#that's just what the old folks are using these days

[redhoodfucker69]

okay I used to work for a pharmaceutical manager. basically it was a service that directly managed pharmaceutical benefits for insurance companies and also had its own mail order pharmacy. I was a call center representative and I won't get into it but I basically had a mental breakdown and completely ghosted before I got fired. that's beside the point. (people are seriously not meant to be expected to take 90 calls in a fucking eight hour shift. that's like five minutes per call and half of the time it takes five minutes just to get through the fucking HIPAA verification).

in any case. I was the first level customer service agent. the one you talked to so I could figure out what was needed, if I could resolve it, and what dedicated team was necessary to resolve it if I couldn't. dealing with both insurance and pharmacy at the same time meant I needed to be able to answer a lot of difficult questions, especially since we also had a specialty pharmacy on the side that dealt with more complex and highly expensive medications. sometimes it ended up I couldn't answer any questions at all, nor could my company, and I had to waste thirty fucking minutes figuring out who in their actual insurance company I needed to get on the line with so they could talk to them. nightmare job. in any case, the majority of questions and tasks I fielded had to do with the mail order pharmacy.

we tended to use USPS as our dedicated mail company except in special situations like overnight orders or specific refrigerated medications. even without a pharmacy tech license, I was qualified to place those orders. most of our callers were the elderly, because older folks prefer using the phone and talking to people and don't like ordering via automated system. (i don't blame them, when I refill prescriptions, I just jump directly to speak to representative bc who the hell has time to fight with a system that may or may not refill the wrong thing when I can talk to a person, and those systems OFTEN fill the wrong thing, I know from experience, especially when you're on the same medication but adjusting dosages and there's like three separate dosages with qualified refills). so, I would refill. a lot. of medications for old folks.

I cannot express to you based on my experience the absolute importance of having USPS functioning as it should and not privatized. many of these rural communities have no local pharmacy, are miles away from big towns that have them, and are entirely dependent on mail order pharmacies that refill medications every three months on a schedule. there are so many elderly folks stranded out there that have never lived in a big city in their life and rely on their kids living in larger towns to take them to doctor appointments, or dedicated caretakers, or just carpooling. they'll stack all of their appointments for the same day and all hop in a car to go to the city. they need these mail order pharmacies.

mail order pharmacies typically rely on USPS for a reason: privatized parcel delivery companies will often not serve to tiny rural communities. if you're living on a dirt road, you're shit out of luck for delivery. sure, there's some small towns with a physical location, or close enough to a town with a physical location they'll deliver. but not super often, and it also depends. if there's no physical location, but they still do in town deliveries, they'll often refuse to drop off a package that requires a signature due to the cost of whatever is in the package. why? because they don't want to constantly play signature tag with someone where there isn't an immediately available office to go back to with the package. and a lot of these packages require signatures because medications are fucking expensive. so if you want to get your medicine, you gotta drive 30 minutes to over an hour to wherever the hell your package is anyways.

that's where USPS comes in. because it's not for profit, it delivers everywhere, and even if a town doesn't have a post office bc it's got such a tiny population, the next town over will, and they'll deliver.

I cannot express this enough. privatizing the USPS will absolutely fucking kill these small communities, and may actually kill some people before the communities die off. I cannot tell you how many times I had to field calls where they only called once they ran out of maintenance medications waiting on a new batch, even though there's a fairly large buffer zone when ordering directly from the pharmacy where you should have a handful of days, up to a week, leftover when your new medication comes in. they will straight up wait for it to run out before they make the call. combine that with a chaotic post office and it will get out of control fast. they're stubborn and don't want to call their kids or caretakers to go pick up an emergency supply from the nearest pharmacy. I had to sweet talk a LOT of old folks into getting an emergency supply, and not every agent will do that, and even if they do, they won't always be successful. I wasn't always successful. one time I had to talk an old lady into getting an emergency supply for her anti rejection medication for her fucking liver transplant. I wasn't even required nor trained to tell people emergency supplies were something they could get when on the mail order program. in fact, I was told in training I could only say yes when asked the question, and I wasn't supposed to bring it up, bc insurance companies are fucking ghouls that would rather people die than spend a little extra money. many agents will go by the book and NOT bring it up. I didn't want someone's death on my hands, so I made sure to always tell them.

privatizing the postal service will ACTUALLY kill people, and postal workers know this. they talk to people on their regular routes. they get to know them. they see them every day. they're even more chatty with retirees and old folks because they're someone familiar to talk to and a lot of old folks are isolated. they know DAMN well not only their jobs are on the line, but people's lives are at stake here. they know the ins and outs of politics and cost saving measures with privatized parcel delivery services like FedEx and UPS. they know privatizing the post office will inevitably end in some of those old folks they see almost every day and chat to dying and them losing their jobs and benefits. I guarantee you a lot of the people getting laid off in the first round will be the older drivers that have been with the post office for 20, 30 years now, running the same routes and watching the same folks grow old. the drivers know that too.

so. yeah. this is gonna actually kill people. don't let the post office get privatized. if you see these protests in your city, swing by. you can protest with them, or if you don't have time, drop off unopened cases of bottled water. it's getting hot out here. keep your postal workers hydrated. maybe drop off some donuts for blood sugar. support unions.

[glowstick-cafe]

Nostalgia gets the Best of Us

Elijah "Smoke" Moore, Elias "Stack" Moore x Black!Female!Reader

⚠️MDNI⚠️//Content: smut, mentions of religion in passing, cunnilingus, PiV

Word count:2,197

"You've been gone since 2023” God forbid I show support for my people in their time of need 😒

Ao3 link ver.

After a day of hard work a lady often just wants to have fun and dance the night away, is that so much to ask for?

Word quickly spread through Mississippi overnight of a new club that was owned by a pair of infamous twins—it couldn't be. Club Juke, your friends said the name was, how cute.

As you walked up to the rustic looking building there was a long line of people waiting to be let in, music from the inside of the club reverberated through your ears just begging you to join in on the fun.

You were going to walk right in without a care until the unsure call of your name made you turn your head.

The familiar voice brought a smile to your lips, “Damn girl! Where you been? Haven't seen yer face since you moved away for that fancy job.” Spoke Cornbread. Honestly, you were delighted to see an old familiar face.

“Oh please, you never catch me when I visit.” You huffed in a playful frustration, but before you could carry on your conversation the line of people behind you hurled bouts if complaints your way, cutting the reunion with your old friends short. Cornbread clicked his tongue and sent you on in.

“The twins are in for a treat when they see you.” The heavy-set man chuckled to himself and shook his head as you kept pushing further into the club, unaware of the band of old faces you would be seeing.

You managed to move through the crowd in sync with the music, body swaying in tandem with the tune.

Spotting your friends in the distance, a smile made its way to your face—happy to finally be surrounded by the people you actually came here to party with; but as luck would have it, the wind was suddenly knocked out of you when a man who was dancing crashed his back into you.

Before you could fall over, a man in a blue suit came to your aid, his hand placement seemed awfully friendly but you were too disoriented to comment on it; only focusing on how harshly he berated the man for simply having two left feet.

“If you don't watch where you steppin’ on the young lady then I think we're gonna have a problem.” He threatened. The poor man nodded his head to show his understanding of the situation and booked it to the other side of the room as fast as the booming crowd allowed.

“Now, enjoy yourself lil’ lady.” He laughed, now removing his arm from your waist only to move them to your shoulders.

“Who do you think yer’ callin’-” You were about to give a smart response, but held your tongue when you finally made eye contact with your hero.

A flash of recognition glazed over his eyes, while a look of mortification graced yours. You’re sure he could feel the goosebumps on your skin when your name left his mouth.

“Smoke…”

Seeing the man in front of you could only mean that his other half couldn't be far away, which wouldn’t bode well for you if they both got their hands on you.

Smoke said your name again, this time it made you flinch and all the childhood memories of puppy love and broken promises came baring its claws at you.

Oh the Smoke-Stack twins, if people were to pick out the type of crowd the twins usually tend to draw in, you probably wouldn’t be their go-to guess—but some would say you were in the right place at the right time, or that you were just really unlucky; but something that couldn't be debated among anyone back then was that those boys cherished you.

-

A pastor's daughter and regular church goer, that's what all the grown folks would refer to you as, never truly by your name.

Growing up, your father and everyone who knew him spoke ill of the pair of twins who would often be finding themselves in trouble.

Don't get mixed up in company like that…

You told yourself, but unfortunately that prayer seemed to have fallen on deaf ears seeing as how the trouble found you instead. The twins seemed to have been drawn in by all the alarm bells that were meant to actually keep them away.

Once the boys got their hand on you, the three of you made for an interesting group, if anything, the adults thought that maybe you were just the right influence they needed to steer them on the right track—Unfortunately for them, this ended up having the opposite effect.

To be fair, you were never rude to those who showed you respect, but the twins’ ‘Don't take shit from anyone’ attitude rubbed off on you hard.

Stack seemed more receptive to your usual kind nature and would often let you have your way with him, even letting their dreams of moving to Chicago slip out, but the other brother was the one who forced you to develop a sharp tongue; Smoke's jabs often bordered on scathing to just actual bullying.

When you finally matched his energy the boy was at a loss for words, just gave a click of the tongue and a, “Whatever man…” Smoke wouldn’t admit it but he was a little proud of you for a split second, just minus Stacks’ frame doubled over in laughter.

Tender moments were few and far between when is came to them, but in the off chance they let you near their hair; a matching set of conrows would send you over the moon. It was your idea of bonding and also one of the rare moments where Smoke never had anything to comment on.

You’d like to think you both found common-ground on those days.

So why were you so mad to see him after all these years?

There weren't any signs of a falling out brewing. Just an abrupt departure that left you torn; everyone around you said ‘It's for the best.’ or that you should ‘Let it go…’ but it took years to get over being abandoned like that.

No letter.

No goodbye

Nothing…

-

You were honestly surprised that you remembered their faces after all these years.

Blinking those memories away, your mortified expression turned into anger. “You've gotta be kiddin’ me, you n’ your brother run off to Chicago doin’ God knows what, then you two turn back up with a place like this after the state you both left me in?!”

“So you're not happy to see us?” Stack questioned, inserting himself into the conversation.

Your eyebrows furrowed in annoyance, these men haven't changed, they're still the same smug little boys who left you in the dust for Chicago.

“Look now, we know how we left things wasn't…ideal but—we all grown up now.” Stack spoke, stationed himself behind you while his hand found its way to your waist. “We can handle this like adults.” His words echoed through the covers of your mind.

There was no denying the twins were attractive physically and their personalities had their own appeal to it, you would know, you grew up with them.

You'd be stupid to deny that you hadn’t thought about them in a romantic sense, but you were a grown woman now; you didn't have to unpack resurfacing emotions that you may have had toward your childhood friends.

Your eyes looked up to Smoke to see how he was taking the situation. His hands seemed casually nestled in his pockets while his pupils searched for an answer in yours, he motions a questioning head tilt as if to say, ‘Well?’

The music and surroundings seemed to slow as you looked around. “Fine…” You agreed, you hoped that you hadn’t sounded too eager, but you don't miss the subtle smile on Smoke's lips as you were being directed into what you were sure was a closet.

The twins sat you on a small table in the oddly spacious closet, it was already risky in your eyes to have been seen with the two, but whatever they were planning to do would have the town in hysterics for months to come.

One hand around your neck, and the other gripped both your thighs. The twins couldn't let you slip away like you always did, they had to have you this time.

Stack hiked up the skirt of your dress, he flashed you a charming smile as he looked up at you from between your legs. It left you feeling hot and embarrassed, yet he hadn't even laid a finger on you yet.

Smoke held your arms in place as Stack began to indulge himself in your dripping folds, his tongue borrowed itself into your slick hole as you managed out a moan.

“Let it out mama.” Smoke encouraged as his mouth made its home on your neck; leaving hickeys and spit wherever he saw fit while his free hand found its way to groping your breasts.

You were being overloaded on pleasure from every angle and all Smoke was doing was taunting you like he always did, “What was all that noise back there for, hmm?” His low, but playful voice teased as he pinched and squeezed at your nipple.

His hand then moved up to your mouth, fingers playing and prodding with your lips. “Did princess just need our attention?” Smoke was always great at getting people riled up, this instance was no different; the man's digits forced its way into your mouth, rings n’ all.

“Suck.” He commanded, and suck you did. The man could only scoff playfully at your obedience, it was clear to both twins that you could melt in their hands at any moment.

The more Stack nibbled and licked at your cunt, the more whiny and desperate your moans became, the more you rocked your hips to the rhythm of the man's mouth.

“Easy girl…” Stack spoke between your legs, his grip on your thighs tightening as if to hold you in place.

You send a hum of protest through Smoke's fingers at the brother who seemed to be getting off on your cries of pleasure.

“What, cat got ya’ tongue?” Stack laughed as he zoned back in on his main goal.

The deeper he sank his mouth into your slit, the closer you got to the edge. Your body writhed against his tongue as one of your hands broke free and made its way to the back of his head, which only seemed to encourage him more.

Fuck…

At this rate you were gonna-

Your body froze as the shock of your orgasm washed over your body, for a moment you swore the party going on outside ceased to exist. Stack removed himself from between the space in your legs, looking quite pleased with himself; the man flashed a smile at you, showing off his grillz.

Before you could catch your breath, the two brothers switched places and now Stack was behind while Smoke was right in front of you.

“You didn't think we were done with you, right princess?” Stack said, an amused grin graced his face as the sound of belts unbuckling made your breath hitch.

If it weren’t for the table holding you up, you know damn well that your knees would have given out.

Your face grew warmer as you felt Smoke gently push your legs apart, his length resting against your thighs. “If it gets too much, tell me.” He stated in a stern manner before sinking his cock into your sex.

The action was so fast that Stack failed to quiet your shaky moans that grew louder as his brother mercilessly pounded into your cunt. The sound of skin slapping in tandem with each other filled the room.

Strings of curses waterfalled from your mouth that made Stack laugh, he made a joke about having a dirty mouth for a pastor's kid; but you would have to appreciate it later when you're not about pass out from sheer pleasure.

“P…Please, Elijah…make me cum!”

Smoke's cock twitched inside you at brief the mention of his name, it was like a switch was flipped in his brain that made him speed up.

You were nearing the finish line of your inevitable high, with each thrust you were sure your vision was making you see dots. The final nail in the coffin was when the man leaned into your ear to say, “God I missed you…”

Your eyes fluttered shut as the satisfaction of both your orgasms washed over you, and a content sigh escaped your lips as Smoke removed himself from between your legs and there's a beat of almost comfortable silence in the air, “I meant that, by the way.” Smoke spoke up, trying to make himself look decent again.

“How we left you back then, it had nothing to do with you.” Stack continued for his brother, “We were…just protecting you in a way we thought would help back then.”

You listened to their explanations as you slipped back on your dress. “I didn't need protection, I just wanted the two of you to be there.”

“We're here now.”

Saw yall were dying over here on tumblr so I decided to chip in and finish this fic lol

Btw I can't promise that this is my comeback era

[bie-tch]

To celebrate my return from break (and to release my pent-up thoughts), I proudly present: Bie's ninja headcanons! 1 silly, 1 angsty LEZGO

Kai first!! (Because fucking duh have you seen my blog)

– Has a separate bathroom for all his skincare and haircare stuff. The team makes fun of him for it regularly, but whenever there's another time crunch mission or something extremely stressful in general, he always looks the best. Maybe some eyebags here and there, but other than that, he's glowing.

– His coping mechanism is self blame. Team falls apart? His fault. Mission accident? His fault. Ninja captured? His fault. Innocents hurt? His fault. His friends in actual fatal danger? HIS FAULT. He used to lash out at others because of this mindset, but now he just sits with himself while anxiously waiting for someone to tell him what to do (in fear of messing up things even more) it's what drove him to the sidelines during planning and battle, he's afraid his "reckless" attitude will jeopardize everything. (He doesn't acknowledge that he's gotten better. He doesn't acknowledge that most of his hotheadedness is a farce. He won't acknowledge that his fears are irrational.)

Zane aww the baby the dude the little awww

– Has been betrothed to Pixal for YEARS already. Like, shortly after s10. He saw Jays proposal, saw Pixal have a physical body, and it just clicked in his head that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with his other half. He was so touched that he spent hours sourcing the perfect yinyang pendant, planning everything to the tiniest, most insignificant detail, only for her to be the one to get down on one knee. He cried a little (a lot)

– Was so genuinely hurt and upset at the administration calling him "equipment." When he got back to the Monastery he instinctively tried to find his safe place (Pix), only for him to be absolutely crushed when he realized that she simply wasn't there. He drowned himself in analytics and background work simply because if he thought about it too much he'd have a breakdown. But he can't have that. He needs to find pixal, right?

Cole ceo of goober town

– Is an actual god at cooking now. Seriously, he can make anything taste Michelin quality with a handful of ingredients. He prefers baking, though, for obvious reasons.

– Was isolated from his peers while he was in school, solely because he fought a lot. Kids would run away from him, spread rumors, or try to avert his path on a daily basis. Faculty tried to contact his father whenever things would escalate, but he was too busy drowning in alcohol to pay attention to his sons education.

Nya!!!!

– Contrary to popular belief, Nya is absolutely a bigger hothead than Kai. On a bad day, you can sniffle, and she'd just go off on how unhygienic the monastery was and start spite-cleaning only for the others to offer to help out of pure fear. This is her way of getting out of chores. Kai is onto her but finds it so funny how everyone scrambles to keep her from exploding.

– Her first word was "Hungry." She knows this. When she asked Kai what her first word was out of curiosity, he lied and said it was "mom." She went to ignacia for a simple errand and that was when she found out. An old shopkeeper said he remembered a barely 4 year old girl with sunken cheeks point at his produce and babble "hnngry.. unggry." Now, when people ask what her first word was, she'll still say "Mom."

The Master of jig (Jay)

– LOVESSS his parents but hates to admit it. Not because he finds it embarrassing, but because his folks will not shut up about it even after months. He'll go, "Yknow I love you a lot, right ma, pa?" And they will throw a legitimate PARTY FOR IT. When the ninja found out about it, the teasing lasted for exactly 7 months.

– The only thing he remembers after the merge are calloused, wrinkly hands holding him like he's the most precious thing in the world. He doesn't know who, or why, but he's determined to find out.

Laloyd

– The softest, shiniest, bounciest hair you will ever feel. He has never touched a single hair product in his LIFE. It's been Kai's mission to ruffle that hair atleast twice a week ever since he did it back when they were younger.

– Has burned every single photo of him and his father together after the events of s10. Every time he's reminded of how much he aspired to be like him when he was younger he gets physically sick. He could never idolize someone like that. Who views lives like collateral damage. Never. Never again.

[gayspacepiratesss]

Hiiii friends I made a thing!!! 💕 An illustrated mini-fic, to be precise.

The art part isn't quite finished but I think the last three illustrations might take me longer and I wanted to share what I have so far. There are six color plates now and eventually I hope I'll have nine. I'll do a separate art post when they're all finished for folks who aren't as interested in the story!

I wrote this because I was thinking about trauma, and Neve's love for Docktown, and how two people who take too much responsibility for things might try and fail to help each other. About how breaking out of regret prisons isn't something most of us get to do just once, but over and over again: new chapters in the same old story. Plot twists that get a little better each time, if we're lucky.

I think Neve and Rook are lucky, but you be the judge of that. 💕

***

Red-eye

In which Neve gives new meaning to the phrase "Cry it out" and Rook fights gravity with exactly the amount of success you might expect.

Content note: Some mild hurt/comfort, references to blood, angst, and many feelingsy illustrations.

-~-

The veins are starting to fade, but her eyes are still red. Staring herself down in the mirror, Neve Gallus can't honestly tell if it's the Blight or sheer exhaustion that makes it impossible to recognize her own face.

The days since Elgar'nan's fall have been hard for a happy ending: the work of digging friends from the rubble, patching injuries and broken bridges, burying or burning the dead.

Neve's gaze flickers past her reflection towards the slight, sleeping figure on the sofa behind her.

Rook has been there for all of it. Minrathous, Treviso, Arlathan. First to volunteer, last to leave at night. She's never been afraid of heavy lifting.

You showed up. You always do.

...but where am I?

In Dock Town, the ocean always made her feel like she could breathe. Here, the blue light of the aquarium is drowning her again. Cold shadows run restless across her face, almost dancing with the black traces etched into her skin.

She slips out the door alone. Again.

-~-

"Again?"

Rook sags against the wooden railing opposite Hal's fish stall, her shoulders tight even as her face falls.

The older man squints sympathetically. His hands scale the day's catch with expert automatic movements, but his eyes stay with her. "Earlier this morning," he confirms. "Same time, same story."

Every day for the past month. Early, late, in between. As soon as there was a moment they might talk, Neve disappeared. If Eann "Rook" Aldwir had ever been the praying kind, now—not the fall of Minrathous or the rise of the Evanuris—would have been the moment she was on her knees.

I would burn worlds for you, but I couldn't pull you back when it mattered.

What have I saved if I didn't save Neve Gallus?

She runs a hand through her hair, putting on a rosy face to match, and forces a grin she doesn't quite feel. "Ah, well. It's been hard for everyone, but..."

"... mmhm." Hal nods. "Time is what the city needs, maybe. Time, and they'll remember..." his voice fades. Suddenly he is very busy with the mackerel.

... that she loves them. That she always loved them. That she never—she didn't—

"It was Elgar'nan and Ghilan'ain—" Rook can't quite hide her frustration.

"I know." Hal chops a fishhead slightly too aggressively. "They'll know."

But does she know?

From the street, a shout as ropes go up to raise new scaffolding—there's work to do on some of the dockside apartments, newly in danger of tumbling into the sea.

Eann buys a fresh skewer and sinks her teeth in. "If oo fee er--" she ventures, mouth full, eyes already on the next task.

"I'll send her your way," Hal finishes.

But he won't. They both know.

-~-

They both know. Everyone knows. Neve Gallus, protector of Docktown—until she destroyed it.

She takes a long drag from her pipe, staring across the city from her perch above the Lamplighter—one of the only buildings to go unscathed by the massive tentacles of Blight that she, personally, had directed. The elegant cruelty of Elgar'nan's choice wasn't lost on her—if anybody knew how to target Minrathous' weak points. If anybody knew the city's secrets. Set her against the place she loved best and watch it fall.

In the moment, it had been a pleasure.

How do you come back from that?

When Treviso had been ravaged by the Blight, her heart broke for Lucanis—but her relief for her own people had blunted the pain. She remembers the moment Rook showed up on the field, one step behind Neve and Tarquin, one step ahead of the dragon. She remembers her own disbelief: "You came."

Eann had never looked smaller than she did against that burning-black sky, her skin—so pale it was almost blue in a certain light—flushed and uneven, jaw set against her fear. And Neve had never loved her more—a thought she had shoved down immediately, fiercely, completely, as she skewered a nearby Venatori with ice.

They won that day. Parts of it, anyway.

And when Minrathous did fall, it was Neve's fault. Not Rook's.

-~-

"Not Rook's!" Elek Tavor has brought his Threads. He shoos Eann away from the complex dance of ladders and platforms they're erecting to shore up the dockfront. "That's your job, nughead! I need her here!"

Gang members and locals set shoulders together against the weight of newly-cut stone and crumbling Blight, clearing the one from the ruined apartments and storefronts to make room for the other. They look like a training montage or an inspirational poster—if training smelled like clotted blood, and inspiration felt like vertigo.

He winks at her from over a pulley, tossing her a safety harness and a length of rope. "You're too good for us gutter rats."

She straps in, eyeing the higher floors. The corruption still needs clearing before they can fully assess the damage. It's not especially stable, but she'd rather risk her skin than someone else's. "Better a rat with wings, huh?"

"Better you than me."

She doesn't argue. Instead, she climbs -- reaching hand over hand for a better view. The city shrinks and shifts as she pulls herself above it. The Cobbled Swan blends into the paper seller stalls and merchant alleys, already in business again with whatever scraps they each could scavenge. The sea's slate mood gives way to a smudge of sky and stone, reflecting up the cliffs across the channel.

I know you're there.

Tucked somewhere among those caves and crawlspaces is a detective with a shattered heart, blowing smoke rings and tearing herself to shreds. Rook has watched her disappear, slowly but surely, with every day of "recovery." To rebuild something is to see what was broken, to go over the damage in fine detail. To catalogue every blow. But for Neve, it is cataloging her own sins, her own failures, in a neat series of boxes to be checked and confirmed with evidence. For Rook, it has been watching that soft face flinch and flatten with each victory, each moment of hope, as though it were a nail in her heart's coffin.

But Neve still comes to the city for solace. She can't help herself. And so Eann haunts Minrathous, signing up for tasks that don't really need her, checking in on the people she knows Neve loves. Looking for answers in The Case of the Blighted Dream. The Broken Detective. Docktown's Ghost.

She has tried to be patient. So. Patient. But sometimes the most ungenerous part of her thinks, I broke out of my prison. To find you. To have this.

Now I'm losing you to yours.

Distracted by the weight of her thoughts, Rook barely notices when the stone she reaches for crumbles in her hand—until it pulls the harness anchor with it, the whole wall of the second story giving way. There is a sharp jerk, and she is falling—

Falling?

Falling.

But even as her heart freezes in her throat, it is still pulling her across the water. Even as she braces for the impact, her eyes are still half-scanning the cliffside for a tell-tale flash of teal, a smudge of smoke.

-~-

Smoke.

Neve squints suddenly, her pipe drooping between slack fingers. Smoke? By the docks?

No. Dust.

Something is falling.

But the channel is not wide, and she realizes with growing horror that she can hear the sound not just of stone, blight, beams crumbling, but also voices. Shrieking, wavering. "Look out!" "Back up!" "Clear it OUT—"

And then: "Rook!"

Someone is falling.

Rook.

A blinding, burning fear bites into her chest. The pipe clatters to the ground. If she was drowning before, she is choking now, clawing her way to the surface of a dream she has been walking in for weeks. Trading pains of the past for a present that sears her lungs and surges down her spine.

Mages cannot fly, but all that is left of Neve in that alcove as she bolts through passageways and across rooftops is a pipe's worth of tobacco and the shadow of a thought, echoing like a stone dropped in a dry well.

Wait for me. Wait.

-~-

“Wait.” Eann coughs wetly, throat clogging with dust and something unpleasantly, unexpectedly—oh. Blood. Well. She drags herself up on one elbow, waving Elek and the others back slightly, hissing as the movement sends a shock of pain through her body. “Wait, dammit! I’m not—”

“You’re not what?”

Time turns to sludge as familiar brown eyes meet hers, topped by brows knitted together in fury and fear. “Not hurt? Not climbing walls alone?”

Neve kneels beside the shaking elf, hands already moving, telling Eann’s blood to stay inside her body, her bones to know themselves under the weight of stone for seconds rather than minutes. It’s no small feat, and she is immediately sweating. They both are. “Not the Maker's own damned idiot?”

In spite of herself, Rook laughs. Weakly, painfully. “No,” she wheezes. “I am that.”

Neve’s eyes flash and then flood, tears of rage meeting her perspiration as she gingerly eases one hand under Eann’s head, using the other to clear what stone she can. “What were you thinking?”

It hurts to think. It hurts to breathe. But to Rook’s surprise, it hurts more to look up into eyes that are actually seeing her for the first time since the fight for Minrathous. A face that is furious but not masked. She coughs again, her own eyes burning, unsure if her chest is seizing from the weight of stone or just the love of Neve Gallus. “I—”

You look for lost things. Well, I look for you.

“They need you,” she finds herself choking furiously. “I was thinking they need you, and you’re not here, and I—am—so until you come back from your fucking pity party—ow—”

Neve is already on her knees. She can’t fall further. But the red spilling across the stones is more than time can stop, and she knows she needs to do something—quickly.

Eyes on me, Rook. Stay with me.

“Me?” Her rage is half for show, until it isn’t. And her heart is beating half a step too fast, and half too slow. “You think they need me? Look at me! Look at this.”

If it wasn’t for Neve, the stone would be as sturdy as it ever was in Minrathous. Hal’s fish would come out of the water in nets, not dredged from the surface with glassy eyes. She ripped through the Cobbled Swan, she crushed the lean-tos and shacks of the alleyways to little more than crumbs. She is the reason her tiny, tidy apartment stands in ruins and the cats go hungry. Docktown would be better off if it had never known Neve Gallus to begin with.

Rook screams. It is partly words. “I need you!”

And Neve is ripping her best coat into ribbons because she can’t slow time and send people for bandages, for medics—and there is.

No.

Time.

But she feels her face go numb, and her hands are shaking, and her burning red eyes fly up to meet that fierce, clear gaze. She wants to answer, but she has no answer.

Stay with me.

“What was the point—of all that—if—” Rook’s face is flushed, but Neve thinks flushed is better than pale, better than empty, better than gone. She uses the tiniest push of frost magic to calm the angry red of bones and flesh forced out of place. To stop the swelling before it starts. Almost mechanically, she wraps strips of her dragon coat around Rook’s arm and chest, shattering rocks with one hand as her other shields that stupidly precious rose-crowned skull from further damage.

“—if it didn't bring you back?” Eann rasps.

Neve is shaking so hard now that she can’t bind the fabric properly. She’s not sure it matters. “Bring me back for what?! So that I could—I would—” What can she do, anyway? She’s no healer. If Emmrich were here—or Harding—but they aren’t. And I am going to lose you, and I am going to deserve it. “So I could watch you die?”

Sharp, ragged sobs. “So you could be here—with us—” It’s not easy to cry and suffocate all at once, but Eann is making it work. “Not alone—with everything—”

The black traces of Blight on Neve’s skin mingle with sweat and stone, forming a filigree mask across her face. She feels her grip on the air, on the time around her start to slide.

Not yet. “Rook—”

Eann reaches up with her one free hand. Presses Neve’s forehead to her own, Blight and all. Her body is looser now, heavier—she, too, is struggling to keep control. Sound leaks through the barrier around them. Is someone… shouting?

Her eyes are closed. Her energy directed only towards the point where her skin touches Neve’s.

“Stay. With me,” she whispers. Please.

And Neve Gallus, despite her best efforts, is out of time. She winds her fingers through that rosy hair, and lets a deep, heavy sound tear through her throat. Not knowing, not caring what it is.

I’m here.

Around them, into sound and color and light, the city explodes.

-~-

The city explodes. Scraps of sound and light fracture through Rook’s mind, almost artful—a pastiche of pain and motion with occasional splatters of blessed black unconsciousness. Emmrich is there, then Maevaris. The Lighthouse might feature at some point. Definitely there is blood. So much blood. Then black again. And then—

Ow.

Teal-tipped fingers are laced around her hand. The bedspread beneath them is clean. The hands are not.

“There you are.” Neve has not slept in a long time. Her voice catches. “Oh. I—”

I almost missed you. Missed this.

Where was I?

Rook reaches to cup her fingers around the detective’s cheek. Instinctively, Neve presses closer, lifting her shoulder to cradle the gesture.

“You showed up.” Eann finds that smiling hurts more than she expected. She doesn’t care. “You always do.”

Neve lets out a half-laugh, half-sob. “I could have made better time.”

The light plays across her face, still silt-stained and shadowed. Eann rubs some of the dirt away with her thumb, wincing at the not-yet-mended motion of various body parts, ignoring them in favor of something far more pressing. Then she stops. “Your eyes. Neve…”

A flash of something like fear. “Oh, they must be awful—”

“No.” Eann pulls the detective closer. She kisses the eyelids, the cheekbones, the saltworn freckles. The dusted brows. Beneath the dirt, there is only the warm brown of these features she knows so well. Beneath the exhaustion, there are only shades of caramel and acorn and leather in those bright, faltering eyes.

Holding the other woman's rueful, aching, anxious face between her palms, she inspects it with great seriousness. Her own blue gaze holds steady beneath a vaguely crinkled brow.

“Neve, the Blight—it’s… gone.”

And this time Neve doesn’t need a mirror to look for her own face. To recognize herself. Something more like a laugh than like a sob curls through her throat and hangs in the air between them, weightless. “Is that so? Maybe you knocked it out of me.”

“Knocked it out of you!” Rook’s wheeze is its own commentary. “Remind me not to pick a fight with a pile of rocks anytime soon.”

“Maybe just pick fights with me, for a while.”

“Mm.” Rook still hasn’t let Neve go. Their noses bump together. “I don’t only want to fight with you…”

“Later.” Neve pushes back, smirking gently. A promise, not a refusal. “You did very nearly lose that last one. But I’ll be here.”

“What happened—” Eann is serious now, her hair falling earnestly into her eyes. “Neve. It happened to everyone. And I know—it was awful. But we can’t—I can’t—”

Not without you.

Neve pushes the hair out of Rook’s face. “I’ll be here.”

This time, when she shuts the door, it isn’t on her way out.

[rei-ismyname]

I meant to write this up earlier, got distracted.

I was meaning to ask you how you feel about the 05, if that you think they’re a compelling dynamic as a team post their original run(Post X Factor too even). One of the fascinating facts about X-men, to me, is how they nearly got the same fate as the inhumans circa the early 70s, relegated to a back forgotten corner of the universe had not claremont, cockrum and byrne stepped in.

It’s amazing to me how certainly the All New Cast replaces the 05 as the definitive X-men team in a pop culture consensus. We rarely see them all together anymore, even when X-men makes the conscious effort to go “back to basics,” like with the current X-men FTA runs.

I admit, I don’t get the same immediate understanding of the 05’s group dynamic when I read their original run, comparatively to other Lee Kirby creations of the era, with this feeling easing up by my reading of X-factor. They can feel less warm at times, and maybe that’s by design for that group specifically, I didn’t feel the same about the All New group during claremont’s run, regardless of how much bickering there was. Maybe it’s just writing of the time. Sorry if this is a ramble, I like picking your brain for x-men takes

Interesting question with a not so simple answer. Actually, that's not true. I could just say that the original run is 💩 and leave it at that, haha, but we both know I'm not going to. Generally though, I'm pretty confident in saying that if the 1963 run was the only X-Men that existed, I wouldn't care about it. It's likely I wouldn't even know about it. There's gold there (like Magneto), but you have to sift through a lot of chaff to get it. Even then, everything interesting about the book was refined by other hands or revisited.

Look at these bozos tucking Chuck in

I think one of the reasons they're so interesting is because that shared wacky, horribly traumatizing history is there. They're family, they're best friends, they're each other's ineffective support systems, they're ride or die soldiers and they've been through fucking EVERYTHING together. 62 years of hardcore paramilitary shit squeezed through a sliding timescale into only 15, growing every week with some new crisis. Dealing with only a life or death race war is a pretty good day for them on average - never mind aliens, Gods, time travelling killbots, possession, mind control, literally dying, torture, and every other thing including the kitchen sink. Who can they talk to that can actually understand? The Summers Protocols are written in their blood, protecting people who HATE them. How can these people not be intensely fucked up? So many words answering this question under the cut. 💯% rambling but it's definitely my thoughts on the O5 X-Men.

They can't, so they are. 15 year olds drafted into a forever war by a manipulative billionaire who's nearly as fucked up but pretends he's not. The school is up to code now (I mean it's a jail now but you know what I mean) and they teach real lessons, actual adults join willingly (you're 45% sure) and there's multiple telepaths around to keep Chuck in line. Newer X-Men get standardized training and are shadowed by experienced soldiers. You helped Scott formulate these protocols when you were both too traumatized to sleep one month. You're so glad that students' mental health is a priority but you worry they won't learn valuable repression skills. Bobby has the right idea, tell a joke. When people laugh it almost drowns out the particular soulless drone the Gen 1 sentinels made. Can anyone else hear that?

The Champions see like 1% of repressed X-Men trauma and wig out

These newer folks are family too but they weren't there man. It was the fucking wild west! You call home reflexively for the 250th time and your birth family is angry. 'We never had a son called Hank, stop calling us.' Why was that necessary again? Maybe the mindwipe will wear off one day. You'd ask The Professor about it but you don't want to risk demerits for disturbing his construction of death traps. Besides, you're studying Quantum Physics to maybe help survive fighting Magneto later. Why did you think about him? He's so terrifying, that look in his eye. Maybe you'll talk to Scott about it, but he's running the day's 400th simulation of your gruesome deaths. Bobby would just joke about it, but there's a sadness in his eyes that you recognise. This ... dream feels further away each day, your own dreams are much closer and they're always the same. Mutant/human relations just get worse and worse - you've wasted your life, and you're training a 10 year old with horns to follow you. You can't remember their name either. Was it Bong or Bing or? No they died the last time the school blew up. FUCK ! 😭

Yeeting bowling balls during free play was day 1 shit. 'Testing his reflexes.'

Okay hopefully I've made my point. They are beyond fucked up with terrible coping skills. Things you'd learn from family, friends or teachers, but your Messiah complex emotionally unavailable God King Chuck just recommended a codependent relationship. You can talk to the rest of the O5 (if they're alive and in control of their own minds) but they're just as fucked up. There's nobody else - they all want to kill you. And it. Never. Ever. Ends. Seriously. Fuck. Me. It just keeps getting worse. They've got so much history that every facet of their origins has multiple contradictory accounts. They're a beautiful mess found family that love each other so much but mostly don't know how to express it, let alone do healthy conflict resolution.

I didn't read the X-Men comics sequentially, so by the time I even knew what X-Men was the O5 had been mythologised in and out of universe. My baseline perception started there entwined with pop culture osmosis and as I read back through it all the context radically shifted around, especially the early stories or remixes of them. LBR, the 1963 run kinda sucks, lol. I love it, of course, but if you filed the X-Men's name off it I'd hate it. In a big way it's a historical artifact. The Rosetta Stone and Stonehenge except sixties camp. The time dilation just makes it ... wackier. I hate that word, not as much as zany, but I really don't like it. Let me explain.

Take the social and ethical values the 1963 characters have in their first run - they're not especially sympathetic or even heroic in many ways. Their politics is vapid, social awareness negligible, zero class consciousness. They mostly look better than the people they fight especially the alleged mutant liberationist who's a stylish yet run of the mill megalomaniac. A budget Doctor DOOM - though there's massive potential. I don't care what Stan Lee said retroactively - I don't buy an all-WASP pro-establishment group who beat up their fellow mutants as inspired by any progressive movement period, let alone civil rights. At best there's Red Scare aesthetic and vague iconography coming from the centre of both sidesism. That's on the page, that's the blueprint from which it all came.

The best and the worst. Magneto doing stuff and sex pests plus Drill Sergeant Chuck.

The characters are so popular and iconic that many books and flashbacks have been set in that time period. The Hidden Years, as Hickman so aptly put it in HoxPox. That alone (not to mention other media) makes it ripe for interpretation, speculation, and variations on the theme. Every time it's revisited there's a new angle, simply by virtue of time having passed. The X-Men were founded in 1963, but it's always fifteen years ago relative to the present. The O5's values (and technology level) are updated and/or deconstructed to reflect that, which in turn alters every dynamic. For example, instead of the X-Men being Mad Men-esque raging sex pests with eyes bulging out and tongue on the floor when Jean shows up, they're more realistic middle class teenagers to reflect that WOMEN ARE PEOPLE. Bobby's hypersexual performance is the most extreme but we know what he's repressing. Where 60s kids were gullible bootlicking fucks that bend to any authority (I assume - if you're a 60s child, no offence), no matter how unreasonable - X-Men: Season One showed Jean to be deeply suspicious of Xavier's motives, methods, and mission with the others not far behind her - the first instinct being to get far away from this bald lying maniac and his idiot plans. During the Magneto fight from issue #1 she's thinking 'we are NOT ready for this and someone is going to get hurt.' Chuck responds with 'duly noted.' She calls Chuck out about wiping minds and running a secret paramilitary group instead of a school and he has to try to present a coherent ideology. S1, and many other adaptations, stress that this is not normal, it's dangerous as fuck and there's massive question marks around whether these children are capable of consenting. Many such cases, etc. No, really, there's been so many remixes and additions to the HY and I love them. Even in the 60s and early 70s they'd break up or join other teams, show up in weird adventures with the rest of Marvel, retcon stuff from a few issues ago. First Class, Origins, Season One, and on and on.

Not really a school, you're in my army now.

Which interpretation is 'canon'? They're (mostly) deliberately incompatible so we have to decide for ourselves, piecing together a mosaic with drastically different tiles. We all have our own, likely influenced heavily by which corner/s of fandom we're in or the analysis we consume. I suspect we mostly choose what feels good for our faves, and I don't exclude myself from that. Adaptation theory holds that Siegel and Shuster defined the superhero genre with Superman and every work since that is an adaptation to some degree. Without being over literal in that I want to apply it to the X-Men separated by author/creator. Each adaptation of the X-teams is influenced by what came before, but the best are not beholden. Keep in mind that while Stan Lee's name was credited for a lot of stories in that era, it's unlikely he actually wrote them all, or by himself. The Hidden Years was built by many hands, they're just ... hidden.

Wein and Cockrum went big with Giant-Size, with Chuck recruiting globally to rescue the O5 under Cyclops' command then merged the two. Claremont came on board and adapted the Hidden Years formula into a sprawling epic with the Mutant Metaphor running through it. He'd open up the past with flashbacks but more importantly he retconned Magneto into a three dimensional antagonist. Moustache twirling VILLAIN!!! self identifying as evil becomes a deeply traumatized man struggling with the power to prevent another holocaust getting a little too committed to the bit. That retroactively makes us view the Hidden Years differently, if not entirely as the work of unreliable narrators. His years-long arc culminated in disavowing his actions and submitting to trial, then atoning through promising his loser husband he'd raise the new kids - The New Mutants. You can see the HY formula updated and tweaked into something far more interesting - an adaptation. The original run is adapted, but the characters from it stuck around too. On and on that went, decade after decade, until Bendis hit on yanking the O5 out of the HY and into the present. It kinda changed everything for me while exposing newer readers to the oldest X-Men.

Prepare for deconstruction. You'll hate it.

I truly laud Bendis and everyone else involved for revisiting their kitschy beginnings - bringing them to the eternal present away from Chuck and putting them in the audience surrogate position under the microscope. I'd argue that decision and execution reshaped the O5 , de- and re-constructing them in a modern environment. It had a lot of problems but it did wonders for the O5. The films had already done their own thing, but they didn't push the comics forward. They might have brought new eyes to see Patrick Stewart or Hugh Jackman in the art but the ideas flow one way 99.999% of the time - from comics to other media. House of M shook things up for everyone, but most of all it split the O5 again along militant lines. One thing led to another and the Phoenix upended their lives again with Scott killing Chuck in AvX. Scott was penitent but didn't slow down ideologically and the other living O5 had had enough - especially Hank. He time travelled and bought the young O5 forward to 'stop mutant genocide', then lost control of the situation. They weren't paragons from a better time who'd fix everything, they were just messed up kids and they had their own ideas.

A lot of fanfic tropes are used in the teen O5 conceit and I don't think that's a coincidence or a bad thing. Interestingly, instead of being a fix-it or alternate universe they're brought to us to suffer under the weight of expectations, their own legend/infamy, and saddled with the existential horror of predetermination. Predestination. Not just 'you will do these things' but 'the universe will blow up if you deviate even a little bit.' These legends walked among the present day X-Men, but as they were at the very beginning. Awkward teens. Here's the cliff notes on the 'truth' they learn and their reactions.

Beast - turns himself blue and furry, still has a crush on Jean, and becomes an irresponsible gonzo science MF. Can't believe it, freaks TF out, eventually learns magic.

Angel - can't get a straight answer for quite some time, eventually meets his amnesiac cloudcuckoolander shirtless self, cracks over the boatload of trauma waiting for him and tries to run.

Bobby - his two clown selves HATE each other despite being very similar, and spend most of the time on the back foot. Grows up a little then iis forcibly outed and does the same to his present self while knowing that he'll have to live the lie for decades.

Jean - super uncomfortable with the perfect dead Jean everyone has in their head and the legacy, learns she's got exactly one person in her romantic future and he killed Chuck. Everyone wants to either fuck her or kill her. Has multiple kids but also doesn't.

Scott - Learns he becomes the new Magneto and kills Chuck, flees in the face of Logan wanting to kill him/everyone treating him like he's adult Scott Summers. Has multiple kids who hate him and everything is upside down.

WTF Logan. Valid reaction, kids.

So these sixties ciphers (yeah I said it - Stan Lee wasn't a good character writer most of the time) come to the future under false pretence of saving it and they freak out. The social positions are flipped and the legendary progenitors of the X-Men institution just seem like loser teenagers. They have weak powers and everyone is disappointed with them one way or another - the original X-Men deconstructed and laid bare. It's decided they go back immediately and what do they do? They say 'fuck this shit, we came here to save the world and that's what we're going to do. Destiny can go fuck itself.' Their real superpowers of coping with endless mind bending horror and existential despair kick in.

Then we get years of reconstruction - breaking down exactly what makes them heroes and legends, but having them earn it as outsiders amongst outsiders. The pedestal is rejected because nobody deserves that shit. They're not perfect, they're relatable and yes, they are pretty fucking special. But they're still just kids and shouldn't really be here, doing paramilitary shit. They hold a mirror up to the absent Xavier and his dodgy fucking practices, to Logan and his Madonna/Whore delusions, to the school that inexplicably bears Jean's name. They do the same to adult Scott because they find it so hard to believe he's this mutant antichrist etc - and realise he's not that at all - they were lied to.

That bit is important because the X-Men assimilationist institution was in a post AvX reactionary phase united in hatred of Scott - who's ruining everything. It's a group delusion and the kids quickly see it doesn't match reality. They're shocked at how badly they failed their primary mission AND at how passive the X-Men are in the face of atrocities. They gradually learn about the details of their future and in doing so deconstruct the X-Men in general. Significantly, they grow wayyyy beyond the demerit-fearing yes men Chuck moulded them into and they actually get to be teenagers. Somewhat normal ones. They spend time on other teams, they kiss new people, they live outside the bubble of secrecy Xavier insisted on. Significantly, they're all treated as equally important characters and this undercurrent of sadness at the dead or no longer friends members weighs on them.

Xavier is viewed appropriately maybe for the first time as their initial shock at his underhandedness and secrecy blends with sympathising with his position. It IS easier to force people to do things. Way easier. It's heroic to choose not to, to be better, braver. They're very surprised about this but it doesn't take long for them to believe it. Characters in the present even make jokes about how shady he is. Compared to the eager beavers hanging off his every word in the 1963 run and beyond, it's night and day. So again, which is 'canon?' They can't both be, or can they?

They show the world why they are the O5. Not because of some regressive rose-tinted view of the past - because a bald billionaire chose them and they chose heroism over and over despite it ruining their lives. It was a position no children should have been put in, and that's really fucked up, but the struggle is real. They're special but you can be too. You're making history RN - they just did it first and oh boy have they suffered for it. That's why they should be revered - because they did it first. Their adult selves also show the mistakes made. Not one of them is happy or even stable and that shouldn't be surprising. They aren't perfect and neither is Charles Xavier. We should honour elders but be very suspicious when we can't question them. They aren't always right.

They don't buy into Logan's hype and bullshit either. They're appalled at his behaviour that everyone has come to accept, so much that he's instrumental in their deciding to stay in the present and then defect. This maniac is full of shit. Their Wolverine is Laura - a much better person and hero, who they spend time growing up with. Obviously that didn't stick but I kinda wish it did. When they were returned to the past by Cable they were mindwiped, but their older selves got their memories. Two sets of experiences, minimum. In a metatextual sense they had to choose their canon, lol.

Bruh, he's right there. 'Why don't you kill Scott?'

I'm speaking very personally here, but I suspect many fans can at least recognise the shape of their experiences in mine. Everyone's headcanon is going to be a little different, though, of course. I was already a fan of the O5 but ANXM recontextualised them for me. The ultimate adaptation in many ways because the original run just isn't that relatable. Important yes, but the characters were drastically improved by redoing their teen years through a contemporary, deconstructionist lens. The characters were improved and deepened by having to stare their origins/selves in the face and then living in the same world for years. I find it impossible to separate the multiple choice past so I don't bother, if that makes sense. There's value and entertainment for me in revisiting the earliest stuff but I view it through a modern lens where possible. Honestly, there's so damn much of it that it can all blend together at times.

I have more thoughts than that, tbh, but that's the core of what everything builds off. They're legends that were not just allowed to be imperfect, but forced to be. Destined to be, even. Each of them has been on wild journeys together and apart but that history is still there informing everything. To answer your question in a more direct way - with all that in mind I find the dynamic compelling in retrospect. Aside from Scott and Jean they drift in and out of each other's lives, kinda like IRL relationships. That dynamic hasn't existed since it first started being adapted IMO, but it still informs their modern interactions and relationships. They're fluid like that.

Thanks for the ask!

[vampiilure]

close.

Summary: after not coming back on a supply run, Daryl gets nervous. He ends up going to look for you which does not turn out too well, but he wasn't going to let you rot out there.

Daryl Dixon x fem!reader

Genre: angst, hurt comfort, romance, slow burn, recovery

WC: 3513 

The yard outside the prison had grown quiet.

Too quiet for Daryl's liking.

He stood near the gates, crossbow slung over his shoulder, chewing at the inside of his cheek as he stared down the road like he could will you to walk up it. You were late- way too late.

Two nights gone, and you still had not come back from what was supposed to be a simple supply run to a gas station barely five miles out.

Rick had said to give it time. Maybe you got holed up somewhere. Maybe you were laying low. Even Hershel tried to calm him, saying there wasn't sense in throwing yourself into danger unless you knew there was still someone to find.

But they didn't get it. Not the way Daryl did.

You weren't just another body in the group. You were different. Tough. Quick. Smarter than most. You didn't just vanish, not unless something went real wrong.

So the next morning, he packed a bag, told Carol not to wait up, and slipped through the gate before anyone could argue. Didn't tell rick. Didn't need to. Just followed his gut, and the trail you'd left behind.

“Dumbass,” he muttered to himself, pushing through the tree line. “Shoulda gone with her.”

The forest swallowed him fast. It always did. But he was used to that. Used to moving through the trees like a ghost, eyes low, ears sharp. And now, every snapped twig made his skin crawl. Every blood smear on bark, every footprint half-buried in the mud, it was all he had.

He hadn't eaten in nearly a day. Didn't feel like it. Couldn't stomach much when your face kept flashing’ through his mind, pale and still and gone.

Couldn't let that be real.

By the second night, a cold rain started to fall. He didn't stop. Just pulled up the hood on his jacket, kept movin’. He spotted a crumbled fence half-covered in vines near an old maintenance building off the back road. Most folks would have passed right by it.

But not you.

He crept closer, crossbow drawn, eyes scanning for movement. That's when he saw it- blood on the concrete. A drag trail. Boot prints. One of ‘em was smaller than the rest.

His stomach turned.

He pushed the door open with a hard shoulder.

“Y/N?”

No answer.

He stepped inside, flashlight bean cutting through the dark. And there, curled up against the wall behind an old vending machine, you were.

You looked like hell.

Sweat-slicked skin, lips cracked, side wrapped tight with a torn up t-shirt soaked in blood. You blinked slowly at the light, too weak to lift your head.

“Shit,” he hissed. He dropped beside you, fingers twitching like he didn't know what to touch first. “You outta your damn mind?”

Your lips twitched into a faint smile. “Missed you too.”

He let out a breath, half a laugh, half a choke. “You're a damn pain, y’know that?”

You blinked at him, heavy lidded. “You came..”

“Course I did.” his voice dropped low, barely a rasp. “Ain't leavin’ you out here to rot.”

You tried to speak again, but your head rolled, and your body went limp against the wall.

That snapped him back into motion. He ripped open his pack, pulled out water, gauze, anything he had left. “Stay with me,” he muttered under his breath. “C’mon, girl. Aint like you to give up.”

He worked fast, cleaning the wound the best he could, wrapping your side with shaky hands. You flinched, whimpered, and every sound carved something raw into his chest.

When he finally lifted you into his arms, you felt too light. Like a whisper. Like if he held you wrong, you'd break apart.

He carried you back through the trees, every mile heavier than the last. You drifted in and out, sometimes whispering his name, sometimes not saying anything at all. He answered every time, even when you couldn't hear him.

“It's alright,” he murmured, low and rough. “Gotcha now.”

By the time the prison walls came into view, dawn was breaking. Orange light spilled over the yard. Maggie was on watch- eyes wide when she spotted the two of you stumbling out of the treeline.

“Open the gate!” she yelled.

Daryl didn't stop. Didn't speak. Just pushed through, jaw set tight, eyes locked straight ahead as he carried you past everyone and into the infirmary cell. Hershel took one look and nodded, telling him to lay you down.

But Daryl didn't leave.

He didn't say nothin’ to nobody as Hershel moved around the cell , getting supplies, asking quiet questions that he barely registered. He just stood there, jaw clenched tight, watching your chest rise and fall like if he blinked, you might stop breathing.

Once you were stable, far as Hershel could tell, he pulled up a chair, sat down beside the cot, and didn't move.

Hours passed like that. The light outside faded to gray, then dark again. The others came by in quiet bursts, carol, maggie, even glenn, but he barely looked at ‘em. Just gave curt nods and kept his eyes on you. Didn't matter what they said. You were breathing, and that was all that counted.

At some point, Carol brought him a tray, soup, bread, and water. He stared at it for a while before taking the water. Didn't touch the rest.

His mind wouldn't shut off. Everytime he looked at you, all he could see was your body slumped in that filthy shed, skin hot as fire, lips barely moving. He'd been two days too late. Two days where anything could have happened. Bitten. Torn apart. Left screaming and alone. The thought made his stomach twist, fists curl.

You were tough. He knew that. Hell, you’d made it back alive, hadn't you?

Still didn't stop the quilt eating through his insides like acid.

Should've gone with her. Sholda insisted. Shouldn't've let her go alone.

He looked at your face, the way your lashes twitched in sleep, brow creasin’ now and then like your dreams were heavy. There was a smudge of dirt along your temple, and a faint bruise on your jaw that made his hands clench all over again.

Daryl shifted in the chair, leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His voice came out low and rough, just above a whisper.

“Dumb as hell, runnin’ off on your own,” he muttered, eyes locked on your hand resting limply on the blanket. “Coulda got killed out there.

He swallowed har, shook his head.

“Thought i’d lost you.”

The words sat heavy in the air. No one heard ‘em but you- and you weren't awake to answer.

So he just stayed there, staring at you like he could hold you together with just his eyes.

That night, he didn't sleep. Not even when Hershel told him it was okay to rest, that you were gonna pull through if the fever stayed down. He just grunted and stayed planted in the chair, foot tapping now  and then, fingers twitching like he needed to keep movin’

Sometime near dawn, you stirred.

Not much- just a shift of your head, a small inhale through cracked lips. But he was on his feet in a heartbeat, hovering close, heart jackhammering in his chest.

“Hey,” he said, voice softer than it’d been in days. “You with me?”

Your eyelids fluttered. slowly , painfully, you peeled your eyes open, blinking at the blurry ceiling, then turning your head toward him.

“Daryl..”

He let out a shaky breath and dropped to one knee beside the cot, one hand hovering near your shoulder. “Yeah. S’me. you're alright now.”

You looked at him like you weren't sure if he was real.

“Thought i dreamed you,” you rasped.

He shook his head slowly. “Ain't no dream. I got you out. Brought you back.”

Your fingers moved sluggishly under the blanket, brushing against his. He didn't pull away.

Didn't know what the hell to do with the way that small touch lit somethin’ up in his chest.

“You stayed,” you whispered.

“Course I did.” 

His voice cracked slightly, and he looked away, jaw tightening. 

“Weren’t gonna leave you out there,” he added after a beat, quieter. “Ain't somethin’ i could do.”

Silence settled between you again. Not the bad kind. The kind that said everything that didn't need speaking.

Finally, your eyes started to close again, the exhaustion still putting you under.

But your fingers didn't let go.

And neither did he.

The days passed slow.

Your fever broke on the second night, and after that, it was like the whole prison exhaled. Carol brought clean clothes. Beth sat with you in the evenings and hummed soft songs. Herschel came by with careful, practiced hands and told you that with rest, you’d be alright.

But he never left.

He took laying on the floor next to your cot. Didn't say much- never did- but every time you opened your eyes, he was there. Carvin’ something into a scrap of wood. Making arrows. Watching you. Like he didn't trust the world to keep you safe unless he was staring it down himself.

And he didn't hover, not really. Just moved around you like gravity kept him in your orbit.

He brought you water, sometimes food if he thought you’d eat. Never asked how you were feeling. Just gave you things and muttered things like “Eat this,” or “Drink up.” and didn't wait for thanks. But you saw it in his eyes, the tension that only eased when your color started to come back, when your voice stopped rasping.

One morning, you tried to sit up by yourself.

Daryl was across the room, fiddling with the strap of his crossbow. You didn't get far, just pushed your elbow back under you and winced when pain bloomed sharp in your side.

He was beside you before you could blink.

“What the hell’re you doin’?” he snapped, one hand hovering over your shoulder, not touching, but close. “You ain't ready to be movin’ yet.”

You breathed through the ache, biting back a groan. “I'm fine. Just..stiff.” 

He gave you that look. The one that said you ain’t foolin’ no one.

“Coulda tore somethin’ open,” he muttered, reaching behind you carefully. “C’mere.”

You didn't fight him when he helped you ease upright, arms bracketing you like a shield. His hands were rough, calloused, and warm where they steadied your back. You felt his breath on your neck, and for a second, neither of you moved.

Then he pulled away like you’d burned him.

“Tell me next time,” he said, voice low. “Don't go pushin’ it.”

You nodded, watching the way he sat back down- arms crossed, foot tapping against the floor like he was angry, or nervous, or both. Probably both. That was daryl.

He stayed quiet after that. But later that night, when you were almost asleep, you felt the blanket get tugged up over your shoulders. His fingers brushed your arm just a second longer than they needed to.

You didn't say anything.

Didn't need to.

The next few days blurred together. You were able to walk again- slow, with help. And every time, it was Daryl's hand you leaned on. Sometimes his arm wrapped around your waist, firm and steady, keeping a sharp eye on everything around you. Like he thought the walls might crumble if he looked away.

And it wasn't just the help.

It was the way he watched you.

Not just checking to see if you were hurting. Not just keeping you safe.

It was something else. Softer. Quieter.

Like he didn't know what to do with the thing in his chest, the one that clenched every time your smile flickered toward him. The one that twisted when you winced, or leaned on him, or said his name too softly.

One evening, as the sun dipped low behind the watchtower, you sat outside in the prison yard with a blanket around your shoulders, trying to enjoy the fresh air. Daryl stood a few feet away, leaning against the fence, carving again. You could tell by the angle of his head that he wasn't really focused.

“You okay?” you asked.

He looked up, blinked like you’d pulled him out of something. Shrugged. “Yeah.”

You tilted your head. “You been sittin’ with me for almost a week. Dont think ive seen you sleep.”

He looked away, jaw working. “Ain't nothin’. Just keepin’ watch.”

“Daryl,” you said, voice softer now.

He turned to face you then, brows drawn, like he wasn't sure whether to be mad or embarrassed. “Ain’t ‘cause I had to,” he muttered, eyes flickering toward you and away again. “I wanted to.”

The silence that followed stretched, thick as smoke.

You felt the weight of it settle between you. Warm. Fragile. Dangerous. 

But you didn't break it.

You just looked at him, and let the words sit there- unspoken, understood.

He cleared his throat, shifted on his feet. “You cold?”

“A little.”

He didn't ask permission, just crossed the space between you, shrugged off his jacket, and laid it over your shoulders like it was nothing.you clutched it tight, breathing in the scent of leather and smoke and something that was just..him.

 He sat beside you, not touching, just close.

The sky above turned violet. The wind picked up. But you didn't move, and neither did he.

You weren't fully healed yet. Not really/. But the ache in your side had dulled to a whisper, and the weight in your chest had lightened now that you could breathe in something other than recycled air and antiseptic.

So when Daryl found you by the gates, hands on your hips, eyes scanning the trees like they were calling to you, he didn't waste time.

“Farmstead a couple miles out,” he said, nodding toward the road. “Ain’t been touched far as i know. Could use the backup.”

You tilted your head. “You askin’ or tellin’?”

He gave a shrug, shoulders rolling lazy under his vest. “You're comin’.”

You met his eyes, squinted in the sun. “You sure I can keep up?”

His lips twitched- just a little. “You fall behind, i'll carry your ass.” 

You smirked. “Promise?” 

He rolled his eyes and turned. “C’mon.”

That was all you needed.

The walk through the woods was quiet. No need for small talk. He didn't do it, and you didn't need it. The leaves overhead whispered in the breeze, dappled sunlight dancing over the both of you as you made your way along the overgrown trail. You caught him glancing back every so often- small flicks of his eyes, quick scans to make sure you weren't lagging or hurting.

You didn't say a word about it, but your heart caught every time.

The farmstead was all crumbling wood and broken glass. Crows perched on the fence posts like watchmen. Daryl pushed through the door first, crossbow up, body moving in that quiet, practiced way that reminded you just how many times he’d done this.

You followed close.

You cleared it together, him upstairs, you downstairs. The home was dead, empty. But there were cans in the pantry, a few usable blankets, a cracked bottle of iodine you knew Hershel would be grateful for.

He came down with a tired look in his eyes.

“Kid’s room up there,” he said low. “Still got toys on the floor.”

You didn't respond. Just rested a hand against his arm for a second as you passed by. He didn't flinch, but he did look at you like maybe that touch had said more than either of you could explain.

You thought maybe you’d head straight back. But instead of turning down the main road, he jerked his chin toward the woods.

“Gonna make camp,” he said. “There's a spot. Ain't far.”

You didn't argue.

The clearing was hidden, half-sheltered under a rock shelf, with a small ring of blackened stone where fires had burned before. Daryl got one started quick, the orange glow catching in the lines of his face as he crouched coaxing the flame with steady hands.

He didn't say much as he passed you a can of peaches and opened one for himself. The two of you sat close to the fire, your knees nearly brushing.

You watched him in the firelight, the sharp planes of his face shifting in and out of shadow. He was quiet. Had been the whole time since you left the farmstead. Not cold, just in that headspace he slipped into when he was thinking too much. 

“You always come here?” you asked.

He gave a small nod, eyes on the flames. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Used to be quiet,” he said with a shrug. “Could hear things comin’.”

You smirked faintly. “Not ‘cause you liked the peace?”

His jaw twitched. “Ain't about likin’ it. Just…was better than listenin’ to people talk all the damn time.”

You chuckled under your breath and let it drop.

The fire popped. A breeze pushed through the trees, rustling leaves just loud enough to remind you how far you were from walls and fences. You shifted your weight a little, brushing your knee against his, not on purpose, but you didn't move it either.

He didn't flinch.

“You ain't gotta hover like this all the time, y’know,” you said after a moment, not accusing, just saying.

Daryl leaned back a bit, resting his forearm on his bent knee. “Ain't hoverin’. Just makin’ sure you ain't doin’ somethin’ stupid like fallin’ on your face.”

You smirked. “Appreciate the faith.”

He glanced sideways at you. “Didn't say I didn't trust you. Just know how stubborn you are.”

That got a real laugh out of you, low and tired. “Yeah, well…you’re not exactly the picture of restraint either.”

His mouth twitched, like he was fighting a smile. But then he looked at you again, longer this time. Eyes unreadable.

“You didn't have to look for me,” you said.

“I know.”

“But you did.”

He didn't answer right away. Just poked the fire with a stick and watched the embers shift.

“Didn't sit right,” he muttered. “You bein’ out there like that. Alone.”

That was the most he’d say. You didn't press it.

Instead, you shifted closer. Not a big more, just enough that your shoulder touched his. His body stiffened for a second, then settled again.

You looked at him in the quiet. The lines around his mouth. The scars. The way he kept his eyes low like they were too damn sharp to use on anyone for too long.

He wasn't soft. Not in words. Not in the way he carried himself. But he was here. With you. Still.

“Daryl,” you said, your voice low, steady.

He looked up.

You didn't say anything else. Just leaned in slow, watching him the whole way. Giving him time to pull back. Time to shake his head or shut it down.

But he didn't.

You caught the hesitation in his eyes, like part of him still didn't believe it was real, but he didn't move away. Your hand came up, gentle fingers brushing the side of his jaw, just enough to feel the rough stubble there.

And then you kissed him.

It was careful at first- your lips barely grazing his, testing, uncertain. You could feel how tense he was, how still. But he didn't pull away. After a second, he leaned in, mouth pressing back against yours in that awkward, unpolished way that said he wasn't used to this. Wasn't used to being wanted. But he wanted you. That much was clear in the way his fingers curled against your hip, not holding tight, just resting there like he needed the anchor.

You kissed him again, slower this time, letting it linger.

His breath hitched. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just the smallest sound of something giving way inside him.

When you finally pulled back, his eyes opened slow, like he hadn't realized he'd close them. 

Neither of you spoke.

He looked at you for a long moment, then turned back to the fire, tossed in another stick like it was just another night. But he didn't move away from you. Didn't shift or pull back or put space where there hadn't been any.

“Should get some sleep,” he said, voice rougher than usual.

You hid your smile in the collar of his jacket.

“Yeah. Probably should.”

You stretched out beside the fire, and he stayed close, crossbow still within reach, body tense in that quiet-watchful way of his. But he stayed near. Close enough to feel the heat of him.

And even though nothing else was said, you knew that kiss hadn’t just happened by chance.

It meant something.

To both of you.

[good-to-drive]

George would have been such a menace if he'd been able to text... texting Tom Petty at 3 am to tell him he's beautiful and leaving Paul on read for days straight

[front-facing-pokemon]

[candyheartedchy]

I think I just discovered a repressed fictional crush and I’m not sure how I should feel about it.

[lets-all-calm-down-a-bit]

my dad when the kid he raised reading early, learning practical skills and crafting, and listening to folk music, outlaw country, and hippie rock turns out to be a #woke-lib

[aeolianblues]

pop stars aren't born in the 70s anymore like they used to be. These days they're born in a year uncomfortably close to my own which makes me clutch my chest and cry out

[cosmogyros]

YouTube keeps prompting me to check out music reaction videos and... oh my god. I need to stop watching them. For the good of my blood pressure. Because these people are SO IGNORANT.

It's all these folks in their 20s who consider themselves "music professionals", vocal coaches and producers and rappers and so on, doing a first-time blind watch/listen of music from decades before they were born, and they are SO CLUELESS IT CAUSES ME PHYSICAL PAIN.

Like, they have no idea what genres are. One guy called a song "bluegrass" because it involved an acoustic guitar being picked at one point.

They have no idea how music video production is done. Another guy kept saying in total awe that he's certain "everything in this video is INTENTIONAL!!!" (yeah. dude. that's like. the entire point of a music video?)

They have no idea how songwriting works. This other guy listened to Fleetwood Mac and when he heard the line "The songbirds are singing like they know the score" he paused it and said, as if this were some super clever point he was making: "I wonder if that means they know the musical score, or if it means, like, keeping score in a relationship?" I literally screamed a little bit. IT MEANS BOTH, DUDE. IT FUCKING MEANS BOTH. ***THAT IS THE ENTIRE POINT***

Yet another dude got BLOWN AWAY by the concept of... harmony. Singing harmony. He was like, "Do you hear that?!? He's singing this one line, and then he's simultaneously singing the same words with higher notes in the background to make it richer and chunkier???"

They get everything wrong. The lyrics they've just heard (which, okay, that's fair if you didn't go look them up right away), the genres, the instruments, the gender of a singer, even the era of clothing people are wearing in a music video.

And don't get me wrong: I find these react-ers charming, in a way. They tend to be very open-minded and ready to be impressed by almost anything, and that's really sweet and lovely and we could use more of that genuine appreciation and positivity in the world. (God knows I'm certainly not supplying it 😅) And I'm thrilled that they're choosing to seek out older music and explore the rich back catalog of music history and educate themselves on their own time. So nothing against them personally.

It's just that, in the larger scheme of things, it's frightening and discouraging to me to see that today – in the 21st century, with the internet at hand 24/7, with so much information available to us SO easily – people can still remain so ignorant. And please note I don't mean just your average layperson; I'm specifically talking about these young people who present themselves as music experts. That's specifically why I'm expecting them to know at least a LITTLE bit about music, music history, music theory, etc.

I could just keep citing examples of stuff that made me want to bash my head on the wall. One guy said "This song is from... 1973. Y'all had music back then?! I'm kidding, I'm kidding. But really?"

Another guy heard a song with a famous string part and was like "I recognize this sample from another song! I wonder which of these two artists used the sample first?" except... it wasn't a sample. In the original song he was reacting to, the artist in question had literally hired a string orchestra to come play that riff for this particular song and it was so original and cool that it became very influential and was then later used in some other song where he'd first encountered it. But he had assumed by default it couldn't possibly be original; he thought it must be a sample.

One guy – who calls himself a professional music producer – was blown away by the concept of a guitar solo. A guitar solo.

I just... I want to cry. HOW. How can you call yourself a professional in the music industry while being THIS ignorant about music?!? It simply boggles the mind.

Again, I don't mind your average Joe on the street being this clueless – most people are not such big music nerds as I am, and that's understandable – but if that were me, I wouldn't 1) call myself a music pro, 2) make music reaction videos and put them online for the world to see, and 3) reveal the full extent of my ignorance in said videos. I would try to be humble and keep my mouth shut and ears open and LEARN.

I'm sorry but sometimes I feel such despair. Someone being clueless about the music of 40 or 50 years earlier while living in the 80s or 90s, okay, that's fair. But today? In 20-fucking-25? You've got all the information in the WORLD literally at your fingertips and you still listen to Stevie Nicks for the first time and say, "Damn, this chick could almost be a rock singer"?!?

Back to listening to my 1920s music. I cannot stand the present day.

[pokeybananas]

Today my couples therapy asked me: "so how long have you known you liked girls for and not liked men?"

Me: "a few months. It was a big surprise!"

Like I'm not sure people realize how much of a surprise it is to find out you're a lesbian at 29.

[dexterno-artz]

Sigh

what could have been

I should probably put the unlisted video link here so I don't keep torturing myself and reminding myself what could have been from having the video in my watch later

RIP budget - hopefully one day we'll get the canon continuation again://

[maintitle]

I might just be dumb, and I don't pretend to be anywhere near even passable at understanding what constitutes good and bad game design, but I'm finding more and more when folks say a game's design is 'outdated' what they actually mean is that it doesn't adhere to the most popular games of it's time.

[front-facing-pokemon]