moment of girls protecting girls. Alas.

With that, the stranger stepped from the mist. She had two long daggers in her hands. And both blades were dark with dripping blood.

Total nitpick, but wouldn’t “And both blades were dripping with dark blood’ sounds better?

Overall, this story, despite the lowkey slut shaming in one part, is much more enjoyable than the last, even though Sammy is still nowhere to be seen. We’ll just have to wait and see if SJM butchers it.

[actuallyahorsewrites]

This is the first, completed chapter of a new story I’m working on. Please do not even bother attempting to steal this, as it is basically a fictionalized account of my own shit, so, good luck, lol. 

This is incredibly rough and unedited and definitely not my best writing, but maybe y’all can enjoy it anyway. 

I gotta start somewhere, right?

Song credit is to the lovely Frank Turner (Tape Deck Heart, Tell Tale Signs) and the bar mentioned in this is Barcade in Philadelphia, a very real place.

Everything else is fiction. 

Enjoy, I guess?

Gray clouds gathered in the distance, making the already cold, dreary streets absolutely miserable. Jamie shivered, drawing his thick jacket closer around him. No matter how much time he spent in Philadelphia, he would never get used to the winters here.

He had forgotten about the weird mixture of gentrification and abandonment that seemed to be the style in the city. It had been nearly eight years since he fled this place, and he was pretty sure he had purposefully erased most of it from memory. However, it seemed to him that the overall new coffee house and modern apartment vibe was starting to win out over the old, run-down warehouses and broken window aesthetic of the past.

Some things, he thought as he crossed a street and rounded an all too familiar corner, never changed. The familiar sight of his old apartment, complete with the homeless guy attempting to break into someone’s car, and the old couple yelling in Russian at each other was timeless. He half expected his ex-girlfriend to appear out of the door of one building, nagging him to get more candles next time he was at Target.

Jamie sighed. He knew coming here was going to be rough, especially coming back to his old street, but he didn’t realize that it would feel like it was yesterday that he had locked up and left for good.

He swallowed hard and turned away from the street. He had come here for a more specific than a walk down memory lane. Well. A different walk down memory lane, he supposed.

He turned a corner, letting his memories guide him down the sidewalk and underneath the subway. There were signs of growth everywhere, from a Starbucks across the corner in what used to be an abandoned air conditioning store to the perpetual potholes finally being filled in, to far less homeless people sleeping on the streets. In any other city, this might not have seemed like a sign of progress, but here, in this part of Philadelphia, it was almost a miracle.

A familiar faded brick building came into view, with a huge sprawling black sign declaring the building to be a bar with an arcade inside. His faint smile was bittersweet, memories starting to pile up as he crossed the street to the main entrance.

It was always strange, coming back to a place he hadn’t seen in years. Especially when it had been relatively untouched, as this bar had been. Sure, the people were different, and the specials were scrawled in a different handwriting, but the overall vibe and smell was the exact same. It was like walking into the past.

The room was long and lit by small, yellow tinged lamps that made it seem smaller. At it was, it was cramped, with a narrow bar crowded with stools and people, with an old jukebox blasting in one corner. An entrance to the arcade sat at the far end of the room, with the sounds of people screaming in excitement over the games they played.

Without thinking, Jamie made his way to the bar and ordered a Guinness. He sat down heavily on one of the stools to wait, his mind calming for the first time since he landed in this city hours earlier. This was what it felt like to come home.

Almost around the same time his beer arrived, the jukebox switched over to a faintly familiar song. The guitar was soft, yet persistent and he froze as he recognized it.

He hadn’t heard it in years--not since someone had used it as a parting line in a vicious fight that had ended a tumultuous relationship.

God damn it, Amy, we aren’t kids any more.

Jamie swallowed hard, trying to tamp down where his brain was dive bombing toward. He did not need to relive that set of mistakes tonight, not here, not now. Not when there were so many wrapped up in this bar alone worth reliving.

It seemed as the universe was determined to haunt him, however, as he caught a whiff of all too familiar shampoo.

Jamie froze. There was only person he had ever met that used that shampoo. That insane blend of floral and fruity, mixed with just an undertone of salt and sweat, enough to always drive him absolutely wild.

He turned, slowly, to his right. A slender woman, with long brown hair sat next to him, her face turned to the person sitting next to her. She was dressed in a well worn leather jacket and a pair of skinny jeans.

He would recognize the anxious tap of those long, slim fingers against her cider bottle anywhere.

You have got to be fucking kidding me, he thought, his heart pounding.

Mouth dry, palms sweating, he reached over and gently tapped her on the shoulder.

You know you kind of remind me of scars on my arms, the ones I know will never fade, that I covered with ink, but in the right kind of light still bleed through

“Amy?”

She turned to face him, a smile still present on her lips. It vanished instantly.

Jamie drank in her familiar, square jaw, long slender nose perched over soft, full lips before finally landing on those normally unreadable hazel eyes, now widened with surprise.

She gaped at him, revealing her once crooked teeth now straight.

“Son of a bitch,” she breathed. “Jamie?”

And just like that, it all came rushing back. Their first meeting, all those years ago, the seemingly endless conversations, the fights, the tears, and the inevitable good-bye five years ago that shattered him in ways he was still struggling to understand.

Fuck, he thought.

------------------- POV change ---------------------

Amy really wanted nothing more than to just curl up with a good book and a cup of tea in her pajamas, far away from everyone else. She really wanted to be underneath her warm quilts when the coming snowstorm hit, with the hope that work would be cancelled the next day due to weather.

But then, Drina’s boyfriend dumped her, and she was completely unable to be on her own, and couldn’t Amy please just come grab one drink with her so they could thoroughly thrash him to pieces?

It was truly the last thing Amy wanted to do. She loved Drina dearly, yes, but the girl went through boyfriends like Amy went through books; one a day, it seemed. There was only so much Amy could say that she hadn’t said before.

“But George could have been the one!” Drina groaned into her tequila sunrise.

Amy resisted the urge to sigh heavily. How many more times were they going to have to go through this?

“George was a sleaze ball,” she informed her friend. “He wasn’t fit to be in the same room as you, let alone date you.”

Dina sniffed. “You always know what to say, Amy,” she said. “What would I ever do without you?”

Amy often wondered that same thing, but kept that thought to herself. Instead, she took a long pull of her cider and gave her friend a knowing smile.

“You’ll never have to find out!” she declared.

It was a bit of a stretch. Amy tended to go through friends like Drina went through boyfriends, but that was more sheer bad luck and Amy running away from her problems all the time than any fault of her friends. Her longest friendship had lasted almost eight years before ending in a tragically bitter fight that left her leary of any long term commitments with anyone.

“You’re too good to me,” Drina said. “Let me buy you another drink!”

Amy went to protest, as she had barely drank any of her current one, but Drina was already flagging down a bartender to order more.

She sighed, tapping her fingers anxiously against the glass. She wondered how soon it would be before it was socially acceptable for her to bail, and then immediately felt guilty for doing so. Drina was a good person. A little high maintenance, sure, but who wasn’t?

The song on the jukebox changed and Amy’s blood instantly froze as she recognized the first, sad chords of the guitar.

It was a song that always brought back bad memories, no matter how much time and distance she tried to put between them and her current self. It didn’t help that Philadelphia was a hotbed of those memories, that this very bar was just a trigger waiting to be pulled, but she was muscling through most days.

I should make some excuse and get out of here, she thought. This song never failed to make her cry, both privately and publicly, and the last thing Amy wanted to do to Drina tonight was to explain her tragic dating history.

You can’t just keep waltzing in and out of my life, leaving clothes on my bedroom floor

Drina was talking about potentially moving to the back and playing some old school video games, or maybe even going somewhere else. Amy a little too enthusiastically agreed with the second suggestion.

“Are you okay?” Drina asked, giving her a curious stare. “You look weird.”

Amy flinched. “Sorry,” she said. “Too much to drink.”

The other girl gave her a questioning look, before shrugging. “Okay,” she said. “Let me go get the bill, and we can leave.”

She stood up and was gone before Amy could think to suggest splitting the bill. She sighed again, tapping the bottle harder as the song continued to play loudly in the background.

A gentle tap on her shoulder made her jump.

“Amy?”

Oh no.

She recognized that voice instantly. It took her back, to the first time she had ever come to this bar, to the years of her life she had wasted on someone who refused to love her back, to all the fights and tears and the reason why this song meant so much to her.

She slowly turned.

An all too familiar face stared back at her. A black paper boy cap was pulled down over what she assumed to be a bald head, shoulders hunched inside a patched gray jacket, a gaunt, pale face that still somehow managed to pull at her heartstrings. Those eyes, blue and searching, met hers and in an instant, Amy knew she was a fool to ever think she had truly put her problems behind her. 

“Son of a bitch,” she breathed. “Jamie?”