#the more I realized she’s just a little troubled

[mayakern]

Things are bad right now.

As many of you know, way back in 2020 we weren’t sure if our business was gonna make it. Our factory was already on break for Lunar New Year–a month-long holiday for many businesses in the area–and with the announcement of COVID19, everything shut down indefinitely. We knew immediately we were in for a bad time. Despite our fears, our sales grew so far beyond anything we ever expected, to the point where we had to hire two employees just to keep up with demand! 

Unfortunately, even after our factory reopened, our problems were not over. Their quality drastically declined almost immediately, to the point that a significant amount of our  fabric would literally fall apart in transit between the factory and our office. Because of this, we discovered that our sales rep had no idea what she was doing and knew nothing about the factory she was representing, so when we told her the fabric was garbage her response was “👍 factory said it’s good!” At the beginning, only roughly 10% of our new product was defective and we were able to sell the affected items with a reasonable discount. By the end of our relationship with that factory, 40% of our midi skirts and 70% of our miniskirts were defective, some affected so severely that they practically fell apart when touched. And still, our rep said everything was fine and there were no problems and the fabric composition had not changed.

So in 2022 we changed factories. We hired Ash to handle this since I was way too busy managing fulfillment to do the amount of research and communication necessary to find us a factory that met our criteria. Finding clothing factories that can make clothing over a size 2-3X is significantly more difficult than one that can’t because it often requires larger and more expensive machinery. But Ash did it: she got us set up with a new factory that has excellent certifications for both their labor practices and their methods for textile production, that delivers consistent, high quality sewing on well made fabric that can be printed without suffering loss in detail–and she was armored with the knowledge for what makes a quality garment so she could check them if they tried to screw us on quality. Their minimum orders were way higher than our previous factory’s, so we decided to focus on ordering more units of fewer designs. We ordered way too much our first round–some of those designs were in stock until the 2024 blowout sale! But it worked out, and slowly we had a warehouse full of stuff to sell.

Fast forward to 2024, business is slowing down between the economy being bad and what seemed to be a general skirt fatigue amongst our customers. We tried expanding into shirts, which would’ve been successful if our minimums were lower. In the late spring we realized we were in trouble if we didn’t make drastic changes and we ultimately decided to end in-house fulfillment and transfer to a third party fulfillment center that would support domestic shipping in Canada and eventually the UK, EU, and Australia. In order to make that transition affordable we drastically discounted everything and that sale was super successful! We were able to begin shipping from the fulfillment center with an almost clean slate, even if it did mean having to close the store for almost two months and thereby missing out on two very important months of sales.

Unfortunately, we were stupid. We continued to order new designs on an every other month schedule instead of switching to an every month schedule, forgetting that having a backstock in a variety of designs is what previously helped us float between orders and now we quite literally didn’t have enough inventory to match the sales we made for last year’s holiday sale.

That brings us to now.

We’re a little stuck. We have a round of skirts in production (yay!) but they won’t get here until February (boo!). To get back on that monthly cycle we would need to order the next round of skirts right now, but we can’t pay for production until that next round of skirts gets here; if the current sale goes well, it’s paying payroll, not production. We are currently in the very difficult, horrible situation of not having enough money for next month’s payroll unless we are somehow able to make significant sales with our very sparse inventory.

We’re scrappy and we do our best to adapt to disasters and I’m sure we’ll find a way to adapt to this one as well, it’ll just take us some time to get there. Basically we’re going to be okay eventually–hopefully later this year–but in the meantime if we seem frantic, now you know why. 

If you’re been considering trying out our viscose shirts but haven’t been able to justify paying full price, they’re on clearance PLUS half off right now! That’s $9-$15 for the viscose tops, and other tops on clearance are $20-$45. Some of the shirts we’re having a LOT of trouble selling are now priced below cost to help us recoup some of the money we spent making them.

Any amount of support helps right now. Sharing posts, telling your friends, buying a $9 shirt–all of it helps. If our clothing isn’t your thing, we also have a Patreon you can support for as little as $1 a month. https://www.patreon.com/mayakern

Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you have a great rest of your day and that 2025 is a brighter, kinder year for us all.

[mariaxxxxx]

Love Me, Love my pain

Summary: You and Bucky have a not-so-secret crush on each other, but Bucky's injuries are a hindrance to your relationship. But thanks to a party thrown by Tony and a few shots of tequila, the sergeant finds himself inclined toward romance.

Warnings: cuteness, two idiots in love, denial of feelings, everything turns out fine in the end, Bucky being a jealous man, the reader likes to provoke him.

A/N: English is not my mother tongue. I apologize for any errors.

It was a warm summer night when Tony Stark decided to throw a party at his mansion. Music pulsated through the walls, and the lights flashed colorfully, creating an atmosphere of celebration. Friends from all over were gathered, but there was a tension in the air, a silent energy between you and Bucky Barnes.

You had always been attracted to him, to his deep gaze and the protective energy he emanated. However, there was something that prevented you from taking a step forward: the age difference. Bucky , with all his traumas and scars from a troubled past, seemed not to realize how much she desired him. To him, you were a memory of youth and innocence, a reminder of what he didn't deserve. The desire between you was there, but the fear of what could happen made you distance yourself.

Tony’s party was the perfect setting for everything to unfold, even though it was a mix of laughter and furtive glances. You were chatting with some friends, but you felt the weight of the tension growing in the room. As the music got louder and the crowd started to gather on the dance floor, something inside you let loose. Maybe it was the atmosphere, maybe it was the little bit of alcohol you had consumed, but you decided to let yourself go. You started to dance. Your skin was warm, your movements fluid and sensual, and your eyes shone with a kind of irresistible energy. It was the freedom you felt when you danced, the feeling of being alive, and soon you gave yourself completely to the moment.

Meanwhile, Bucky , at the bar, watched everything. He was drinking his beer, not wanting to participate in the dance, not wanting to get involved. Beside him, Sam and Steve were joking, teasing him about the obvious tension between him and You.

"Go on, Bucky . Just go to her. It's obvious," Sam joked, with a mischievous smile. But Bucky wasn't ready to hear that.

He didn't know how to deal with these feelings and preferred to walk away, although his gaze was constantly on You. He watched her movements, the confidence she exuded, and how a stranger, a tall, well-dressed man, approached You on the dance floor.

Bucky could see the man's seductive smile and how he was getting too close to you. The man was touching your waist, his hands sliding indecently, without respect for the limits. What was once a free dance began to turn into something uncomfortable for Bucky . His stomach churned, and his heart pounded, not just with jealousy, but with something deeper: he was protecting something he could no longer lose.

Suddenly, he dropped his beer and walked towards the dance floor. Sam and Steve looked at him in surprise, but before they could say anything, Bucky was already there. He approached the unknown man and with a deadly look, said, in a cold voice full of authority:

"Get away from her."

The man, who had not yet noticed the fury behind Bucky 's words , tried to retort, but Bucky didn't wait. With unusual strength, he grabbed You by the arm, leaving no room for protest, and placed you on his right shoulder. The movement was quick and without hesitation, as if he was rescuing something valuable, something he would not allow to be taken from him.

"Come on, now," he said, his tone low but full of command.

You were dazed, the drink still intoxicating your senses, but the heat of Bucky 's body made you feel something even more intense. He didn't look at you, but you could feel the strength with which he held you. As he carried you to the bedroom, the noise of the party was left behind. There was no one else. Just Bucky and you.

When he got to the room, Bucky placed you back on the floor gently but firmly. He closed the door behind him and stood in front of you, breathing heavily.

"I don't know what you want from me, but this has to stop," he said, his voice hoarse, thick with frustration and pent-up desire. "You don't understand my demons, you don't know what I carry."

You looked at him, feeling the weight of his words, but also knowing that something between the two of you was about to change. Silence fell, and there, in that room, the attraction that united you was stronger than everything that separated you.

The silence in the room felt thick, as if the air had become heavier after Bucky ’s words . You watched him with your heart beating fast, a mix of confusion, desire, and a strange feeling of being in a moment of transition. Something was changing, and the fear of moving forward, of breaking the barriers that had kept between you for so long, hung in the air.

Bucky looked at you, his eyes clouded by years of suffering, but also with a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show. He stood there, in front of you, with his fists clenched and his jaw tense, but there was something else in his gaze, something you couldn’t quite place. Maybe it was the same pain, the same trauma, the same internal struggle he carried. But there was also a spark, something he could no longer ignore.

“I push you away for a reason, you know that, don’t you?” Bucky spoke in a low voice, almost a whisper, but there was a weight to it, as if he were surrendering himself to something bigger than himself.

You took a step forward, instinct pulling you like a magnet. You knew he was fighting something much bigger than both of you, something that might not be resolved that night. But the desire to understand, to break down the barriers and live in that moment, consumed you . There was no more room for hesitation. You wanted to know, you wanted to feel.

“I know... I know what you carry,” you said, your voice soft, almost like a promise. “But this... what we feel... this can’t be ignored. Not any longer, Bucky .”

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if your words hurt and healed him at the same time. An internal war raged inside him, but your touch, your closeness, began to break down the walls he tried so hard to keep up. He knew he was in dangerous territory, but being so close to you made him feel vulnerable in a way he never wanted to admit.

“You don’t understand,” he said firmly, but a crooked smile played across his lips, almost an expression of defeat. “I’m a broken man, you don’t want this. You can’t want this.”

You took another step towards him, and this time, Bucky didn't move. You felt your feet stuck to the ground, as if you couldn't run away anymore. He looked at you closely, his eyes a sea of conflicting feelings, but the desire was there, undeniable.

“I don’t care about your scars, Bucky ,” you said, barely above a whisper. “I care about what you are now. Who you are, and what you can be if you let yourself be.”

He stared at you, feeling the weight of your words. It was as if a part of him, the part that had always felt like a monster, began to dissolve under her gaze. You accepted him, saw him as he really was, and not as he believed himself to be: a broken and lost man. He wanted you, more than he wanted to admit, but his fear of hurting you, of placing the weight of his ghosts on you, was greater.

The silence between you fell again, but this time, it was a silence filled with mutual expectation. The air was thick, as if you both knew that this moment could not be reversed.

Suddenly, Bucky took a step towards you, his eyes fixed on yours, as if he was finally giving in to what he had been so afraid of. He placed one of his hands gently on your face, feeling the softness of your skin, and with a slow movement, he approached. When your lips finally met, it was a shy touch, but full of an explosive energy that made both of you lose yourselves in the moment.

It was a soft kiss at first, hesitant, as if they were both wondering if they could go further. But as the kiss intensified , something loosened inside them both. Bucky , for the first time in a long time, allowed himself to forget the fear and the pain. You, with your closeness, with your trust, were the key to the door he had kept locked for so long.

Little by little, you began to lose yourselves in the intensity of the moment, without any more words, without any more hesitation. The fear Bucky carried seemed to disappear completely as you wrapped your arms around him, as if you knew exactly what he needed to free himself. Deep down, you knew that Bucky 's traumas would not be erased that night, but the desire that united you was stronger than any ghost.

As the kiss became more urgent, deeper, Bucky surrendered himself , no longer to fear, but to the possibility of being loved and of loving. And in that room, far from the party and the crowd, the two of you were, for the first time, completely surrendered to what you felt, without any more barriers, without any more doubts.

Time seemed to flow differently in that room. Each second stretched and expanded, as if the entire universe had been reduced to that moment. The world outside, with its celebration and the laughter of friends, no longer existed. All that mattered was what was happening between Bucky and you. Every touch, every shared breath, was a silent affirmation that despite the hardships, the pain, and the scars, there was something profound happening here.

Bucky , his forehead resting against yours, felt a mixture of relief and confusion. He had given in to something he didn’t fully understand, but he no longer wanted to run away from it. It was as if a part of him had finally been released, and he didn’t know what to do with it. He was afraid. Afraid that by giving in, he might lose the only thing he had ever had: control. But you didn’t pressure him, you didn’t force him into anything. Your presence was comforting, like a soft flame in the darkness.

You looked into his eyes, your fingers still gently touching his skin, and said, with a soft smile:

“ Bucky , I know you’re scared. I am too. But we don’t have to have everything figured out right now. We can take it slow.”

Those words sank deep into his heart. Bucky had always felt that people expected him to be strong, that he was invulnerable, that he was someone who could carry the weight of everything on his own. But You didn't expect that from him. She didn't want him to be perfect. She wanted him to be himself.

He pulled back a little, looking at you, his eyes filled with an emotion he had trouble understanding. He wanted to speak, to explain what he felt, but words seemed insufficient. Instead, he just pulled you closer, as if he was afraid that if he let you go, he would lose the only piece of peace he had ever found.

“I don’t know what to do with this, with all of this...” Bucky he said, his voice thick with frustration but also with a rare vulnerability. “I feel lost, you know? Like I’m always trying to run away from something.”

You, without hesitation, placed a hand on his chest, feeling the rapid beating of his heart. “You don’t need to have all the answers, Bucky . I’m here. I won’t abandon you.”

Those simple, straightforward words seemed to be exactly what he needed to hear. The tension in his shoulders began to ease, and he closed his eyes for a moment, soaking in the comfort of those words. It was as if someone finally accepted him for who he was, without judgment, without expectations.

Bucky looked at you with a new, softer look, as if he was beginning to realize that maybe he deserved to be loved, that maybe he deserved to be seen for who he really was—not the soldier at war, not the man haunted by his past, but the Bucky who was still there, waiting for a chance to start over.

“I’m not easy to deal with, you know that, don’t you?” He chuckled softly, almost as an attempt to disarm himself. “I’m a mess.”

You smiled, touching his face once more, and with an affectionate look you said:

“I'm a mess too. We all are . But that doesn't matter now.”

Bucky felt a warmth growing inside him, a warmth that came not just from their closeness, but from mutual acceptance and understanding. It was the kind of connection he hadn't known he could have, and one he was now grateful to be experiencing.

Without another word, Bucky kissed her again, but this time there was no rush. The kiss was gentle, deep, as if they were both trying to understand the limits and the feelings that were unfolding between them. It was not a kiss of urgency or uncontrolled desire, but rather of silent respect, of an understanding that, in the midst of their imperfections, there was something real.

They lay in bed, still silent, but now with a kind of calm that hadn't been present until that moment. Bucky , lying on his side, pulled you closer, and you snuggled into his arms, your face resting against his chest.

“I don’t know what will happen after this,” he whispered, his voice soft and thick with uncertainty. “But I don’t want it to end.”

You smiled against his chest, closing your eyes as you felt the warmth of his body around you . “We’ll figure this out together, Bucky . We don’t need to know everything right now. We just need to be here, in this moment.”

And in that moment, everything felt right. There were no more fears, no more doubts. Just two hearts beating in the same rhythm, sharing a moment of true connection.

Bucky finally relaxed, feeling that perhaps, with her, he could learn to let go of the shadows of the past. He didn't have to be perfect. He didn't have to carry everything alone. Because, by his side, there was someone willing to walk with him, with patience and understanding. And so, that night, while the world continued on outside, Bucky and You allowed yourselves to simply be. Together.

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

Words: 5,773 Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader Reader pronouns: she/her Era: The Whisperers Warnings: language, violence, references to injuries and blood Summary: Trouble arrives in the middle of the night. A/N: This is part of a series. You can find all parts on my Master List.

Previous part here

Daryl felt as if he’d just closed his eyes when they shot open again. Dog was beside him, growling. It was a low, warning growl, and his attention was fixed toward the back of the dark cabin. Daryl swung his legs onto the floor, planting his boots, and reached for his crossbow. The interior was cloaked in shadows, the fire having dwindled to coals covered over in a blanket of ash, but he was unsure of whether or not he should risk turning on the lantern on the little table in front of him. For now, he simply stood, butt of his bow tight to his shoulder, and strained his hearing. Dog let out another growl and stood, his ears sharp on alert. Daryl thought he could hear some faint rustling outside the back of the cabin, but it could be an animal for all he knew.

Then suddenly your bedroom door was opening and you stepped out, wide-eyed, clutching his knife in your hand. Achilles sat perched on your shoulder, his feather somewhat puffed up, making him look even larger than he already was. “What’s going on? I thought I heard something,” you whispered, realizing both Dog and Daryl were also awake and on guard.

Daryl only shook his head, still straining to hear anything over Dog’s continued low growl. You could barely make out the shape of him in the dark. Dog’s growling seemed to suddenly be growing louder and then it burst into a crescendo of barks, causing both of you to jump and Achilles to take off from your shoulder with a startled squawk. He soared somewhere into the darkness near the ceiling. Dog lunged toward the front door, snarling and barking, his hackles raised and teeth bared.

Your heart thudded loudly in your ears and time seemed to slow with each breath that dragged in and out of your lungs. But you didn’t have to wait long before the front door, already partially busted in earlier by Daryl, was now completely ripped from its hinges. A figure charged forward, the glint of a long silver knife breaking through the darkness. Dog was on them in an instant and a strangled scream rippled through the air as his teeth sunk into the arm wielding the weapon. Dog dragged them to the ground and Daryl followed up with a bow shot to the head, impressive considering how dark it was.

You hardly had time to process what was happening before two more silhouettes were hurrying in. The moonlight now streaming in through the open door at least allowed the two of you to better see the attackers and the wrinkled and grotesque skins over their faces made it clear who they were. Daryl was rounding on the second figure with his bow as the third charged toward you. He had no time to reload a bolt and dropped it to the floor, drawing out his knife.

You stepped back as the last Shepherd rushed you and you only had time to reflexively duck the broad stroke of their knife, sinking down almost to the floor as your torso erupted with pain. Achilles swooped low over their head and struck them with his feet before disappearing again into the darkness overhead. You must have called out, and that was enough to draw Daryl’s attention away from his own fight. “Y/N!” he called out. “Hang on!” A fist connected with the side of his face, knocking him slightly off balance. Dog lunged at Daryl’s attacker and sunk his teeth into the Whisperer’s leg, causing them to drop their knife. Daryl plunged his blade into the side of their head and the figure went limp.

When he again turned, his stomach dropped. The last Whisperer had you pinned on the floor with your back against the stone hearth, the edge of it digging into your shoulder blades and spine. You were struggling to keep their knife away from your chest, shaking with the strain of it, your teeth gritting together. Daryl turned to grab his bow and fumbled with the bolt he pulled from the body of the first intruder, rushing to set it in the flight groove with hands shaky with adrenaline.

Your strength was waning rapidly and you could see and feel the point of the knife getting closer and closer to your chest. You looked around desperately, your mind whirring as you searched for a plan. Daryl’s knife had clattered away on the floor and you suspected it had gone under the couch, well out of easy reach. You did the only thing you could think of—continuing to block the attack with your dominant hand, you used the other to reach into the fireplace and plunged your fingers into the still smoking pile of ash and hidden coals. The heat seared your skin but you hardly felt it as you reeled back around and ground it into the eyes of the Shepherd leaning over you. They recoiled and dropped their knife, screaming and stumbling backwards blindly. You scrambled forward on your hands and knees, propelled by the instinct and will to survive, and grabbed hold of their knife off the rug. You swiftly jumped up and plunged it into their chest at the exact same moment the characteristic sound of Daryl’s bolt snapped through the air and buried itself into their head. The body dropped heavily.

You collapsed back down onto the floor yourself, your chest heaving. Achilles landed beside you, cawing and picking at your sleeve with his bill, turning his glossy head and bright eyes this way and that. Daryl rushed over to you, clicking on the lantern as he passed the coffee table, his expression grim. “Fuckin’ hell… Are ya okay?”

You hurriedly nodded, still completely unaware of the damage to your hand, though you were instinctively cradling it with the other. He nodded, though looked unconvinced. You watched as Daryl charged back to stand in the doorway, peering out into the night. He whistled to Dog and the Malinois took off outside, Daryl moving behind him with his bow, checking for any others. Not that he could be 100% sure… the surrounding trees cast the understory in deep shadow and only slender fingers of moonlight reached the forest floor. But Dog seemed calm and trotted back to his side, unconcerned, not a single hair prickling on his back, and that gave Daryl some comfort.

He let out a huge sigh and dropped his bow to his side, shutting his eyes for a brief moment before crossing the little porch and stepping back in. He glanced at the shattered door and then back to you, where you were still on the floor trying to catch your breath. He could see that you were shaking, probably with adrenaline but perhaps also from residual and now new pain.

After he dragged the bodies outside, he shoved the door back in place as best he could and then pushed a heavy wood desk in front of it as a makeshift barricade. He made his way over to you and you looked up at him, your eyes still a little wide. Daryl gulped. “Can I help ya up?”

You nodded slowly. You’d already tried to right yourself, but your side and ribs protested too much and your muscles gave out.

Daryl gripped you gently under the elbows and helped you to your feet. He stood you up merely 6 inches from him, his fingers not leaving until he was sure you were steady. “Alrigh’. C’mon and sit down,” he drawled, guiding you over to the couch. His hand ghosted behind your back the whole way.

He helped you sink down onto the couch carefully, though you still winced a little, and then arranged himself beside you. He leaned his bow up against the couch. “Lemme see that hand,” he said, his brow furrowing deeply. Daryl put his own palm out flat on his knee, waiting for you to make the first move. You eyed it, slowly uncurling your uninjured hand from around the other. “If—if tha’s alrigh?” he asked.

Your eyes flickered back up to his face and between his concerned blue eyes and then you laid your hand in his, a peculiar sensation prickling in your stomach.

He drew in a hiss of breath as your fingers uncurled and he pulled the lantern over more closely. Achilles took off from the top of armoire in the corner again and came to land on the back of the couch behind you, looking over what was happening. “Shit,” Daryl murmured, turning your wrist gently in the light so he could better see. There were shiny red patches scattered over your palm and fingers, interspersed with areas that were blistered or gray with scorched skin.

You seemed to be looking on impassively as he examined you, the back of your hand flush against his rough palm. You worried your bottom lip with your top teeth absently. His touch was surprisingly gentle considering the ferocity with which you’d just seen him fight.

“Fuck,” he swore again, softly, his eyes closing for just a moment against the image of your burned hand. “‘M sorry. I shoulda been faster,” he said.

You looked up at him again, with surprise this time. “This isn’t your fault,” you said, shaking your head. “It was them. The Shepherds.”

He sighed and relinquished his gentle hold on your hand. “‘M still sorry,” he said. “I’ll get some cool water from the kitchen. We should bathe this and wrap it in some sterile bandages to keep it from getting infected.” He dug in his pack and drew out a flashlight and set out some supplies from his first aid kit.

“Daryl—there should be a small, brown glass bottle with an eyedropper in the top of the pantry,” you said suddenly. “It’s lavender essential oil. You can add a few drops to the water. It’s good for burns,” you said. He nodded and then stood and you watched his broad shoulders and the wings on the back of his vest disappear into the kitchen.

Achilles hopped closer and wiggled his long bill into your hair, tickling you. You turned and looked at him. He cocked his head at you and let out a low grating sound. “I’m okay,” you whispered to the bird, scratching behind his head gently with two fingers. “I’m okay.”

Daryl returned with a bowl of cold water and a clean cloth. He sank down on the couch again and set the bowl between you, swirling the cloth through the dispersed sheen of lavender oil on the surface. “Alrigh’. Should help,” he drawled. “S’pretty cold.”

You sunk your hand into the water and couldn’t help the sigh of relief that left your lips, your eyes closing as the coolness quenched the burning. You held it below the water surface, watching the shifting shapes and colors of the reflected room wavering in the bowl.

Daryl’s eyes were fixed on your wrist, on an angry red mark cutting across perpendicular just below your sleeve. “Can I take a look at that?” he asked, gesturing to it.

“Oh,” you said. You hadn’t even noticed it before. “Yes.”

He nudged your sleeve up and stared at the burn. “Must be from the fireplace grate,” he said, dipping the cloth into the cold water and lifting it to let it trickle over the wound. He barely pressed the cotton across it, and you felt the satisfying coldness slowly growing warmer and warmer. Daryl dunked the cloth again and repeated the process, over and over.

“Luke and Alden were righ’,” he said suddenly.

Your brow furrowed and you gave him an unreadable look. “Hmm. What do you mean? About what?”

“‘Bout you bein’ a badass,” he said, dipping the cloth back into the cool water again and replacing it on your wrist. “I mean—I kinda suspected it from what they said ‘bout you fighting out there, and then ya punched me in the face… Pretty much cemented it right there. But this? Badass.” You could tell he was attempting to lighten the mood.

Your expression changed, softened, and you shook your head. “No. I’m not. I’m just—trying to stay alive, like everyone else.”

“Not ev’rybody would think to shove their hand in a pile of coals, damn the consequences,” he said.

You didn’t say anything and he let the silence stretch. Finally, he gently lifted your hand from under the water and set it on a towel he’d tucked beneath, dabbing at the skin delicately to dry it. It was peculiar, having someone else tending to you in this way after so much time alone. You didn’t quite know what to do with the restless energy building up in your midsection or with your facial expression. He grabbed a roll of sterile bandaging and ripped it open, starting to wrap it over your palm and up around your wrist.

“They know ‘bout this place? Before, I mean,” he said.

You shook your head. “No. They didn’t. I don’t think so. I haven’t stayed here in a very long time. They must have been watching us today, followed us here. Wouldn’t exactly have been hard. I was slow. And not alone,” you said. “Traveling openly on the ground.”

Daryl felt a twinge of guilt, but it was quickly followed by the realization that they perhaps still would have found you if you had been alone, and then it would have been you trying to fight off three of them while injured, and what if you’d been hurt worse? He cleared his throat. “How is the rest of you?” he asked.

You gave him a questioning look, not realizing at first what he’d asked as you were lost in your own thoughts about the Shepherds.

“Your stitches, your forearm? Your head? Alrigh’? Nothin’ bleedin’ again?”

“Oh. No. No, I’m alright,” you said, glancing down at your side to make sure you truly weren’t bleeding again through your shirt. You weren’t. “Just—sore. And tired,” you sighed.

He nodded and tucked the end of the gauze underneath itself when he was satisfied that your hand was well wrapped. “Yeah… ya should get some more rest. ‘M gonna sit up a while, stay on watch. Just in case there are any more of them. Dog will hear ‘em if there are, and I’ll be ready this time,” he drawled.

You nodded as he set the bowl of water on the table and dimmed the lantern. He climbed to his feet and hesitantly offered you some help getting up again, which you accepted. The aches in the rest of your body seemed even more pronounced now, and the hum of pain in your hand was sharpening. “Achilles,” you said softly, and the bird fluttered up onto your shoulder again. You glanced at Daryl, standing in front of the couch.

“Thanks. For patching me up,” you said.

He nodded and then started—struck with a thought. “Where’s yer knife at?” he drawled, glancing around.

“You mean your knife?” you said. One of his matching set. “I’m not sure. It slid away somewhere when I fell. I thought under the couch maybe?”

Daryl grabbed his flashlight again and shown it around the floor, finally spotting the handle poking out from under the side table by the back leg of the sofa. He retrieved it and held it out to you. “Ya better keep this close. Just in case,” he said.

You accepted it with a nod. “Night,” you said. “Um—I think I’ll leave the bedroom door open this time, if that’s alright,” you said. “That way I’ll hear Dog if he alerts. Just in case.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Course.”

“Okay. See you in the morning.”

Daryl watched your figure become swallowed up in the darkness of the bedroom and waited until he heard the silky rustling of the blankets. He let out a heavy sigh, his anxiety finally seeming to ebb completely. “Good dog,” he murmured, patting the Malinois as he passed him on the rug in front of the fireplace. The deep crimson swipe marks of blood on the wooden floor looked almost black in the low light and he cast them a sideways glance. He could still see the scattering of fine gray snow sticking to the drying blood from your desperate defense. His stomach churned. Then he turned back to the fireplace, blew the ashes from the coals, and added another log, ready to start his vigil.

_ _ _ _ _ _

The next morning had you wandering out of the bedroom in a bit of a daze, wondering at first if you’d dreamt the Shepherds attack in the night, but the bandage and stinging of your hand told you otherwise. There was clattering in the kitchen and you stopped in the doorway to see Daryl at the little gas stove, a flame flickering under a big cast iron pan.

“Hey,” he said, finally realizing you were there. “Sorry. Was I bein’ too loud? Did I wake ya up?”

You shook your head. “No.” Dog trotted over to you and nudged your hand until you scratched behind his ears. He let out a satisfied noise when you hit the right spot and you couldn’t help smiling.

Daryl saw it. His eyes flickered over your face and back down to Dog. “Dun let him boss ya ‘round. He’ll have ya workin’ overtime on scratches,” he said.

Your smile widened just a little, but your eyes stayed on Dog. “I don’t mind,” you said.

“Where’s Achilles at?” he asked, noticing the raven’s absence.

“Out flying,” you said. “He needed to stretch his wings, and he’ll tell us if he sees any dead or people.”

Daryl nodded and stirred around whatever was steaming in the pan. “Uhh—I made some breakfast. And the kettle is hot,” he said. You wandered closer and grabbed a mug from a hook on the wall and glanced down at the food. “Yeah, uhh…” he drawled hesitantly, “hopefully it tastes better than it looks… ‘cause… it looks—”

“—like shit,” you interrupted him. It was a semi-liquid, semi-solid brown concoction bubbling in the bottom of the pan.

He glanced up and met your eyes and you both smiled a little, amused. Daryl let out a low huff of a laugh and stirred it around with the spatula again. “Yeah,” he said, scratching at the back of his head. “Hey, I never said I was a good cook.”

“But it’ll be edible,” you said, giving him a pointed look. “Last night’s was actually pretty good.” You went to the pantry and pulled out a jar of dried leaves and rose hips. You were staring down at it and then looked over at your bandaged hand. It stung and burned beneath the gauze.

Daryl was watching closely and set down the spatula. He gently took the mason jar from you and opened it up. “How is it?” he drawled. “Yer hand. And the rest of ya?”

“It’s—okay.”

Your hesitation was enough to make him worry. His brow furrowed as he handed you back the jar of tea leaves. “Prob’ly should change the bandage later today and check it over,” he said. “What about the rest, from the fight with Alpha?”

“I’m fine. Really. Just a little sore.” You dropped some leaves into your mug and Daryl grabbed the kettle before you could and poured the hot water into your cup. “Thanks,” you said.

You went and sat down (gingerly) at the little kitchen table and watched him busy himself at the stove for a little while longer. You stared as the wings on the back of his vest moved as he shifted. “Are you some kind of angel?” you asked.

“Huh?” He turned slightly to look at you over his shoulder.

“Your vest,” you said. “The wings.”

He shrugged. “S’just a design.”

“I don’t know. You seem like the hero type to me,” you said, blowing at the curls of steam rising off your tea.

Daryl gulped, completely unsure of how to interpret that. Was that supposed to be an... insult? A compliment? But suddenly you were smiling and then let out a light laugh at the expression on his face.

“Are you?”

He turned fully now, spatula still in his hand, and leaned back against the counter. “S’this some kinda test? Or—trick question?”

You set your mug down, warming your uninjured hand around the ceramic. “It’s just a question.”

He gave you a long look, and his blue eyes were intense but thoughtful. Something happened in that moment. It was just a feeling, but it bubbled up in your chest unexpectedly, and you found yourself almost startled at it. Connection. That’s what it was, wasn’t it? Or was it something more than just a simple human connection. It felt different somehow.

At length, he ducked his head. “Nah, I ain’t no hero. I just—try to do what I can for my people.”

“I’m not your people,” you said quickly. “But you sat at my bedside, tried to calm me down, gave me your knife, attached yourself to me like a fucking barnacle... oh, and probably saved my life last night when those Shepherds busted in.” There was a pregnant pause for a moment where the air felt thick and electric. “You patched up my hand. You seem like you worry about me, which I can’t understand because—”

Daryl let out a sigh that you thought sounded annoyed if that was possible. “Ya are my people now.”

There was a beat before you could find your voice. “I didn’t ask for that.”

“I didn’t say ya did. Tha’s just how it works with us. Ya saved me and Dog, and ya saved Luke and Alden, even though it almost killed ya. As far as ‘m concerned, yer one of our people now. Even if ya dun think ya are. Tough shit. Deal with it,” he said with finality. He turned back to the food and you watched him curiously.

Soon, the two of you sat across from each other, almost bumping knees, and ate in silence.

Later that day, Daryl came back from hauling more water from the well to find you standing out in the open, staring out at the trees. He stopped beside you and set down the bucket. “Ev’rythin’ alrigh’?” he asked, following your gaze out toward the canopy.

You nodded. “Yeah. Achilles should be back soon.”

But the expression on your face had him worried. “Ya think more of ‘em are out there?” he asked.

“Oh, they’re out there. But hopefully not here,” you said. You looked over at him and his eyes seemed to land on the still dark bruise on your cheekbone and temple from Alpha’s boot. His face darkened. “I’m fine. It’ll be fine. You should be more worried about what’s happening back home,” you said. “If Alpha comes for her daughter—”

“Well, I ain’t back home. ‘M righ’ here. Tara and them can handle it.” He picked up the bucket again, irritated. The truth was that he was worried about what was happening back home. Henry was there. Jesus had just been killed. And they had a captive Skin freak in a cell. If only he could be in two places at once...

_ _ _ _ _ _

That night, Daryl couldn’t tell at first what woke him up. The cabin interior was nearly all deep black with the exception of a faint orange glow where the fire had dwindled down to coals cloaked in ashes. A soft sound brought his attention to the pile of old, faded newspapers stacked on the side of the hearth. He watched curiously as the corners of a few lifted in a current of air and fluttered before dropping into stillness again.

He sighed and rub a hand over his face, swinging his legs down onto the floor and planting his boots. He hadn’t even meant to fall asleep. He was still worried about more of those freaks showing up... His eyes drifted over to where Dog was curled up on the carpet in front of the fireplace. He raised his head at Daryl’s movement.

The newspaper fluttered again with the same soft sound and Daryl moved around the coffee table toward the hearth and grabbed a log. He blew the ashes clear resulting in a slightly brighter glow and stirred them with the end of the wood until it caught. Flames licked upward again, crawling over the dried bark and curling inside toward the heart of the wood.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the newspapers flutter again but this time it was accompanied by a cool breeze on his cheek. Considering how close he was to the fireplace and the direction of the draft, it didn’t make much sense. He held out a hand, stretching it toward the stack and cold air kissed his fingertips. It was coming from the direction of your closed door.

It didn’t make much sense that you would have opened a window… the night air was cold and the temperature inside the cabin was much more comfortable since you’d built the fire the evening before. Gulping anxiously, Daryl stood and went to stand at the door to the bedroom. He strained his hearing but could hear nothing but the continued occasional flutter of the papers beside him. He hesitated only one more moment before lifting a hand and knocking lightly. “Y/N?” he called out. “Everythin’ okay?”

Behind him, Dog whined and got to his feet.

It was probably only seconds before he knocked again but the silence felt ominously loud. “Y/N?” he called once more, his voice a little gruff still from sleep. “Are ya alrigh’?” Sharp worry seemed to pierce him. You’d been badly hurt and had exerted yourself far more than you should have since the surgery at Hilltop. Sure, you’d rested for most of that day but after the fight last night— “Look, if ya dun answer I’mma have to come in and check on ya,” he drawled, certain he was being loud enough to wake you even if you’d been deeply asleep. He stood still for a long moment, his heart pounding. Dog circled nervously behind Daryl and whined again. “Shit,” he murmured under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face again. But there was still no answer and his hand seized the doorknob and turned. The latch drew back with a metallic click and he pushed into the room. “Y/N?”

He was met with a draft of cool air that fluttered his wavy hair back as he stepped into the room. It was quickly explained by the window, which was left open a crack at the bottom.

Daryl sighed as he looked at the ruffled blankets on the bed. Empty. No sign of your pack. None of your belongings. No Achilles.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath. Dog rushed past him and circled the room, sniffing and then sticking his nose into the gap at the windowsill and pulling in loud, deep breaths. Defeated, Daryl stepped farther in and caught sight of a small, rectangular scrap of paper sitting on the quilt. There was a glossy black feather sitting on top of it. He picked it up and spun it between his fingers before turning to the note. It was simple, just a few words.

“Thanks. And sorry.”

Daryl sighed heavily and chewed on the inside of his cheek before glancing at Dog. He walked to the window and shut it securely, locking it in place. “C’mon, boy. See if we can’t pick up her trail,” he said, ruffling the Malinois’ fur as he darted past him back into the main room. You couldn’t have been gone too long… He was shocked he (or Dog rather) hadn’t heard you sneaking out. He must have been deeply asleep for once. Daryl hastily threw on his pack and grabbed the rest of his gear. He doused the recently rekindled flames with water and closed the flue once the smoke and steam had diminished. He took one final look around the cabin. Everything was in its place. He wanted it to be in case you had to come back someday. Just in case.

He stared down at the note and Achilles’ feather once more before tucking them into his jacket. “C’mon,” he said to Dog again, opening the back door and following him out into the cool night. “Track her, boy,” Daryl commanded.

Dog immediately took off and Daryl raced after him, clicking on the flashlight on his bow. He almost didn’t need it. The moon was bright enough to light his way and he used the flashlight beam only to scrutinize the ground for your tracks. He strained his ears in case you were closer than he expected, but the only sounds were the distant calls of night birds and the drone of a few insects.

At first, Dog snuffled the ground and moved in a purposeful path, clearly following the trail of your scent, but after about 200 yards, the Malinois noticeably slowed. He circled and quartered, his nose to the ground and his determined bounding ended. His nose and paws stilled at the base of a large pine with branches that came within easy reach of the ground. Dog lifted his head and looked up. Daryl did the same. Dog stood on his hind legs and put his paws up on the trunk, whining.

Daryl shooed him back and stepped in close, resting his palm against the rough bark, two of his fingers landing in the sticky sap exuded from a wound to the trunk. The pine was dark overhead. He could hear and see nothing. He glanced down at Dog, who yipped anxiously. “Is she up there, Dog?” he asked in a whisper, patting his head. Dog’s paws pranced back and forth and he sat. But there was no urgency in his movements, and Daryl realized, even before he had climbed high into the tree, clumsily with his pack and bow slung on his back, that you had slipped away. No croak of raven or soft rustle of pine boughs, no snarky comment or annoyed glance greeted him when he reached the point where he could climb no higher. It was as if you had faded into a mist and blown away, swept off with Achilles’ wings…

As he climbed down, Daryl marveled at the fact that you had climbed at all, if that is indeed what you had done. He had seen your careful movements, your fatigue, your ginger stretching. He knew the extent of the wound in your side and that you’d had a serious concussion and bruising throughout your body. And on top of it, the burns to your hand were fresh and angry. And yet… you’d vanished.

He wandered back and forth in the area with Dog for some time, hoping to pick up your scent somehow, scanning the ground for a trail to track, but the undergrowth was thick and made moving miserable and completely impossible in some places. He could see why you’d climbed into the trees.

Eventually, defeated, he and Dog turned back.

By the time they reached the little cabin again, the dawn was already growing over the tops of the trees and there was nothing else to do but head back to Hilltop. He was needed there. Time to go.

_ _ _ _ _ _

Tara was standing with Enid and Alden just inside the gate when Daryl came strolling in after Dog. “Daryl!” she yelled with surprise, trotting over. Enid and Alden followed behind. “Are you okay? What happened? We weren’t expecting you back so soon.”

“How is she?” Enid asked urgently, desperate for an update on your condition.

Daryl let out sigh and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck awkwardly. He shrugged. “Well, she was exhausted and sore but—doin’ alrigh’ last night. But, uhh…” he trailed off.

Tara frowned. “But what?”

He was almost embarrassed to admit it. “She, uhh—left. Without tellin’ me. In the middle of the nigh’… Just slipped right out.”

“What?” Tara asked, her eyebrows lifting, concern painted all over her features. “Why?”

Daryl thought back to what you had told him about your last settlement, about the betrayal and the devastation. “She just ain’t used to bein’ ‘round other people. Same reason she didn’t wanna stay here.”

Enid looked thoroughly worried and Alden gently put a hand on the small of her back.

Daryl did what he could to assuage Enid’s worry. “Look, she’s tough as hell. ‘M pretty sure she’s gonna be just fine. Somethin’ else happened though... Some of those Skins must’ve followed us to where we crashed the day we left. Three of ‘em. They broke in that night and attacked us. We fought ‘em off but one of her hands got burned pretty good.”

“Oh my God,” Tara said, her face falling.

Enid looked thoroughly upset. “You should have brought her back here,” she said. “We could have treated her.”

Daryl shook his head. “Enid, you and I both know there was no way she was comin’ back here unless she was forced to. I helped her get it cleaned up and patched up. She used some lavender oil on it. I think—I think she’s gonna be alright. Really. She’s tough as hell.”

Alden let out a laugh and the three others looked over at him. It seemed like an odd time to be laughing. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “It’s just—not only did she get a hit in on Daryl Dixon, but she snuck away without you knowing? Or being able to track her? If I hadn’t seen her myself, I’d say she is a damn ghost.”

[atangledfate]

Lanolin wasn't going to let the current situation get in the way of helping the people here at the infirmary. Especially with the short staff and, Getting some help would let Dawn take a break. She clearly needed it. She knew even she had limits and, even if she said she was fine she had a hunch that wasn't true.

" Then get in touch with them and see what can be worked out. I doubt altriss has time to stop caring for his patients to bother, but i'm sure Nurse Dawn can give you what ever you need. If we can get the civilians to safety then i'm willing to deal... there safety is more important then anything right now. "

Dawn gave Lanolin a nod as she eyed the old man, as she still didn't like him or his wife. but they did need help and the mouse had access to files, numbers, and anything else they might need. Plus she could keep an eye on the GUN soldiers and doctors that came in, just in case they were up to no good.

" I can give you what you need, Altriss is swamped right now... unlike me he can't just make copies of himself... he doesn't have time to stop but, i can cover it! guess i'll be earning that overtime pay... "

=============================================

Her carapace was cracked, it was the equivalent to a concussion for anyone else. But her shell acted as an extra layer of protection. It still hurt and made her feel dizzy and nauseated. Though she expected the worst from the Skunks, it seemed they just wanted to get out of this bad situation. Knowing Clutch he probably didn't give them any other choice. She just needed her world to stop spinning for half a second so she could move.

She opted to just relax but knew closing her eyes was probably a bad idea. She gingerly touched the crack and winced, but at least it wasn't to bad. With a bit of tape, and a bandage she was sure it would heal on its own. The real trouble here was just getting out of the rubble and somewhere safe.

" I had a feeling Clutch swindled you both... Vanilla told me she had a talk with you both. I didn't think it would be enough but ... she had faith in both of you "

She spoke in a softer tone, as she leaned against the one holding her to steady herself.

" I came to get you both out of that cell, before something bad happened. I guess i wasn't fast enough..."

She gave them both a glance and was coming to realize that they maybe weren't so bad. A Little rough around the edges, maybe they just needed a guiding hand and a chance to do the right thing. She'd see if that was true, if they meant what they said---and Vanilla seemed to think so.

" GUN has the place surrounded, isn't anywhere for you to run anymore. Isn't anywhere for any of us to run anymore... if we want to make it out of this Crisis... we need to work together. "

She sat herself up but had to lean against the skunk boy just to steady herself.

" So, How about you two just come work for me... until this is over, i'll consider you my personal body guards. I'm starting to think i could use a couple..."

Twist would keep his opinion on Lanolin's comment about G.U.N to himself as there were more important things. "My contact ain't that high up, though they should be high enough to convince letting us move out civilians. That said, they might ask your crew to help out with that so they may let some more in, though that's a guess." The lemur wasn't sure what policy's had changed since he was honorably discharged from his service due to his injury.

"Though they may want to talk to the head doctor to confirm the number of injured as well as being short of staff. As long as they don't mind being drawn away from their work for a minute or two." Twist knew it wasn't as simple as that as if someone was heavily injured then stopping for even a moment could be dangerous. Still, there is a possibility they'll want to talk to the head doctor.

===========================================================

Tumble was a bit surprised when Jewel just, gave up and let herself fall. The skunk was quick to catch her and it was clear she wasn't looking so hot. "I think she has a point bro. She clearly isn't looking so hot." He was holding the beetle has gently as he could, not wanting to make things worse if he could help it.

"Then we just have to be careful and find a med kit somewhere! I'm doing the best I can!" Rough shouted as he finished busting the hole open and made it into the sewer line. "Sorry for shouting, though we're already back in trouble. I swear, we try to go straight like Ms. Vanilla said, though Clutch just kept asking more and more," the skunk said as she slipped into the hole.

"I guess that's true," Tumble said as he walked over to the hole and gentle lower Jewel in first for Rough to carefully grab before jumping down himself. The two skunk brothers starting to walk down. "Yeah, Ms. Vanilla was very strict about that, though we did try. Clutch just wouldn't stop asking us for stuff." They tried to stay on the straight and narrow, though so much for that.

"Stupid opossum getting us into more trouble. Just when we were about to talk to start talking Mamá again and work things out." Rough would beat up Clutch if he could, though a guy like that was too well connected and had way too much security so what choice did they have. "All we did was sign up to be the mascots, not all of this."

[delulustateofmind]

In the series 'This is love, right ' , how many children would they have to be specific and the reader is with the children (she prolly won't be able to hate them)

And if the reader tells the children the truth and everything that happened, would they not believe her or hate their fathers?

Probably a lot - like six or more. Geto has a serious breeding kink, Gojo is clingy and likes seeing you in a more nurturing role. You're probably ending up with a big family. However, I think if there's ever a troubled pregnancy like 43 hours of labor (yeesh, happened to my coworker) they would stop with their antics, at the end of the day they love you.

As for you and the kids, I don't think you'd hate them. They're still your kids, and no matter how messed up the situation is, they didn't choose to be born into it. You'd love them. It's not their fault and honestly, you'd probably try to protect them the best that you could despite everything. However, Gojo and Geto would be loving parents, they'd be raised in a loving household. I just think you would probably not want them going into sorcery at such a young age.

Now, if you tried to tell the kids the truth? Ahhh, that's a rough one. Geto's a manipulator, so your kids have been raised thinking you're "sick." The maids are telling them that you're "sick". To them, you're the one who's confused and delusional, not their dads. They wouldn't believe you right away- why would they? Their fathers have spent their whole lives painting this picture of being the good guys, the protectors of the family.

If you did manage to tell them everything and make them listen, maybe one or two of the older kids might start questioning things. But it would take a lot to undo all that brainwashing. Also, they wouldn't want you to leave. You're their mother. Like I said in the previous ask, they'd probably develop some yandere tendencies, especially your sons.

The younger ones would just think you're having an episode and would comfort you. Waiting for their dads to show up with the meds, this time in a syringe, you seriously have to stop acting out. Think about the children.

Hating their fathers would be tricky, even if they start to see cracks in the story (I don't think Geto would leave any cracks, he's good at planning in the long run) At most, I fear they'd be confused, torn and a little mad at you for "trying to ruin the family" you have a good life in their eyes, two loving, devoted husbands, a mansion, yummy food. You're well taken care of. You just have to realize that.

[beeandthescreen]

In Unholy Matrimony

E | Vampyr!Ellen x Thomas | Canon Divergence | 2/?

Ao3 | She is born from a wooden womb, hungry.

All ch. | 1 | 2

She is cloaked in white, suffocated in a gilded corset. Lilies are stuffed into the gaps surrounding her, shifting with the spasms of her waking body. 

Her hair is pulled into a scalp ripping braid atop her head. It smells of wilting flowers and humid death. Ellen feels she should be most uncomfortable, however, there is little that can overshadow the intruder in her throat.

It is wretched. It sinks its sharp spindly barbs into soft meat, leaving hellfire in its wake. The walls of her prison shake with her attempts at clawing the parasite from her being. She presses her fingers into her mouth, reaching into its depths, fishing, to no avail.

She burns.

Her frenzy dissipates when the fire is reduced to a smolder. It curls away, burrowing into her chest. Her fingers are wet, and her mind a thick fog. Harried choking turns into soft sobs. Time eludes her, but even in her stupor, she comes to realize she is in a closet of some sorts.

It is dark, oh so dark-

“Thomas!”

She calls for him, once, twice, three times. She has no more air in her lungs to call out a fourth. She presses against what feels like varnished wood and pushes with whatever might she can muster.

Her exit is pain. She is crawling out of the dark, dragging on her belly. Her gown must be in ruins. Mother will be furious, father even more so. No, she is married now. Her Thomas will understand. He has never scolded her. Never took her to his belt. Where is he- where? 

She is lead at the bottom of a glass, drowning, moaning, writhing, sinking. She is reminded of a snail in salt, of a rabid stray gnawing at its tail. She uses cobbled stone to haul herself forth. 

Ellen finds herself knelt in front of a coffin. 

The ornately carved lid has snapped off its hinges, Petals litter the path of her escape. Her breath catches- Thomas will be distraught, wondering. She prays for his continued slumber. Her melancholy has brought her to strange places before- but this, how has she managed to become entombed?

She knows it is the work of the creature. Yet, she is not undressed and there is no pain between her legs. She is most grateful.

Ellen rises.

There is not a moment more to spare. Thomas will wake soon. He is getting increasingly punctual, her Thomas. He works so very hard. For you- and you repay him with a wife most undesirable. He will meet with Herr Knock tomorrow, to vouch for his absorption into the firm. He mustn't be troubled. I will return with haste.

She offers less than a passing glance at the scene before she is turning away. She pushes the tall stone doors to welcome in a moon-lit night. Bathed in blue, her flesh begins to buzz, and home calls to her.

She has yet to gather herself. Perhaps she has become too accustomed with the peace her Thomas has gifted her with. It is not unusual for even her name to elude her. 

Her affliction is not a stranger. 

For most of her life, it has been more than just her in this body. She has seen horrors from within that have calloused her from any gentle disposition. It is most odd, most unseemly, though, the way her feet find their way to her door- for the sight of it is presented in front of her almost as instantaneously as she had thought of returning to it. 

A low, rhythmic sound fills her ears.

Something within her awakes. An instinct, perhaps, one not known to her previous. It’s his breath. It tells her. Give chase. It commands.

Forward. He awaits. Enter. The door is bolted, push. Let nothing stand in your way. 

It surges her forward. At the expense of her senses, she gains an incredible strength. 

Ellen is unable to acknowledge the sudden ache behind her teeth, one that demands to be soothed by something.

Her Thomas is awake.

The instinct is sated at the sight of him, lifting the fog from her mind just enough so she may gaze upon her love with clearer eyes. With the return of her awareness, shame follows suit. 

He looks horrid. Unkempt, pale, eyes ringed with the color of desperation and terror. He scrambles off his feet, and threatens her so thoroughly that she is left winded. How distraught he must have been, to say such vile things. She wishes to plead for his forgiveness, to be sheltered by his goodness once more.

Instead, She calls to him, softly. 

His name is an echo of a thousand words. All delightful, all loving. She conveys this now, in a feeble attempt to soothe her husband. He comes to her, on his knees, begging her to remain with him. She holds him, petting the sick away, paying no heed to his increasingly concerning mutterings. She feeds him only sweetness, as he has always done to her. 

I will sleep no more. She tells herself, kissing the tip of his ear. For I risk bearing you to the ugliness it brings.

His breathing has slowed, but she knows he is awake. It is of no matter, for she is content in the silence. There is little to protest when her husband is in her lap. He had forgiven her so quickly, her good Thomas. Her treasure. She shan’t do wrong by him any longer. 

Well into the night, her fingers find themselves in his hair. It has grown quickly. Their honeymoon had only lasted a fortnight, and yet, it has grown well past his ears. She finds it very handsome, but she will trim it come morn, for he does enjoy being well-groomed. 

The sight of him, subdued, head buried in her stomach, stirs a heat in her belly. She blinks it away, sucking in a soft breath. It does not do her well, for the scent of him brings about a line of thought that is most indecent. 

Take him. 

Her tongue wets, and saliva begins to pool.

“My love?” He calls to her, and Ellen settles. He squeezes the small of her back, and she attends to him once more. 

Their exchange leads to his arms around her.

He engulfs her so well. His head is tucked into her neck, breath warming her skin. She almost preens, almost presses even closer so she may feel him all. 

Wanton whore. Her father’s voice rings.

“Your arms soothe me. I would be most upset should you let go.” she whispers, attempting to quell the heat that washes over her. He replies, she is sure, but Thomas turns his neck just so that the soft skin of his jugular is presented to her, and something within Ellen slips.

It returns, the instinct, and it craves.

Her eyes roll into her skull. The flesh of her gums retract. Her mouth parts, a gaping maw. Ellen becomes a singular purpose, a singular want. Life- to take it. To taste it on her tongue. To let it run down her throat and satiate the beast entangled within her being-

Thomas kisses her.

It is soft, Insignificant, right on the skin nearest to his lips. It is enough.

-

He feels Ellen tense.

“Thomas.”

“Yes, my darling?” He will do it right, this time. He will give her all that is good, all that will purge any memory of this terror from her mind.

“Thomas, something is…something is wrong.” She insists, beginning to pull away. He does not give in, gently coaxing her closer. She covers her nose and mouth, her brow furrowing harshly.

No, Thomas thinks, not anymore. He shakes his head, smoothing his hand over her loosening braid. “Forgive me, I am overwhelmed.” He kisses her brow. “I have not fared well without you.” The pressure behind his eyes is unceasing. 

“How is this possible?” He croaks. It is truly the question of the age, and it has yet to be answered.

At this, she stands. A quick, unrelenting force. His arms are thrown from her. He tilts his head upward, rapt. She is real. She is standing in front of me, whole. 

She does not meet his eyes. Her attention is taken. Ellen is looking at the door of their- of that room. The haphazardly nailed boards are ugly against the soft pastel of their patterned walls. Would she be displeased with him? No, she will understand. It is not theirs anymore, only a grave.

Her arm raises to a point.

His euphoria dissipates. He rises, brain rattling between his ears. He glances at the room, and then steps in front of it to shield her view. “Do not look at it.” He wouldn’t have her stricken by its presence. “We will leave this place, you needn’t be plagued any longer.”

No. They will go far. He will make her want for naught. She will smile, and read, and enjoy herself so fully. “I will keep you safe.” It is both an assurance and a promise. Still, she hears nothing, for her face is frozen in the horror of a sudden epiphany.

The look strikes his heart. He wishes to collect her in his arms, to take her from the evil that remains here, but something keeps him in place. It is a slow constriction. He strains to move, to no avail.

A menacing hum fills the room. “Tell me it is not so.” She whispers, eyes so far away, witnessing a terrifying recollection. “Tell me, Thomas.” He pushes at the force that holds him, and finds it almost suffocating to bear. His eyes blur around the edges. “Ell-” pain, tenfold. Things fall and clatter to the floor. 

“Tell me!” 

Thunder rattles and lightning strikes. Rain begins to pour from the heavens, deafening him to the long, mournful wail that leaves her lips. Ellen doubles over, clutching at her chest. At her descent, he is released.

He goes to her.

“Ellen, my Ellen.” His comfort is spurned with a push to his chest, but he persists. “I will tell you all, I will tell you.” He grasps at her wrists, holding them firm. She shakes her head, to which he answers with fervent nodding. “All is well.” he says, soft and coaxing. “You are safe, we are safe.” He is unsure of it, but for her, he would make it true. 

Their eyes meet, and Thomas notes the utter clarity in them.

“I’ve become death.” she declares. 

There is little else Thomas can do but take her into his embrace and feed her the warmth she now lacks- so perhaps she may feel alive once more.

-

Ellen and Thomas, upstairs neighbor core. Alright everyone! Ellen’s noodle brain is starting to catch up to speed on the events of the film. She was very much in a state of intense confusion the last two chapters- as per the fact that she’s been resurrected and all that. She is very real because if a man was begging and whimpering in my lap I too would be bricked up. Also, Thomas being more concerned with the fact that his baby is in distress rather than the very obvious supernatural abilities she now has?? > That’s tea. He loves his woman guys, like, a lot. If anyone is wondering, yes, she took an uber home. It was 5 pence or whatever

[oorangesoda]

The best teacher in the valley - Penny :)

Like Emily, I based this off one her outfits from the cuter seasonal outfits mod. I’m sorry but her in cute little sun dresses just has my heart… she deserves the world 🥹 and I’m not afraid to say it!!!! Maru/Penny supremacy 💪😌

[girlishwhimsies]

i love looking at hot takes and realizing that some outsiders fans don’t realize that fandom is something fun. nothing is truly that serious at the end of the day.

[littlelightfish]

As I said I would, I drew my oc with yours my beloved @clawdouobit

My pretty girl likes to infodump your pretty girl about the smallest things. She's like a reel, talks a lot but most of it is meaningless.

Close ups and more info because I can't shut up ehtier under the cut <3

20 years old and engaged to a half-foot. They're waiting to gain some more money to get married and leave the dungeon. Note: they're best friends but idk if what they have going on is truly romantic love or just a very good friendship.

Quite skilled at upper levels, but wouldn't go to lesser levels. She isn't skilled enough to make her party survive there.

Her race is a mix between gnome and half-foot. Idk if that's possible but I don't think it's not.

If I had to guess, she's 13/14 on half-foot standars. It's unclear whether she's an adult or not, but she's preety mature most of the time. Most.

Flushed cheeks always. Also very pale.

She's 109 cms tall, a lot more than avarage on haflings, but lot less than avarage on gnomes. Since she hangs out mostly with haflings, she's a giant woman. This gives her some problems with traps so her BMI is 18 due to diet.

Fwens with Shahad. Who knows why tho. We gotta figure that out ;}

[sincerely-sofie]

I’m the anon that sent in all the Ruby stuff! It makes me so happy that you love her so much. I didn’t expect her to be such a beloved character to you and I was kind of nervous that you would have hated her tbh. ^^;

Something Ruby related — I had a fic about Twig and co. confronting the siblings before I ultimately scrapped it because I could not write villainous characters without making them feel cliché. I do remember this one line said by Ruby’s sister when she lashes out towards Twig:

“You wouldn’t get it. You have a cushy life style and you baby your daughter instead of actually raising her. We’re doing that ungrateful, spoiled brat a favor — we’re teaching her how to survive. You wouldn’t know the meaning of that with that silver spoon in your mouth.”

I don’t blame you for struggling with not making the siblings feel cliché— writing villainous characters gets 900x more difficult the second you don’t want to make them sympathetic. Ark was fairly simple for me to write, even in scrapped scenes where he was all-in with his villainous role during the events of the post-game. Twig’s aunt, meanwhile, gave me a heck of a hard time while I was developing her backstory.

[w1f1n1ghtm4r3]

elem but my own spin on her. makes her a little more creature

[zincbot]

(insert another nothing post abt how good in stars and time is)

[atangledfate]

Her eyes focused down on her hands as she realized Rowan couldn't understand sign. It was a constant reminder of her disability, and if not for Tangle she'd have more trouble communicating with everyone. It was a blessing that she put so much effort into learning sign, and picked it up so easily. It frustrated her and made her feel weak, and she hated that feeling. It wasn't rowan's fault or tangle's it was just--- A Reminder of what Eggman took from her even as a child.

She snapped back out of her silence upon seeing the Key and reached up to take it. Though her focus fell on the key, her ears were burning by Rowan's statement. What did he mean by that? Was he just implying he was kind to her? made her happy? or something else? She just nodded though she couldn't shape that bashful feeling and wanted to grab her mask but--- it was clear across the room so she just felt like she'd have to suffer for now!

She was happy when the two spoke of Tangle's brother if only because i drew attention away from her. She was able to hide her face in the crook of Tangle's neck as she let Rowan and Tangle Talk. she didn't want to interrupt them as she was still feeling a bit shy around him. It was one thing to be on a mission and in middle of battle but in a social setting? Whisper's mind was a flutter with so many ill thoughts it was hard to focus.

Though... it sounded like Rowan valued his privacy, a fact she could respect. Clark had very much pushed his limits, still she liked Rowan and he treated Tangle better then her folks. in fact she'd wager Rowan was more of a father to Tangle then twist was.

✋ Tangle, your brother isn't going to show up here and cause problems is he? I don't want to cause you or your family any unneeded headaches... ✋

She signed to Tangle as she was a little concerned this might spiral into a bigger issue. She didn't want to be a burden to Tangle and cause more problems with her family.

"I suppose this is the awkward moment where I mention I completely forgot you don't talk and I don't know sign." Rowan guessed he'll be having to learn how to make talking to Whisper easier as he was sure he'd be seeing her more often. "Though I'm going to go out on a limb and assume you like it." The lemur was sure if the wolf had a problem then he would've heard about it from his niece already.

"She says thanks for letting us use it, and that she'll keep me out of trouble. Whisper actually talks about owning a place like this one day, after everything is all peaceful and there won't be anymore fighting. Knowing Eggman that day is pretty far, though it sounds nice. She also wouldn't mind sharing with me, and I'm fine with that." Tangle hoped things worked out in the end and they got to that point. The lemur didn't want to mention how Whisper said she'd keep her out of trouble, though now way was she going to lie in front of her.

"Hey, from the sounds of it you've been treating my niece right so you're welcome to stay here anytime. Hence why I'm also dropping off a spare key for you to have. And if your brother comes here tell him to take a hike," Rowan said as he pulled the key from his belt and set it on tv stand.

"What did Clark do this time?" Tangle asked, though had more than a few good guesses. Her brother took after their mom and he was a spoiled brat because of how he was pretty much dotted on growing up. The lemur could already imagine her brother saying something stupid to tick off their Uncle.

"He thinks he needs to know my business on why I needed to make an extra key. So, I simply took his key and told him he can't use my cabin anymore. I'm sure I'll get a call somewhere down the line with him apologizing, though I don't intend to give him a key again." Rowan didn't deal with his sister poking in his business so he wasn't going to deal with his nephew either.

[lecliss]

And the conversations people are now having about the different ways Laios, Shuro, and Falin are autistic is kinda starting to get to me. It's fuckin making me realize I've probably never actually masked in my life aside from like, two job interviews. And not even in a sense that I just be my honest self. No man, my throat just closes and I can't fucking talk so I don't even have the opportunity to pretend to be normal or not. And if I can manage to talk I just sit there like the autism creature and involuntarily act like some sweet delicate tiny baby-talking little girl because I'm, on all levels except physical, a deer in headlights. And around friends I can manage to be myself but fuck if I even realize I'm not picking up on shit until a week later and it fuckin hits me. I genuinely don't have an opportunity to mask or pick on ways I even could mask cuz I go into auto pilot mode of either complete involuntary nonverbal shutdown or "🥺👉👈". Like you guys even have the mental awareness and self control to think about masking or learning how to????

[sailforvalinor]

🦁

[creature-once-removed]

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