#trying to make up a bit for lost time here
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I had a friend over this week and even though the weather wasn't ideal, we decided we were going to go for a long walk in the surrounding woods with all three llamas. Since Pampelune is the uncontested chief, you just need to halter her and her herd follows wherever she goes. Sometimes we emerged from the woods into a pasture and Pampérigouste started galloping like mad (followed by her daughter & her abandonment issues), but then Pampy would object with some firm hums and the other two returned, chastened.
We'd brought a head of cabbage and we gave her a few leaves every time she successfully used her matriarch authority to re-gather our little group around her, even though she'd do it for free, because it's so nice to be able to go on walks with only one haltered llama and watch the younger ones frolic and explore the world as we go. Pampy seemed happy to walk with us at a steadier pace and to trade freedom for cabbage.
We'd initially planned to stay on my side of the torrent, but after meandering downhill for a long time we unexpectedly found an old bridge I didn't know existed, and it looked very inviting, so we crossed. (Ominous chords.) Then we enthusiastically went up hoping we'd see my house from the opposite hill—and we did, here it is :)
And then we went back into the woods, and got lost. Of course. I really think my friend carries some sort of curse because I don't usually get lost in nature but the last time we went on a great hike we also found ourselves completely disoriented in a featureless snowy plain, trying to glimpse the sun behind clouds and debating whether finding the North would help us in any way.
This time we were quicker to admit we were lost, and I said we could either go uphill, and we'd find the road eventually and the nearest milestone would tell us where we are (or we'd reach a farm on the plateau), or go downhill, and we'd find the stream eventually and cross it and then we'd be in a part of the woods I'd recognise. Probably.
Drawback of going uphill: it's technically the wrong direction, so the way home will be that much longer (and night falls at 5pm)
Drawback of going downhill: we'll have to cross the water at some point. Without a bridge. It would take a miracle to find that bridge again, supposing it was a real bridge and not a fae illusion to lead us astray.
After debating for a bit we decided to go downhill, because we were hopeful that we'd find a shallow spot to cross the stream, and also we feared that at nightfall the llamas might just lie down and decide to spend the night right here, in the woods. It's hard to make a llama get up again once she's decided that enough things happened for today.
The question of whether the llamas would accept to cross a mountain stream with us was left undebated—though we did regret having spent our cabbage too lavishly and too soon.
But we followed a rivulet downhill and Pampe crossed it repeatedly, with merry and graceful mountain goat jumps, which made us feel comforted in our decision.
Then we got to a point where the water became visible, and very noisy, and Pampelune started to feel suspicious. She made worried hums and walked more reluctantly and (having squandered our cabbage) we had to cajole her into compliance.
I love that my friend captured the moment when I crouched down and started straight-up lying to my llama.
Poldine was the last one to realise something was afoot, because she is young and trusting.
Once she did, she also became a bit reluctant (she wanted to go uphill again), and more than once my friend had to open her cloak-like coat in order to look like a bat and persuade Poldine that nothing good was happening in that direction.
We found a spot where the water was pretty shallow and decided to cross. The air temperature was maybe 1°c and the water felt like it was minus twelve so my friend wasn't exactly happy about the series of decisions that had led us to this point. I pointed out that last time in that snowy plain there was this piercing relentless evil wind howling in our ears and making unsettling voice-like sounds when it blew through holes in fences (to help her relativise) and she was like, when did this day go from singing walking songs and watching Pampe gambol in pastures to "at least this time we aren't being driven mad by ghostly wind."
I told her that things that go wrong become the most vivid and fun memories in the long term and we debated this postulate for a bit and I felt like I had successfully distracted her from our plight, until she put her foot in the water and said she wished she were in the metro in Paris right now. In Châtelet even. I said "but in two days you'll be in the Paris metro wishing you were here trying to cross a cold mountain stream with three appalled llamas!" and she said yes. Still, the situation is dire when a Parisian says she would rather be in Châtelet.
Pampe actually followed us quite quickly! I'm pointing this out because I'm always talking about how contrary Pampérigouste is, but she was so great about crossing the stream, even humming to her daughter as if to encourage her. I suppose she was telling Poldine that when they make their final escape and become wild llamas they'll probably have to cross mountain streams now and then.
Poldine panicked a bit once everyone was on the other side of the water except her, and although I'd already wrung out my socks I was psychologically preparing myself to cross the ice-cold water again and go get her—but after walking up and down the other bank desperately looking for an invisible bridge, she resentfully crossed.
Then we went uphill again and eventually found our way to my neighbour's pasture! I immediately recognised the old tree in the middle and I was very happy to see it. My friend was holding Pampy and I had climbed ahead to act as a scout, and I cried out to share my discovery feeling like Vasco de Gama. It was snowing just a tiny bit, and getting darker, and I think everyone (including Pirlouit, languishing alone in his pasture) had started to privately wonder if we were going to spend the night in the woods.
One interesting activity we did when we went home was testing the various objects that live on or near my fireplace to see which ones are heavy and stable enough to hang very wet socks. We tried the wistful wooden shepherd, the porcelain fox, the music box shaped like a pile of books, the vase, and found that the only reliable spots in my living-room to dry your socks are under Sherlock Holmes and under Marie-Antoinette so we agreed on a fair sock-drying rotation. The living-room smelled of wet wool (or wet llama) all evening, but we had a glass of champagne to celebrate the fact that we weren't currently trying to fight hypothermia by curling up between two llamas in some frosty meadow, and we felt pleased with our adventure, all things considered.
We realised a bit late that we had been in such a hurry to go home and warm up we'd neglected to reward our hiking companions, so we very bravely put on new socks and went out in the night to look for the llamas with our phone lights and distribute some muesli. Pirlouit was included in the distribution because he definitely would have crossed the stream with us had he been invited (and told his hay was on the other side.) Also we got a kiss from Poldine so I think she replayed the day's events in her head and came to the conclusion that her mother was, somehow, as always, to blame for all this.
#crawling along#we had to sneak under fences a few times to enter and leave pastures and pampe#was positively scandalised by the idea let me tell you#the other two squeezed through the gaps that we pointed them to without a fuss#while pampe stood on the other side like ''sneak through a fence?? why I never''
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What is the purpose of a sex scene? Well on a completely literal level, it is to depict a character having sex. And if you only watch films on a completely literal level with no nuance or examination, I expect sex scenes would be as pointless as eating or sleeping.
It is an interesting question though. Departing from that framing, sex scenes can convey an awfully large range of themes and messages. But, the more interesting piece of the question, which I think you are right to contribute, is where exactly do we think the messages effectiveness is enhanced by a full sex scene rather than fade to black?
I remember Oppenheimer in theaters, and thinking that the sex scene was overdone. I don't quite recall how explict it was, but it seemed over the top, and exposing a historical event which gave insight to his character was not really added to by drawing it out.
On the other hand, there are movies and shows where the full explicit sex scene is narratively important. This is not to suggest anything about the writing chops of the directors, but rather that the plot, the way it is arranged, benefits more from an explicit sex scene than fade to black.
Horror films in general, and Jason in particular, make a lot more sense to have explicit sex scenes. They are generally operating off an old fashioned puritan idea of sexuality, and the logic of the movie is that the characters brought it upon themselves for being so slutty. Which is why the virginal good girl ends up living. The sex scene is important for the message, as something for the movie to rail against. Sure, leaving things ambiguous might have implied the teens were fucking, but that is pretty weak when the subtext is that extra-marital sex is bad. Its like a movie with an anti-drug subtext, but the main character who looks like a stoner is never actually depicted lighting up.
Since Netflix is on my mind, let's talk about a couple animated shows. I've joked with friends that a lot of Netflix shows have a 'Netflix Syndrome', which I use to mean that a somewhat more lax approach to what gets greenlit means a corresponding increase in blood, murder and sex, because it is perceived to be allowed. Particularly with 'adult animation', which needs to prove to its audience that it can be a cool and grownup artistic medium, and swings the pendulum a bit far in the other direction of edginess by overcompensating.
The two shows that spring to mind here are Castlevania, and Blue-Eye Samurai. Now, Castlevania, while I did enjoy it, I think does swing heavily into the Netflix Syndrome arena. Edgy for the sake of differentiating from children's shows, to the point where it feels like overcompensating out of insecurity. There are a fair couple sexy scenes that I think were unnecessary, with fade to black being better options. Also grimderp plot twists lmao. But I do think that one of the biggest sex scenes, Alucard in the BDSM threesome, had its message enhanced by the explicit nature. Spoiler alert, Alucard is lost and directionless, opens his heart and his home to strangers to make friends. One thing leads to another, they are all in bed together, in what should be a culminating moment for him to get out of his depressive funk, see the light and joy in the world, and open up. And when he is at his most vulnerable, being tied up in a particularly kinky threesome, they betray and try to murder him, and he tries to murder them back. Now, there are other ways to write a story in which one gets betrayed while vulnerable. But if you are going to have a sex scene, the scene is better served by going through with the whole thing, instead of fade to black, which deeply weakens the impact.
Blue-Eye Samurai has a couple of sex scenes, which I think work, because the titular character has a lot to work through with regards to her sexuality. Between not being comfortable with female norms and behaviors in a still very male dominated society, crossdressing as a man 90% of the time, and having a particularly odd relationship with her sexuality as an object of desire, owing to her mixed race Japanese-European status which has people see her as a hideous abomination or 'exotic' beauty, full sex scenes exploring these dynamics I think are warranted. Particularly the one with spoiler again, her husband, and the feeling that she could reclaim a degree of femininity in being desired sexually, before being betrayed for her masculine qualities.
I'm not the biggest film buff, so I struggle to name more movies, because there are truly an abundance of movies with no sex whatsoever, and the ones with sex do utilize a lot of fade to black themselves.
"sex scenes have no narrative purpose" is such a funny take on so many levels. people will really believe that the whole human experience is valuable to portray artistically except sex, which of course has never held emotional weight or significance for anybody
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too little, too late
(8x08 coda) (buddie) (1.2k) the episode chose violence and so did i :) spoilers for 8x08, and hey, guess what? this is my 100th 911 fic! it feels right that it's an evil one <3
The real estate agent has an irritating voice. It’s pitchy and run through with vocal fry, and if Buck has to listen to her talk for another second, he might actually tear his hair out. And it’s definitely about her voice. Nothing to do with the largely helpful information she’s handing over to Eddie like candy on Halloween.
“Anyway, we can touch base again once you’ve had a chance to look over those listings. I’m sure we’ll find something for both of you to love!” the realtor says.
Buck smiles. It feels brittle and fake.
“Thank you so much,” Eddie says with all the sincerity Buck can’t quite muster. He ends the call and sits back against the couch.
“That, uh—that went, um—” He’s choking on the positivity he’s trying so hard to exude. “—well,” he manages.
“Yeah,” Eddie says. He runs a hand through his hair. “Seems easier than I thought it was going to be.”
Easy.
That’s—
Yeah.
“You know you—you don’t have to buy straight away,” Buck says as casually as he can manage, which is to say, not casually at all.
“Buck,” Eddie says with a sigh.
“I know!” Buck says, throwing his hands out in a gesture of surrender. “Just—maybe you want to make sure, you know? Before it’s—it’s permanent.”
“I can’t keep missing out on his life,” Eddie says quietly.
Buck swallows. He knows. He knows! Knows it like he knows there’s going to be an Eddie-and-Chris shaped hole in his heart for the rest of his goddamn life.
“I don’t want you to,” Buck says, and it’s maybe the first honest thing that’s come out of his mouth since he sat down on Eddie’s couch.
Bile rises in the back of his throat as he realizes this might be one of the last times he gets to sit on this couch, in this house, with this man.
Eddie drops his head into his hands. “I don’t—” He cuts himself off.
“Have you told Bobby yet?” Buck asks. His breath catches.
“No,” Eddie says.
“Oh,” Buck says in a rush of air. “That’s—” He wants to say good. He can’t say good. Eddie needs—he needs—
Eddie lifts his head from his hands and his eyes are shining. “I don’t want to,” he admits. “I thought—”
“That he’d want to come back,” Buck supplies when Eddie doesn’t finish his thought.
He nods.
“He still—he could still—” Buck starts.
“He’s not going to change his mind.” Eddie cuts him off. “He doesn’t hate me. It’s worse than that. He doesn’t care.”
Buck’s chest feels tight. “He—he loves you, Eddie,” he says weakly.
“Maybe before, but—”
“He does,” Buck insists. “And—and if this is what you have to do to make sure that stays true I—I get it.” He does. He gets it. He’d do anything for Christopher. He’d—
It’s the worst feeling in the entire fucking world, but he’d give up Eddie for that kid. Is. Is giving up Eddie for that kid. A sob jumps up in Buck’s throat. He fights it back.
“I want to believe you,” Eddie says.
Buck knows that he doesn’t.
“Have you, um. Have you talked to Chris about this yet?” Buck asks, feeling a little bit like he’s just laid his neck across the base of a guillotine.
Eddie shakes his head. “No, I—I’ve got to do this, whether he wants me to or not.”
All at once Buck’s angry. Angry at Eddie, angry at his parents, at fucking Kim, at himself, and maybe even a little bit at Christopher.
“Eddie, you—you told him he could come back!” He says, a little louder than he means to. “Doesn’t he deserve to know that’s not going to be an option anymore?”
Eddie’s gaze snaps to his. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He’s got—he’s got friends here, and—and Carla, and—” He can’t say it. He doesn’t have the right to say it, doesn’t have the right to feel like he’s already lost a limb and now they’re taking a lung, but— “and me,” he finishes quietly.
Something like devastation flashes across Eddie’s face. “Buck, I—”
“No,” Buck says quickly, standing up from the couch. “I shouldn’t have—I’m not—”
“Buck, wait,” Eddie says, following him as he retreats toward the door.
“I, um—I forgot, I have to—I promised Maddie,” he tries to lie.
“Please don’t go,” Eddie says, and god, how many times in Buck’s life has he yearned to hear someone say that to him and mean it. How many nights has he driven home from Eddie’s wishing he’d been asked to stay.
This thing building in his chest, this thing of anger and grief and regret—it hurts. Every breath he takes is a little more constricted, a little less effective.
Eddie looks at him, and Buck sees it. That thing he’s always wanted to see. That thing he didn’t even know he wanted from Eddie until right now and it’s—
There was a small, naïvely hopeful part of Buck that really still believe that if someone loved him enough, they’d stay. Eddie loves him, looks at Buck like he’ll break his heart when he walks out the door, and it still isn’t—
Eddie loves him, and it isn’t enough to make him stay.
Buck is in love with him, he realizes, and it doesn’t fucking matter because he’s leaving. Like Abby and like Tommy, except Buck didn’t know how much hurt he hadn’t even discovered yet, because this isn’t Abby or Tommy, it’s Eddie, and Eddie—
Eddie’s supposed to be the one that stays.
Buck shakes his head and shuffles back until the doorknob is digging into his spine. “I have to,” he breathes, a grossly distorted reflection of what neither of them has quite managed to say.
Eddie opens his mouth like he’s going to ask again, like he’s going to beg Buck to stay, to show him all these awful pieces of his heart that he’s just found so he can remind himself that it’s not too much to leave behind.
Buck’s out the door before he can say another word.
He throws himself into the Jeep and all but fishtails it out of Eddie’s driveway. He makes it three streets away before he has to pull over.
The first sob surprises him with its softness; the second with its violence. He wraps his arms tight around his stomach and, god, he tries to breathe. But there’s not—there’s not enough oxygen in the entire world to make up for the way his lungs refuse to expand in the face of this loss.
He has to—he can’t—Eddie needs him to pull it together. To—to help him. To support him, and god help him, Buck will. There’s nothing Eddie could ask of him that he wouldn’t give. Nothing Eddie could do, Buck’s realizing, to make him love him any less.
Hot tears spill down Buck’s cheeks. He takes a shuddering breath and wipes them away. His vital organs are crumbling, so what?
He’ll set himself on fire if that’s what it takes to keep Eddie warm.
#911fic#911 fic#buddiefic#buddie fic#911#buddie#fic#911 spoilers#coda#abbie writes#abbie commits to the torture nexus <3#i have lighthearted ideas but that's for Later
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Ok i said i would do itater, but this was done for my sister who got really hurt and wanted comfort out of my drabble, shout out to you @saltynsassy31 XD
This will probably be very OOC bc again, i am NOT too acquainted with these characters
So apologies in advance, but i think this will still be very entertaining for you :]
So yeah, here's part 2!
---
Jazz was tired, they haven't given him much time to rest since he came back. And even if they did, it's not like he could rest anyways, thinking about....about Prowl.
No way he could have just left him, right? After everything....it just didn't feel right, and the way they spoke to him about it too. Call him crazy but something in his gut told him they were hiding something from him. But it just never seemed enough to push him to look into it (oh how he would regret that for the rest of his life)
Today was supposed to be a normal routine check to the new mechas, with new recruits coming in for him to teach.
Jazz was given a new mecha suit, despite his protests to it (which surprised even him honestly, but it just didn't feel right). He hadn't gotten the chance to see it yet, today was the day they would present the new model, though it was said to be in its early stages still.
...
He doesn't know how it happened, how he'd gotten here, but all he knew was that he had seen red. When he gotten to see his new mech suit, it seemed oddly familiar in touch, in fact something about it made him feel sick to his stomach.
Small dents and scarring coated the plating around the panels that opened to the cockpit. He recognised that plating, from crawling on it with his magnets, sleeping on them comfortably despite being made of metal (there was something so warm about it, but that warmth was....lost. He wanted to puke). But what broke the string holding him together, a scar, a scar so familiar it sent him back to the exact moment he witnessed his partner getting it in the first place.
Jazz had weilded that shut himself, they had gotten in a bad scuffle a while back, and with worry he wanted to try and make sure Prowl wouldn't be in too much pain before they could get some proper help.
"Jazz?" Someone called out to him. That was the last thing he remembered.
Now? Now he stood by the halls in which they didn't allow the likes of him inside, the halls in which the scientists worked on. He made a fast dash to the last room, the room one of the scientists told him had the one he was looking for (though he wasn't proud to admit he had perhaps aggressively gotten that answer out of the poor guy). He had a weird unknown blaster weapon with him that he had ripped from the mech suit he was supposed to try out (deep down, he hoped that weapon didn't belong to Prowl. He hoped that he wasn't too late), using that, he blasted the door open hoping that would keep anyone from stopping him from getting inside.
As soon as Jazz layed his eyes on the scene before him; his partner hanging from wires holding him into place, chain keeping him from leaving, mutilated almost beyong recognition save his face, and with a small weak staticked cry from his partner, "Jazz?" the small bit of awarness he had gained back was gone again. All he could do in that moment was to yell, a desperate cry that came from the pits of his lungs.
"GET AWAY FROM MY PARTNER!"
And in another flurry of motions he didn’t have complete control over, he was beating the ever living hell out of the prick who decided it was a good idea to mess with HIS partner! He didn’t even know how long he had been at it until the twisted man he called a boss scratched his face, small bits of blood flowing out. In shock and pain, he grabbed the man by the neck of his shirt and threw him to the otherside of the room. Once he was certain that he wouldn't be getting up again, he turned to face Prowl once more, running and calling out to him as he ran to scoop up his beloved's face, blurting out a mess of an apology.
"I'm so sorry, i shouldn't have brought you here- we, we need to get you out-"
Oh did the guilt eat him up from the inside, he- he shouldn't have brought him here. Prowl probably hated him right now, but the sudden distant bell of an alarm down the halls had him scrambling to his feet to try and make things right.
Suddenly, as adrenaline slowly faded off, he realised how much damage he had actually taken throughout his rampage, a limp on his left leg catching up to him. Stinging pain on his face and limbs, but he needed to keep moving, they weren't safe yet.
"I have to get you to a safe place," he mumbled, mostly to himself, "and- and then maybe call for help. Oh but who could i even go to?" As he spoke, he started to set Prowl's limbs free from it's chains, gods they were so damaged, he could barely look at the missing parts. But as he worked his way through, he let out small sighs of relief to see that at least, he seemed to not be missing some vital parts. He could still maybe make a run for it, if only he could stall the facility long enough-
"You really shouldn't have...."
Jazz turned in shock, Prowl's voice snapping him out of his panicked haze.
"Prowl..." if he wasn’t crying already, now he certainly was. Gods he fucked up badly.
Not having the courage to face the other just yet, he turned back to the chained leg he had been working on. Prowl didn't seem to have wanted an answer either way, sitting up as he watched the organic do his work (Jazz tried to ignore the missing arm).
As he finished getting rid of the chain, he got up again, letting out a hiss of pain from his injuries (which did not go unnoticed by the mech). Clutching his left side as a bleeding cut let out a terrible stinging sensation which he doesn't think he'll ever get used to, he walked over to the final limb stuck under chains. As he walked over, he briefed over the quick plan he thought of
"Look, i- i know you might not trust me right now-" a huff, almost soundling like a disbeliefing chuckle, was heard from the mech, Jazz ignored it. "But there is a place you can go to and hide, hide- hide until maybe i can get help or- or find a way to send you back-"
"You wouldn't make it that far." Prowl spoke, matter of factly, which got a hit under Jazz's skin
"I know that! Which is why you will make a run for it. There's an exit by the other side of this room where you can leave-"
A sudden realisation hit Prowl. Jazz wasn't planning on coming with him.
And the human nodded, seeming to understand that Prowl finally got what he was saying. As he reached the last final screw to Prowl's chains, he finished off what he was trying to say "I'll keep them busy long enough for you to leave," before he could finish, as the final screw was let lose and Prowl was free to move, he felt himself be lift up from the ground and let out a startled yelp. "Wha- HEY!"
It took Jazz being shoved inside Prowl's cockpit for him to realise that he had been picked up by the mech (maybe a possible concussion he thought to himself). Jazz couldn't even try to jump out as, despite it missing the plating to shut him inside, Prowl placed his servo up to close to exit.
Desperately and confused, Jazz called out, "What are you doing?!"
To be entirely honest, Prowl wasn't sure himself, he was just as confused as the human to his actions, usually so full of logic. This one was acted apon pure emotion. Emotion of fear, anxiety, anger but most importantly
Desperation
Because somehow, this stupid human had his spark between his fingers, and he'd be dammed if he let him get himself killed just for him.
This isn't how he would want to say goodbye
---
Thanks again, to my sister who pushed me to write this, and also helped out in some parts!
Might have done more if i could, but it's super late rn lol (it's 4am and our mon will kills us for staying up this late).
Again sorry for any OOC moments, but i hope this was to your enjoyment! Maybe i can do a part 3 to this, but idk enough about how things work to do that, so i let anyone be free to mess around with this :]
Oh my... oh fuck I can't. I just keep thinking about Prowl pressing his palm on his chest even when other humans eventually get to him and start shooting. He's a mess, half of his armor is missing he's probably leaving an energon trail behind him. But he knows that while it would take a lot of bullets to take him down, it would take only one lucky bullet to kill Jazz. I'm. AUGh
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trying to be a big girl again
Odette lay stretched across the chaise lounge, her diaper crinkling softly with every little wiggle of her hips. She was playing the part of what she thought was a sultry vixen, her blonde braid draped over one shoulder as she popped her thumb into her mouth with a deliberate, exaggerated pout. Her blue eyes sparkled mischievously as she tilted her head, clearly hoping to draw you in. But all you could do was smile.
Far from seductive, Odette was absolutely adorable. Her attempts at "grown-up allure" only served to remind you how deeply she embraced her little side. The way her feet wiggled, her toes curling slightly as she tried to arch her back, made her look less like a temptress and more like a playful toddler pretending to be grown-up for the first time. “Are you trying to be a big girl again, my little one?” you asked softly, walking over to her with a warm smile. Your tone was light, teasing, but gentle enough to keep her in her little space.
Odette immediately flushed, a light pink spreading across her cheeks. She sucked harder on her thumb, her eyes flicking away as her act crumbled into a bashful grin. “M-maybe,” she murmured around her thumb, though her voice betrayed her—timid, small, and so utterly precious. You crouched down beside her, brushing a stray wisp of hair from her face. “Oh, sweetheart,” you cooed, your voice dripping with affection. “You’re not fooling anyone, you know. My little baby girl just wants to feel cute and cozy tonight, doesn’t she?” Odette’s cheeks burned brighter as she pulled her thumb from her mouth with a soft pop. “Nuh-uh,” she huffed, trying to cross her arms, but the crinkle of her diaper and the shy giggle that escaped her gave her away. “I was being grown-up!”
Your smile widened as you leaned closer, gently patting the front of her crinkly diaper, making Odette squirm and giggle. “Oh, I see,” you teased playfully. “If you’re such a big girl, then why do you always sleep in your crib, hmm?” You paused with a knowing look. “Besides, your mommy and I have some quiet, grown-up time planned, so it’s only right for my little princess to be snug in her crib where she belongs.”
Odette’s pout deepened instantly, her bottom lip sticking out adorably as she glared up at you. “But that’s not fair!” she whined, kicking her legs in protest, the motion causing the diaper to crinkle noisily. “Why can’t I stay with you and Mommy? I’ll be good, I promise!” Her cheeks were now a furious pink, her little act of rebellion only amplifying her childish charm. But the truth was written all over her face—she didn’t want to miss out, and being sent to her crib while the grown-ups had their fun was almost too much for her to bear.
You gave her a soft but firm look, standing up and pointing toward the nearby corner of the room. “Oh, little one,” you said gently, “I think someone’s getting a bit too fussy for her own good. Maybe a quick timeout in the corner will help you settle down and remember who’s in charge here.” Odette’s eyes widened, her lip trembling as she sat up, her hands clutching the soft fabric of the chaise lounge. “Nooo,” she whimpered, her voice cracking with a mix of indignation and resignation. But when you crossed your arms and raised an eyebrow, she knew she’d lost. With a dramatic huff and an exaggerated waddle, Odette slid off the lounge and shuffled toward the corner, her diaper crinkling all the way, muttering under her breath about how “unfair” it all was.
#ab/dl stories#diaper stories#ab/dl girl#ab/dl caption#regression school#diaper bulge#ab/dl#diaper captions#ab/dl diaper#wetting diaper
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Okay what about the idea of arcane with a immortal SO. We can die anyway you want but maybe we just show up again like nothing happened or maybe just wake up in their arms perfectly fine?
Please and thank you :)
Take your time
-Gray
Ooou this is a good one!
———————————————————————
Jinx
Jinx was in the middle of another chaotic scheme when she heard the familiar voice calling her name. She spun around, ready to snap at whoever dared interrupt, but then her eyes landed on you. She blinked. No, no, that couldn’t be right. You were just— She dropped her explosives, rushing toward you, her eyes wide with disbelief. “You were dead! You died!”
You raised a brow, brushing dirt off your jacket as if you’d been on a casual stroll. “I’m fine, Jinx. Just like always.”
Jinx laughed, but it was more of a nervous, frantic giggle, her hands shaking. “You’re… you’re insane. You really are… and I love it!”
Vi
Vi had just finished a fight, bruised and bleeding. She was sitting in a corner of the hideout, leaning against the wall, trying to calm her breath when she felt the air shift. There, standing in the doorway, was you—alive. She felt a spike of panic, her heart racing as she shot up to her feet. “You—you died! I watched you die!”
You smiled softly, an all-too-familiar smile that made her stomach twist. “Vi, I’m here. Don’t worry.”
The tension drained from her body as she crossed the room to you, wrapping her arms around you, her grip tight. “Promise me, no more dying. I can’t lose you again.”
Sevika
Sevika was furious—fuming with anger, punching a wall, cursing your name for abandoning her. But when you appeared again, standing in the shadows of the room, all her rage froze in place. Her breath caught in her throat. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
You shrugged, walking toward her like you hadn’t just died. “Guess I don’t play by the rules.”
Sevika gritted her teeth, her emotions a mess. “Damn it, I don’t know whether to strangle you or kiss you.”
You just smirked, knowing she meant both.
Silco
Silco was sitting in his office, staring at the city skyline, deep in thought when you appeared before him, as if the death that had separated you both meant nothing. His hand froze, mid-clink, his glass of whiskey still poised in the air. “I watched you die,” he said, his voice almost a whisper, betraying none of the anger he felt at the situation.
You met his gaze, your expression calm, as though it were a regular Tuesday. “But I’m here now. You don’t have to worry about me.”
Silco put the glass down, standing to approach you slowly. “You keep coming back, and it only makes me want to keep you even closer.”
Vander
Vander had spent weeks mourning your death, a heavy weight on his shoulders. The loss was palpable in every corner of the Undercity. But when he found you standing outside his door, alive and breathing, a flicker of disbelief crossed his face. “I thought I lost you… forever,” he said, voice thick with emotion.
You smiled, taking a step closer. “I’m not going anywhere, Vander.”
He swallowed hard, pulling you into his arms, holding you tightly as though he never wanted to let go. “Don’t leave me again,” he muttered into your hair.
Ekko
Ekko was lost in his thoughts in the workshop when he saw you reappear, sitting casually on a chair in the corner of the room. His heart stuttered in his chest, eyes wide with confusion. “Wait—what? You—you were gone!”
You stretched lazily, like you hadn’t just defied the laws of nature. “Well, I’m back. Same as always.”
Ekko took a few hesitant steps toward you, not sure whether to hug you or just keep staring in disbelief. “How? Why?”
You chuckled softly. “I guess I’m just a little bit… invincible.”
He finally broke into a grin, his excitement bubbling over. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Jayce
Jayce couldn’t concentrate on anything—his mind kept drifting to the fact that you were gone. Dead. He could barely bring himself to work on his projects. But then, late one night, there you were, standing in his lab like nothing had changed.
He froze, his breath catching in his throat. “I… I thought you were—”
You cut him off with a smile. “I’m right here, Jayce.”
He took a step toward you, eyes wide, his hands shaking slightly. “But… how?”
You shrugged, your tone light. “I don’t really know. I just come back.”
Jayce couldn’t stop the tear that escaped his eye, his heart swelling with joy as he pulled you into his arms. “I missed you so much.”
Viktor
Viktor was hunched over his desk, hands trembling as he tried to solve a problem. His mind was consumed with thoughts of you, gone forever, and the overwhelming grief that weighed him down. But when you appeared at the threshold of his lab, as though no time had passed, his heart skipped a beat.
“You’re… you’re alive?”
You smiled softly. “It seems that way.”
He rose from his seat, his heart racing as he rushed to you, taking your hands in his, the relief flooding him. “I was so close to finishing the cure. I thought I could save you.”
You squeezed his hands gently. “You don’t have to fix me, Viktor. I’ll always come back.”
Caitlyn
Caitlyn had tried everything to track you down after your death, but the more she searched, the more the feeling of hopelessness grew. So, when she found you standing outside her office, looking perfectly fine, her heart nearly stopped.
“You… how?” she asked, voice barely a whisper.
You smiled softly, stepping toward her. “Guess I’m not so easy to get rid of.”
She reached out, pulling you into a tight hug, not caring about anything else in that moment. “Don’t ever do that again,” she murmured, her voice breaking slightly.
You kissed her forehead, smiling. “I promise.”
Mel Medarda
Mel had worked tirelessly on political matters after your death, but her thoughts were always drawn back to you. When she saw you standing in her office, as if you had never left, she was caught off guard. “You died,” she said, almost accusatory, though her voice softened with confusion.
You tilted your head, crossing the room slowly. “But here I am. Does it matter?”
Mel looked at you for a long moment, her gaze unreadable, before stepping forward to take your hand. “I thought I’d lost you.”
You smiled gently. “I’m not so easy to get rid of, Mel.”
Ambessa Medarda
Ambessa had never been one to show vulnerability, but your death had struck her harder than she would ever admit. When you reappeared, standing before her in the middle of her war room, her voice was cold as she asked, “How?”
You smiled, a touch of mischief in your eyes. “Ambessa, I told you. I always come back.”
She studied you for a long moment, the weight of her emotions pressing down on her. Then, she reached for you, pulling you close. “You’re a stubborn one. I won’t let you disappear again.”
Maddie Nolen
Maddie was sitting by the fire, exhausted from the trials of the day, when she saw you standing in the doorway. She froze, her heart leaping in her chest. “You—how?”
You smiled, stepping inside as though nothing had happened. “I guess I can’t stay gone for long.”
She let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, rushing toward you and pulling you into a tight embrace. “You scared me. Don’t do that again.”
You laughed softly, holding her close. “I’ll try not to.”
Lest
Lest had been through so much, carrying the weight of your death in silence, unsure of how to move forward without you. But when you returned, standing in the shadows of the room, her heart nearly stopped. “You were gone.”
You stepped forward, smiling softly. “I guess I’m just harder to get rid of than you thought.”
Lest’s eyes softened, and she stepped into your arms, clinging to you as if you might disappear again. “Promise me you won’t leave me again.”
You kissed her forehead, whispering, “I’ll always come back.”
#x reader#arcane x reader#character x reader#imagine#arcane imagine#headcannons#arcane#arcane headcanon#jinx arcane#jinx x reader#silco x reader#arcane silco#sevika imagine#sevika headcanon#arcane jayce#arcane victor#arcane vander#arcane ekko#arcane caitlyn#maddie arcane#ambessa medarda#mel medarda
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Chapter 5- Miles Between Us
Summary: Frankie's decision to join the Army was the catalyst in the collapse of your friendship. When he's forced to reconcile with his past, packed away in boxes in his childhood basement, he finds pieces of you in everything he's left behind.
Word Count: 5.0K
Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader (reader has a name/nickname)
Warnings: Angst, lying, guilt, military deployment, FEELINGS, Frankie's mom not putting up with his shit
A/N: IT'S TIME TO PEEL BACK ANOTHER LAYER OF THE ONION, BABY!!! I hope you guys don't hate me that this is a slow burn- I know this is not how I normally write at all, but it's been really fun to build this story up bit by bit (if you hate it though, please tell me lmao 💀) I'm excited for this chapter and how it hints at next chapter (we're finally getting to some smut y'all, omg) Thank you as always for your kind words, it makes my day to hear what you have to say about these two 🥺💛
All The Things We Never Said Masterlist
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You, Age 17, Spring of 2006
“You’re late, Morales.”
“Can’t be late to something we don’t have a set time for, Anderson.”
It’s true, you and Frankie have never set an official schedule for your afterschool ritual, but it never seems to fail that at 3:45, only 10 minutes after you’ve gotten home from soccer practice, he’s at the foot of your bed with his forest green Jansport backpack, ready to complain about the homework he doesn’t want to finish and the tests he has no interest in studying for, just so he can keep you company while you stress yourself to death about the same assignments.
And for as much as he hated school work, Frankie was never late. Never. So to watch him mope into your bedroom an hour later than his usual arrival time, it almost would have been safer to assume he was dead than anything else.
“What took you so long? Get lost on the way here?” You joke, trying to keep it light while still prodding for an answer about his absence as you write down the answer to the math equation you’re trying to solve.
“No. Don’t worry about it.”
There’s been very few occasions you’ve seen Frankie so stoic. Even on his worst days, he’s at least still got a little tolerance left in him for your stupid banter. It’s enough to draw your attention completely away from your homework and onto him.
“What��s wrong? Why are you being so weird?”
You can tell then that something’s clearly not right, the way he’s angrily yanking loose papers and textbooks from his backpack and nearly slamming them onto the edge of your bed, making you gnaw anxiously at the end of your pencil you’d been using.
You’re too nosy for your own good to let up until you find what you’re looking for.
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Well obviously something’s wrong.”
“What? I’m not allowed to be late, ever?”
“No? Frankie, I just asked where you were and you’re acting like I’m asking you if you just shot the fucking president or something. What’s going on?”
“It’s nothing, MacKenzie!”
“If it’s nothing, then why are you so upset about it?”
“I’m not upset!”
“You clearly are? Frankie, what the hell are you-”
“I’m joining the Army, okay?!”
Out of all the things you could have expected to come out of Frankie’s mouth, that would have been at the bottom of your list. In fact, it’s so out of left field, you’re not even quite sure you believe him.
Your forehead hurts from how tightly your brows are knitted together in confusion, scowling at Frankie with a dumbfounded intensity that probably had you looking like you had just gotten an unsuspecting whiff of the world’s most sour lemon.
There’s no way he’s being serious. He can’t be.
“Ha ha, very funny, Francisco.” You mock, frown still splayed across your face, “Now will you please tell me what’s actually going on?”
His silence makes your heart drop into the pit of your stomach. You can feel the way your face falls, the muscles once tensed in adamant skepticism now sinking into a quiet panic. You can hear each breath as it flows in through your nose and out through your mouth, blood pounding louder and louder in your ears with each pulse of your veins.
“Frankie, if this is one of your stupid jokes, it’s not funny.”
“It’s not a joke.”
His eyes are still peeled to the floor, too afraid to bring himself to look at you. All he can do is stare at his pinky toe, poking out of the hole in his socks that he refuses to replace. You wait for what feels like hours, days, for him to say something, but his silence is deafening. And the sound of Frankie’s silence is the scariest thing you’ve heard in a very long time.
It’s so terrifying, the only thing you can do to cope is fill the quiet void with your rambling and pray that Frankie Morales is choosing to play the world’s worst joke on you.
“What- what do you mean? Frankie, I thought- When you and Santi talked about doing the same thing as Will- I thought you were fucking kidding? What about college? We already both got accepted to Florida State, what are you gonna do-”
“I didn’t get in.”
Please let him be kidding. Please, please, let this be a sick joke.
You can feel your confusion starting to bubble into anger, jaw clenching at the way Frankie’s too coward to even look in your general direction, gaze still glued to that stupid fucking hole in his worn down sock.
“Frankie, what the fuck? We both got accepted back in January? You’ve been lying to me this whole fucking time?”
“I didn’t wanna lie, okay?!”
He’s riddled with enough guilt to speak up, trying to keep himself from the brink of tears as he works up enough courage to finally look you in the face. You can hear how hard he gulps, like his heart is bobbing in his throat, trying to buy all the time he can to come up with a reason for his deception that won’t hurt you any more than he already has.
“I just- fuck,” he sighs, chewing at his bottom and bouncing his leg against the bed so intensely it’ll make him sore the next day, “I didn’t know what to do, Kenz. I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”
It’s hard to stay mad at him when you know he means it. It’d be easier if it weren’t for the way his brown eyes flooded with disappointment in himself, spilling out in tears onto his cheeks. For as frustrated as you are, you have enough sympathy to ease up on him enough to at least try to understand.
“Well, not lying to me about it for the last four months probably would have been a good start.” You huff, the air that puffs from your nostrils still tainted with the let down you’re trying so hard to not let override your conversation.
You can’t help but let yourself find a spot next to him on the edge of your bed, a peace offering that you hope is enough to signal to him you’re willing to listen to what he has to say.
“I- I didn’t think you were being serious when you and Santi were talking about it. I- I thought you- I thought the plan was to go to Florida State. Together. What happened, Frankie?”
It’s quiet for a few more moments. Frankie takes a few, slow deep breaths as he runs his hands through the curls twisting at the nape of his neck. The silence isn’t as bitter as before, but it stings enough to gnaw at the edges of your nails, the anxious habit you can’t seem to break, and certainly have no intention of giving up right now.
“Stop chewing at your nails, Kenz. You’re gonna be pissed at yourself later.” Frankie sighs, gently grabbing your wrist to pull your hand away from your mouth, trying to fulfill his duty of being the one to stop you from ripping your nail beds to shreds.
“You’re kinda making it hard not to.” You try your best to attempt a laugh. It’s the only way to keep yourself from crying. “So are you gonna tell me what’s going on or what?”
“Y-yeah.” Frankie re-adjusts himself on the edge of the bed, twisting the fabric of your comforter between his fingers, trying to ground himself in the reality of the truth he’s forced to tell you, “I- I didn’t get into Florida State. I told you I did because I didn’t know what I was gonna do. You were just so excited when you thought we both got in and I- I panicked and I lied. I didn’t even think I was gonna get in anyways. I didn’t think I was gonna get in anywhere. Even if I did, I don’t know if I even could have afforded it. It’s just me and my mom and neither of us-”
“It’s not too late. I can help you look for scholarships. To help you with tuition. I’m sure that there’s a bunch out there that you could apply for. I’ll even write your essays and stuff for you if you want me to-”
“I’m pretty sure you can’t do that, Kenz. Plus, you hate cheaters.”
Frankie tries to reciprocate the same half-assed laugh you gave him. He looks over at you, the small smile he’s forcing to keep between his lips quickly fading as he sees the way you’re pleading with him to realize that you would forge a thousand essays in his name if it meant he wasn’t going to leave you. He’d be a cheater you’d gladly forgive.
“It’s not even just the money. I just- I- I don’t even like school, Kenzie. I suck at it. If school is already hard now, how much harder is it gonna be when I get to college? To study for a job that I’m probably not even gonna want when I graduate? At least with the Army I can have a job and benefits and hopefully make enough money to help my mom so she’s not working at the hospital 6 days a week. MacKenzie, the only reason I applied to Florida State was because of you. I thought that maybe there would be some miracle I got in and I could figure out how to pay for it and I could magically get smarter and better at school so we could spend the next four years together. I wanted it to happen. I wanted it to happen so bad. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I lied to you. I just- fuck- I just didn’t know how to tell you.”
Neither of you are quite sure what to say next. That quiet comes back to fill the space between you, allowing enough room for the silent sobs you’re both trying your best to hold in, small sniffles still escaping from each of you. You’re not sure if your brain has fully processed what he’s had to say. The only thing you can understand is the swirling of sadness and confusion in your gut and the pounding ache in your chest.
You take a scooch closer to him, the outsides of your thighs barely brushing together as you tilt your head to rest against his shoulder. It’s heavy, the weight you can’t help but lean against him, but the arm he wraps behind your back and around your waist tells you that he’ll gladly take it. He’ll take it all, if he has to.
“Did you already sign a contract to go?” The whisper of your words is so soft, like you’re hoping he can’t hear you. If he can’t hear you, then he doesn’t have to tell you the answer you don’t want to hear.
“Yeah. Me and Santi did a few weeks ago.” His voice is almost quieter than yours, convinced he has the same idea as you.
His truth stings worse than the lie he’s been masquerading behind the past four months. You want to scream at him- To curse him with shouts and sobs, question how he could make this choice for himself and leave you in the dark until it’s too late for you to change his mind. You know it’s selfish, the way you want him to stay, the way you would have fought with every bone in your body to keep him from leaving. You know it’s the reason Frankie couldn’t tell you.
It’s the same reason why Frankie couldn’t bring himself to tell you that if he had given you that chance, he probably would have stayed.
“Do um- do you know when you have to leave?”
It hurts to hear the words come out of your mouth. It’s an admittance of defeat. Because once you ask that question, there’s nothing you can do or say that will make him stay. No fighting, no begging, no pleading. You have to accept he’s leaving.
“Not ‘til the end of the summer.”
“Where?”
The more you ask, the more it makes you want to keel over the edge of the bed and vomit, the reality of it all setting in at an alarming pace.
“Missouri for basic training. I don’t know where after.”
He doesn’t have to say where. You both know. Even if he doesn’t know the exact longitude and latitude of where the Army will deploy him, there’s nowhere else they’re sending him besides Iraq or Afghanistan or whatever godforsaken, war ridden country in the Middle East he’ll be forced to put his life on the line for.
And for how much the reality of Frankie leaving scares you, when you’re hit with the reality that Frankie may leave and never come back, you’re absolutely terrified.
“I don’t want you to go, Frankie.”
You can’t beg him to stay. There’s no amount of bargaining you can do with him or the powers that be to change what’s been done. All you can do is tell him your truth as you sob into his chest while he holds you. Maybe if you’re not enough to make him stay, you’re at least enough to make him want to come home.
You’re not sure how long he holds you while you cry. Maybe it’s minutes, maybe it’s hours. However long it is, all the moments you have left with Frankie feel that much more precious. You won’t let any of them slip through your fingers.
“You promise you’ll come home, right?”
“I promise, MacKenzie. I promise.”
If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Francisco Morales, it’s that he’ll never break a promise. You just hope the universe is kind enough to let him keep this one, too.
“I promise that we’ll have a really fun summer together before I leave too, okay? Whatever you wanna do, Kenz, I’ll do it.”
“Anything?”
It’s enough to peek your head out from the crook of his neck, trying your best to wipe away your tears with your sleeve, like you hadn’t just stained the better part of Frankie’s sweatshirt with the same wetness.
“Anything.”
“Alright, well, I guess we’re gonna go to Dairy Queen and get an extra large blizzard every day until you’re too fat for the Army to want you anymore.”
The two of you giggle, a quiet symphony of soft snorts and sobs at the idea of rolling an ice cream filled Frankie off to boot camp. It makes him laugh even harder that he wouldn’t put it past you if you really did try. Perhaps it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if you did.
“Whatever you want, MacKenzie. I’m all yours.”
Frankie, Present
Frankie’s convinced he might as well start training for a marathon at this point.
He’s not really sure how else to spend his time. It’s hard to keep himself occupied when all he can do at home is sit around and wait for your dad to die or stare out the window like a creep to watch your comings and goings.
At least if he’s running, he can’t think about you.
Well, he can’t think about you as much.
It’s been a day and a half since he decided to follow you on your run. He’s already pushed his luck enough that you didn’t damn near kill him for it, let alone that you even gave him a chance to talk to him.
He let you take the first shift on the morning yesterday, despite the fact he’d been awake well before the sun rose. The irony wasn’t lost on him at the way he watched you through his bedroom window the same way he did most Saturday and Sunday mornings for the first few years of your friendship. You’d be up at the same ungodly hour as him, except you’d be pacing up and down your driveway, stretching and lunging across its length as you clicked around on the iPod wrapped around your forearm, searching for whatever song would pump you up for your run.
It wasn’t until you had finally noticed Frankie peering out his bedroom window every weekend that you began to drag him along on your runs with you.
“If you’re awake too, you might as well come running with me, Morales. It’ll be fun!”
“Fine. I gotta warn you though, Kenz, I am actually pretty fast.”
“You barely run the mile in gym class.”
“Savin’ up all my energy for when I need it most, Anderson.”
There was once a time where you would have to beg Frankie to come with you on a run. Now, he’d give anything for you to tolerate his existence ten feet behind you.
But he’ll sacrifice another run alone through all too familiar roads of his childhood subdivision if it helps him kill time and keeps you from hating him anymore than you rightfully deserve to.
Yesterday, he went on two runs to pass the time. Hell, today, he’d consider adding a third run to his underwhelming schedule just to keep himself busy. Fortunately, (or unfortunately, he can’t tell yet) for him, Maria Morales has other plans.
And when Maria Morales has plans, it’s in Frankie’s best interest to drop anything else he had in mind for the day.
Even when it means he’s got a hot date with his basement and a mountain full of boxes in his basement.
“Okay, anything in this pile to the left is for you to go through.” His mom grunts, lifting up one last box to add to the heap labeled “Francisco’s things” in her perfectly curved cursive, “If you want to take it home, find an empty box to put it in, but not my new clear, plastic bins, entiendes (understand)? Those were expensive.”
“No clear plastic bins, got it.” Frankie chuckles, following the exaggerated step his mother takes over his scattered belongings.
“If you see something and you don’t want it now but you want me to keep it for later, you can put it over on the shelf by the stairs. If you think it’s basura (trash), leave it over here and let me look at it first before you throw it away.”
“Comprendido (got it).” Frankie nods, sizing up the stack his mom has set out for him, “Jesus ma, this is gonna take me all morning to go through.”
“If you were home more, there would be less things to go through now.”
“Yeah, well, you got me there.” Frankie grumbles under his breath, grimacing at the harsh reality of his mom’s words. He knows isn’t meant completely out of malice, but he can’t deny it’s certainly got some truth to it as well.
“Okay, well I need to go run some errands, and I want this pile sorted by the end of the day, so standing here and moping certainly isn’t going to help that. Get to work, mijo (son).”
His mom will never be one to throw a pity party for anyone, and most definitely won’t be throwing one for her son, based on his own, self-inflicted problem. Frankie helps her step over another makeshift pile scattered for sorting across the basement floor, giving him a quick pat on the back before disappearing upstairs, leaving him to quite literally unpack his past.
“Fuck. Okay.” He sighs to himself, gently kicking one of the edges of flimsy cardboard at the bottom of the tower, trying to formulate his best plan of attack to make his sorting as painless as possible.
He’s thankful that his brain has always worked in a way that allows him to analyze things so quickly, doing some quiet calculations in his head as to the most effective and efficient way to sort through god knows what may be hidden in the pile his mom has created for him.
He runs his hand through the still messy curls of his morning bed head before selecting what feels like the lightest boxes and moving them off to the side, opening up a cardboard container from the next layer.
Besides the trophies still in his room, every prize he’d ever won for every sport he’d ever played sits in the box below him. Frankie chuckles to himself, picking up some from the top to examine them, thumb gliding over the fake gold plating to read plaques like “Florida Junior Divisional Freestyle Swimming Finalist- 2005” or “Regional Championship Winners- Florida Firebirds 2007” glued to poorly sculpted plastic statues of swimmers. A few more medals and certificates had sunk to the bottom of the box, Frankie quickly grazing through its contents before rehoming it to the “trash” pile, unsure of when he would ever need proof he won several swimming competitions in high school.
The next few boxes were more of the same- His varsity jacket, old t-shirts he wouldn’t stand a chance fitting into, considering the gangly figure that stretched them more than a decade ago, some old books from high school he’d only kept because of how much you loved them and he promised you that one day, he’d read them, too.
It’s the shoe box that catches his eye next, sure that no matter how much his mom loved to hoard, whatever was in there most definitely was not a raggedy, holy pair of Converse from high school.
It’s not until he picks up the box that he knows exactly what’s inside. It’s one of the lightest things he’s picked up in the last hour, but when he knows the weight of its contents, his arms want to tremble.
It’s with a long deep breath that he brings the shoebox over to an open patch of floor, letting out a grunt and cursing his knees as he sits down cross legged with the box in front of him. He gently flips open the lid, hand running over his face and down the back of his neck when his suspicions are confirmed.
Open envelopes spill out over the edges of the worn cardboard, the box stuffed to the brim with every letter you’d ever written to him while he was away.
Even if he wanted to, he’s not sure he could ever physically bring himself to throw them out. Those letters have more miles on them than most people’s cars will ever reach in a lifetime, flimsy, stamped pieces of paper following him to every corner of the globe he’s traveled to.
Some letters he’s read so much, they’re worn on the edges where he’s held the paper, smudging the pen that’s reached the sides of the pages. Others, he’s only read once. He’s not sure he could ever bring himself to read them again. But regardless of their contents, he’d made a promise to you they’d stay with him.
“Better not get rid of those letters, Morales. Do you know how many hand cramps I’ve given myself trying to find the words to send halfway across the world to you? You better promise me you’ll keep ‘em.”
His commitment to the folded pieces of paper ring in his ears as his fingers drag across the tops of the open envelopes. He can’t help the way his index finger and thumb pinch the paper below his grasp, carefully tugging a random letter out of its shoebox storage.
It’s a gut wrenching gamble, the game he’s about to play, a roulette of making his heart ache from joy or pain depending on the one he chooses to pull. He’s already placed his bet as he pulls the lined piece of paper out of the envelope- He’s not getting the money he’s already placed on the table back, so he might as well pray he makes a return on his investment.
With one more deep breath, he unfolds the tri-fold creases, ready to watch his bet play out before him.
August 18th, 2006
Frankie,
I hope I sent this letter to the right place! I looked on the website and it said to send mail to new recruits (that’s you, Morales), to this address, so no one better be holding my letter to you hostage.
Anyways, how’s training so far? Did they make you shave your head yet? I hope not. I’m not sure why the Army insists on making you all look like Dr. Evil from Austin Powers. I’m sure you’ll still look cute even with short hair! I don’t think I can say the same for Santi, but you didn’t hear that from me… hehehe
I just moved into my dorm yesterday! My roommate seems pretty nice. Her name is Jessica and she’s from Georgia. She claims that she’s neat and she better be, or I may lose my mind. I’ll send you pictures of my dorm once it’s all set up! It’s kind of a mess right now, but I made sure to put the picture of us from prom up on my desk :)
I don’t start class until next Tuesday. Hopefully I’ll meet some new people in my dorm or on the soccer team so I’m not a total loser with no friends. LOL.
Have you met anyone new yet? I can’t wait to hear all about your new Army friends! I already started a countdown calendar until we can see each other again. Only 70 days until basic training is done and I can hear about everything in person!
I miss you a lot. I know that’s dumb to say because it’s only been a week, but still. I wish I would have kissed you again before you got on the plane to leave. I promise I will when I see you. Nothing says perfect place to kiss like South Missouri, romance capital of the USA (haha).
I know you’re gonna be busy, but write me back when you have time. The return address on the envelope is my dorm address, so use that, or risk Doug and Michelle reading your mail if you send it to my house!!! I can’t wait to hear from you. Miss you, weirdo.
From,
Kenz :) <3
His luck of the draw sends a wave of relief through him, smiling down at the curvy loops of your perfectly neat printing signed at the bottom of the page. It makes his heart skip a beat, the same kind of butterflies coming to life in his stomach as they did the first time he read it. He’s earned his money back and then some. He gets how casinos never go broke, because the high of good fortune is enough to have him reaching back into the box to put another gamble on the line.
October 13th, 2009
Frankie,
I always feel dumb sending multiple letters before I hear back from you, but you know me, I love to worry. I know you can’t tell me where you are right now (stupid military and their secrets for the safety of society lol) but I’ve been seeing stuff on the news and it makes me scared for you. I just hope wherever you are, you’re safe.
My dad’s cancer is back. He’s been in the hospital for almost two weeks now. They found a new mass on his liver, but they said hopefully they can target it with radiation before it starts to spread. Cassandra at the front desk asked how you were when I was at the hospital yesterday. I said that you were good. I think she’s only asking because if you’re not there, there’s no one to keep me from burning a hole in the waiting room carpet.
I wish you were here. I feel really lost right now. I just know if you were here, you’d find a way to make everything better. You always do.
Sorry this letter isn’t longer. I haven’t been sleeping that great and don’t have enough brainpower to write something decent. Just wanted to let you know what’s going on.
Counting down the days until you make good on your promise. I hope you come home soon, Frankie.
Kenzie
He curses himself for an unlucky draw, heart sinking at the tear stains smearing the blue ink of your trembling letters. An overwhelming wave of guilt washes over him, vivid memories of reading your notes in his bunk alone, wishing there was a way he could fly halfway around the world for a night just to hold you and tell you that everything was going to be okay.
It’s the addictive itch in the back of his brain that makes him decide to pull one more letter from the box, taking one last gamble to see if he can prove the nagging pit in his stomach to quit while he’s ahead, wrong.
February 4th, 2011
Hey,
If you don’t want to write anymore, that’s fine. I was trying to be friendly, but clearly you don’t really care. Just let me know and I’ll stop bombarding you with mail you obviously don’t want. Or I guess you not responding is letting me know. If you want to send anything back you can send it to my parents house. I’m moving into Liam’s house and it’s only 20 minutes away so I can just drive there and pick it up. No need to send you a new address you probably aren’t going to write to, anyways.
I guess I’ll see you when I see you.
MacKenzie
And that’s how Vegas will always stay in business.
Because now Frankie is forced to walk away, all his money stolen from him at the stupid risk he’s decided to take. The one letter he’d give anything not to read again is the one he had to pull.
Heat seethes in his chest- he can’t quite explain why. Because he lost at a rigged game he’d set up for himself? That he still hasn’t quite come to terms with the ugly truth of what he put the both of you through? That he wishes with everything in him, he could go back and change what he’s done?
Or maybe, it’s because now might be the last chance he has to fix what he’s broken, and he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to live with himself if he can’t.
He leaves the pile in the basement unfinished, shoes barely tied to his feet before he bursts out the door in a sprint.
He's not sure where he's going. He's not even sure how long he's run for. All he knows is the pounding of his feet against the pavement, trying to outrun the stupid decisions of his past.
He tells himself if he runs fast enough, he'll beat them.
If he goes far enough, they'll be forgotten.
If he outraces them, you'll be there waiting for him at the finish line.
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Buzzing Static Burns The Silence Between My Ears
So, @lexthegremlin1 requested that I do a story about cat hybrid! König and Horangi taking care of a reader when dealing with ADHD/ADD. Funnily enough, I struggle with ADHD and autism, so I might have written this with a bit of an autistic take, so please forgive me. I find the two tend to entwine themselves inside me so it's hard to see one from the other. However, I did my best and I really like this story.
I've struggled writing lately, so writing this story really helped me. I hope it helps you all when dealing with an ADHD/ADD episode yourselves.
TWs: Panic attacks, over stimulation, ableism, people not understanding ADHD
Wordcount: 1.4k
Art from This Post
Story Below the Cut
Buzzing Static Burns The Silence Between My Ears
Your fingers buzzed with static currents. Your skin crawled with an army of invisible ants marching up and down your body in an endless march. You could hear the buzzing in the air. It was loud, so loud. Why was it loud? It wasn’t this loud before. It’s not supposed to be loud. It’s maddening but you can’t so much as orient your head to look around you. You’re locked in place like a cadaver to an examining table. You’re muscles ripple as currents flow from head to toe. You feel like you’re being born, you feel like you’re dying. It’s all throughout your body and you don’t know how to handle it.
You feel something under your touch. It’s a new feeling. This isn’t the metal of your pen. It’s not the plastic of your keyboard. It’s something… Soft. Soft? What’s soft in your apartment? You have your stuffed animals, but those are in your room. You’re in the living room now, right by your laptop. You can see in the far distance that you’re looking at the screen, but nothing is making sense. All the letters loop together and tangle into a sea of nettles. It’s not your stuffed animal, what’s soft in this room?
There’s throw pillows, but those are on the sofa. You’re sitting by your small table, the one you made into your desk. You have some stickers on the organizer trays, but they’re too bright to look at, too overwhelming. All those fun and familiar characters are too overwhelming now.
Soft… Soft… Soft… What’s soft?
You take a deep breath. You feel like your head is breaching above water for a moment. In the middle of the storm, your eyes flash with lightening clarity. You can see the sky bend and crack above you, can feel the currents of the sea desperately try to suck you back into the inky depths. You can feel it all as it whirls around you. You take another breath, and again the waves recede briefly to give you some semblance of relief. It’s brief, but it’s what you need. Another breath, the sea falls away, you feel yourself coming to solid ground.
The chair is solid beneath you. It’s a nice comfy chair that your friend found for you at a thrift store. It fits your room, it makes it look more organized.
Organized.
The sea wells up again, this time rising all the way back up to you neck and threatening to take you under.
Right, that’s why you’re like this. You’re unorganized.
Teachers always told you to be more careful with your school work. You keep losing your papers. I don’t have an endless supply here; you need to learn to take care of your things. Your parents got so mad at you. How do you not know where it is? I gave it to you five minutes ago! Your partners never understood. What do you mean you don’t remember? Over and over and over again, and now you’re hearing it from your boss. You lost the paper you needed. You lost it right before the deadline. You can’t meet the deadline without that report. How did you lose it? You thought you were better, you thought therapy and medications were working. Everyone told you that you were getting better, but now you’re stuck back at square one, staring down at your shoes as your teacher sighs and tells you to be more careful again.
You feel like you’re breaking down. It’s too much. Your chest heaves up and down, but you don’t know why. You try to breathe but the air catches in a ball in the back of your throat, thick and coagulated like old blood. It feels like fleshy masses are consuming your body, draining your life out of your sorry shell.
The softness pushes back into your hand again. Soft… Soft… Soft… What in your apartment is soft?
You feel something tugging at the front of your shirt. It’s familiar, but you can’t remember what’s meant to do that. It does that for a reason. It wants your attention.
You feel like you’re cracking apart chunks of granite when you move your neck, messily putting them back together when you finally look down at your lap.
What’s this meant to be? This isn’t a stuffed animal. It’s big and black, and it has such big wide eyes. Big big yellow eyes like twin harvest moons hanging in the night sky. Such big and beautiful eyes. Why do they look so sad?
They’re looking at you.
You know these eyes. These eyes are familiar. They look friendly, but so sad. You can’t bear them looking so sad. You need to make them happy. What makes them happy?
You move an arm made of lead to fall upon this black spot’s back. You slowly push your hand through the softness, then move back up to pet it again. The petting helps. It’s a simple, easy actions. Repetitive. It’s comforting. You can feel the warmth soaking into your lap. The eyes blink slowly. These are happy eyes, you think to yourself.
You can feel the waves receding. The water flushes away to leave you bare to the world. You can see the sky again, can see the clouds slowly whispering away into nothingness. They’re soft, much like the little storm cloud in your lap. But this isn’t a cloud you want to let go of, it’s a good cloud. This storm is a good storm. It’s a summer rain against the windowpanes at night. It’s a familiar pitter-patter on the rooftops. It’s a good storm, a happy storm.
It rolls with thunder, and it takes you a minute to find the name for this rumble. It’s called purring. Purring is a good thing. That’s something you know. You know purring is good. Purring is a very good thing. Hearing purring makes you feel a bit calmer. It’s easier to think now. The buzzing on your skin fades slightly. Your thoughts aren’t murky clouds, they’re starting to come into focus. The chatter is slowly dimming. It’s not so loud. It’s something you can tolerate. It’s not great, it’s still loud, but you can hear the chatter clearly now. It’s not talking about failure or loss or inevitable tragedies, it’s talking about this thing called ‘cats’.
Cats are good and wonderful things. Cats are innocent, good, pure. Cats don’t want to hurt you. Cats don’t get scared of you. Cats don’t think you’re a disappointment. Cats are good things that love and care for you, regardless of who you are. If you love them, they’ll love you back. They won’t hold your flaws above your heads. Cats take you as you are.
This little storm cloud, this cat, he is a nice and sweet animal. He’s waiting for you. Waiting for what? He’s waiting for you to calm down, one of the voices in the chatter says, louder than the rest. Normally, the voices in the chatter stress you out, but this one is a good voice. You like this voice. You want to listen to it more.
His name is König, it says, he loves you.
Does he love you?
He loves you very much.
Well that’s a wonderful thing, now isn’t it?
You smile and pet the cat more, this time scratching at his ears and his ruff. He rolls his head into the palm of your hand, eagerly lapping up all of your affections. This cat wants you, it needs you. This cat cares for you.
You feel another tug on your sleeve. You look down at your side and, would you know it, there’s another cat! You’re so surprised that you make a little squeak that has both the cats on edge. You relax, and they both calm down beside you.
Unfortunately for you, this striped cat is sitting on some of your papers.
Right, papers. You were doing some work. You needed those papers.
You scoot the cat away and take a look at the papers.
Your eyes widen as you realize what you’re holding.
The missing report, the voices clamber over each other, the missing report!
All the anxiety that had been lingering wafts away in a long sigh.
You have the report. You’re okay. You’re not going to be fired. Everything will be okay.
You take a final breath.
You’re going to be okay.
Konig Dump
Alternate Universes
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Ellis Twilight~ Chapter 13 - His Side Story
"Loosen up and go crazy.”
Disclaimer for route warnings | Masterlist
Additional Content Warnings: None
This a fan translation so it is definitely not 100% accurate. I do not own anything related to Ikemen Villains. Support Cybird by buying their amazing stories!
Kate is a hard worker.
She laughed and said that she was now able to operate the wheelchair I had made herself.
That smile looked so happy and cute, but,
Looking at it… something dark and hidden deep within my chest began to stir.
--Like trying to pry open a lid.
My room faces the forest that surrounds Crown Castle.
When we moved into Crown Castle, Jude said “Ya like it here, don’t ya?” so I decided to live there.
(Any room would have been fine for me though.)
Kate squints happily as the sunlight filters through the trees.
(I’m glad Kate likes it.)
I couldn’t help but smile as I remembered the picnic we had some time ago.
Kate: “Ellis, your room is so relaxing.”
Ellis: “I guess so. Jude clicked his tongue at me and said, ‘Ya haven’t got a single book?’”
I picked up Kate from her wheelchair and gently placed her on the sofa.
The tray I placed on her lap had fried eggs and bacon on it,
Salad, white beans stewed in tomato sauce, and buttered toast are all neatly arranged beside them.
Kate: “Wow… This looks delicious.”
Ellis: “You always eat the food served at breakfast with gusto.”
Ellis: “I put a little bit of everything on the plate.”
Kate: “Thank you… I’m going to enjoy this.”
When she’s eating, Kate smiles more than usual and looks cuter.
(You’re defenseless, Kate.)
(I’m a guy, after all.)
When she suggested “A place I could relax”, I reflexively said “My room”, though it’s not something I should’ve said.
(Seeing Kate go out on her own…)
(I thought it would be better to stay in the room rather than take her out somewhere.)
(Kate was so cute when she blushed in confusion.)
As Kate savored her breakfast, her eyes occasionally wandered around my room.
I was staring intently at Kate’s figure.
(…I’m glad your injury is healing.)
(I’m glad that you can now operate the wheelchair.)
(I should’ve said that earlier.)
That her injuries are healing, that she can go places she wants to go by herself,
Because it would make Kate happy.
(Why couldn’t I say it?)
At that moment, I felt something crawling up from deep within my chest—
Kate: “Today, I think I’ll walk around the castle for rehabilitation.”
My heart skipped a beat when I heard Kate’s cheerful voice.
(…Ah.)
I feel as if the things I need to kill are overflowing, and I hold my breath.
--I wish we could stay like this forever.
Then I’ll be the only one who can make Kate happy.
I won’t just bring you breakfast, I’d do everything.
I wish Kate would wish that too—
Kate: “Ellis?”
Ellis: “…Ah, yeah. That’s good.”
Suddenly coming to my senses, I picked up the empty tray from Kate’s lap.
I took a deep breath as I loaded it onto the tea trolley.
(What am I thinking?)
That was definitely not a wish for Kate.
It’s selfish of me.
(I hid it away properly, so why does it keep coming out?)
To avoid being swallowed up, I push it tightly back into my chest.
(Don’t make Kate unhappy.)
I changed my mindset, and reached out to Kate.
Ellis: “Hold my hand when you walk. I think you’ll still be unsteady.”
Kate: “…Um, thank you.”
We clasped hands and left the room.
Ellis: “…Does it hurt?”
Kate: “Y-yeah… but it’s okay.”
One, two, one, two, Kate takes steps forward little by little.
Her injured leg was stiff from not moving it for a while.
Kate: “I didn’t realize that just a few days of bed rest could make it so hard to walk.”
Kate: “…Whoa.”
Ellis: “Oops… Are you okay?”
With a click, Kate’s legs lost strength and she nearly fell, but I managed to stop her.
Kate: “Th-Thank you…”
Ellis: “……Of course.”
Kate is kind of cute when she clings tightly to my hand, like a fawn that has just stood up.
Kate: “My muscle strength has really decreased… I need to train…”
Ellis: “Fufu… I’ll be with you every day, so don’t worry.”
Kate muttered in a serious tone, so I replied in a light-hearted tone.
Kate: “…”
Kate looked up at me and then blushed again, as if troubled.
(…?)
Ellis: “…Is something wrong?”
Kate: “Uh, nope…”
Kate: “I kept saying that I had to become independent… but when I’m with you, Ellis, I end up becoming spoiled.”
Kate: “I was just thinking, I have to be careful…”
(…)
Kate’s words pierce my heart.
It pierces the lid of the tightly closed box from above, nearly prying it open.
(Huh…?)
(Would it be beneficial for Kate if I told her “You can be more dependent on me”?)
(Or maybe that’s just what I want.)
I was so confused that I almost pulled my hand away, but then…
Kate: “Ah, wait, wait…!”
Ellis: “Ngh…!”
Kate squeezed my hand as she spoke,
All my confusion was blown away by that sensation.
Kate: “I guess that means, I should wait until I can walk a bit more before trying to avoid becoming too dependent on you, huh…?”
Kate: “If you let go of my hand now, I’ll fall…”
Kate’s eyes look up at me with anxiousness.
(…Wow)
(I shouldn’t be happy about this.)
If I feel happy, I’ll just end up ‘repeating’ the same thing again—
I no longer knew how to contain the excitement that was building deep inside my heart.
Ellis: “…Yep, I’m holding it properly.”
Ellis: “Even when you can walk, you don’t have to let go.”
Kate: “Huh…!?”
Kate: “…Stop teasing me like that…”
Kate’s face took on a slightly troubled look and then,
She looked happy and relaxed.
(When was Kate’s happiest moment?)
(At that time, I was just being pure and honest with her.)
(I wonder if I can make Kate’s happiness last forever.)
As I spend time with Kate, I gradually lose confidence.
(I hope you find happiness soon.)
(It was a bad idea for me to wish for it to stay like this forever.)
(Before it gets any stronger--)
Next Chapter
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"The truth - Part 1." Daryl Dixon imagine.
(Not my gif! But thanks to the amazing people who make them)
For the first time in his life, Daryl tells Carol the story of how you two met.
A/N: This got longer than I thought hehehe that’s why I’m dividing it in two parts. Thank you so much for all the love my last imagine received! I still can’t believe it. That’s why I thought of combining the stories a bit, and showing you how I imagine Daryl and (Y/N) met, just because I’m crazy and I even thought about making it a serie hahahaha but here you’ll see a bit of how they broke up and in the second part, how they got back together and then later had Marley. Only on this occasion (I’ll try not to do it often) I used the pronoun she and her, but you can read it however you like. Thanks in advance!
“Rick told me that Spencer invited (Y/N) to his house for dinner. He’s been really insistent on them getting to know each other more since we got here.”
For him, it is as if Carol’s words are a sharp razor that cuts his breath away, that makes the world, his world to stop completely, leaving a great void where silence lies and reigns, without the constant grunts of the walkers on the other side of Alexandria's gates, without the singing of the birds that nest in the tree just outside the window of the home they share, without being able to hear the sound of his own breathing that seems to stop too just like the beating of his weak heart.
Because it was Daryl who told (Y/N) he couldn’t be with her, so he wanted to believe that after that, she managed to extinguish every feeling she once had for him, as well as the light of their love that once shone and the one that was turn off when he left her, which trapped them in the shadows of a cold hurricane and an endless night, always so close but never together, running in circles far from each other without knowing where they were going, drifting like a lost ship in the ocean and in a complete darkness.
But that’s bullshit, Daryl knows it, because she had been the only woman Daryl Dixon was capable of loving, and she is the only woman he would love for the rest of his life.
“Um…” He swings the knife against his finger, sinking it in a little harder than necessary, but not able to ask more.
The night melts into his deathly silence, but, sitting beside him on the wooden step outside their house, Carol lets out a long sigh.
“What do you want, Daryl? Do you really want to see her with someone else?”
Daryl’s chest feels hot, boiling, like the result of a high fever, like he’s been running for hours without stopping to catch a breath.
“I jus' want 'er to be happy.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it.” Carol shakes her head, incredulous, but she has a magical way of telling the truth and still sounding sweet. “She loves you, you, and I know she’ll only be happy with you, even if you’re the surliest man I’ve ever met.”
Daryl doesn’t say anything, unable to look her in the eyes as he continues to stare at the grass, hiding behind his hair the eyes of a man who would give his life for the person he loves, but who is too cowardly to stop listening to the voices in his head that tormented him every night, that kept telling him that he would never be worthy of her love, that he would never be the man capable of being loved.
But Carol knows him, and she knows that he is beginning to drown, so, with a warm smile, she speaks again.
“How did you meet her by the way? I don’t think you ever told me that story.”
Softly, because he wasn’t used to doing it often, Daryl smiles at the memory, and his ocean-blue eyes light up and fill with life, and for a moment, he is able to lift his head and look at the moon shining above them.
“We were still pretty young. One night, Merle kicked me out of the ugly apartment we shared during one of his meatings with some drug dealers, so with nothin' to do, I went to a bar to kill some time. It was a shitty place, so I was surprised when she sat at the bar, just a few feet away from me.”
“What was she like?”
“As beautiful as she is now.”
Carol can hear the smile in his deep voice, as warm as the thought of (Y/N).
“And what were you like?”
“A motherfucker with nothin' to offer 'er.” There’s no emotion in his voice, but before Carol can give him a telling off, Daryl speaks again. “But she looked at me like she could see somethin' in me, somethin' I didn’t even know existed. She spoke to me first, and asked if the bike outside was mine. I told her that it was, and she, with 'er eyes full of life, told me that 'er older brother used to have one just like that. I laughed a little because she shouldn't be there, she didn't belong in a place like that, and when I asked her, she chuckled, a warm sound, like she was full of colors in that shitty world…”
Daryl chuckles, and for the first time in the long night, he is able to look at Carol, only to confirm with his gaze everything he still could sense about (Y/N) at that moment. Carol can see his smile this time, slight but unmistakable.
“And what happened next?”
“She told me she was runnin' away, that her father was goin' to marry her off to some dude of a wealthy family that would get 'em out of the debt that bastard got himself into in the first place. She was goin' to be sold, like a thing, by 'er own fuckin' father.” Carol can hear the venom in his voice, the hatred, the spite in the memory of his own father before he abandoned them. “I asked 'er if she had a place to go, and she said no. I don’t know what went through my mind when I told 'er my couch was available, I don’t know what went through 'er mind when she said yes n' thank you. That night when we got back to my place, Merle told 'er she didn’t look like some hooker he used to bring home. And (Y/N), without any fear, walked up to him and pulled out the gun she had stolen from 'er father, then pressed it against ma brother’s chin, askin' him to repeat what he had just said. Merle loved 'er after that, and I didn’t even know that asshole was capable of lovin' someone.”
Carol laughs.
“I didn’t think I could love (Y/N) more, but now I kinda do.”
Daryl chuckles too.
“Yeah, I kind of did too. I even thought, I have to marry this woman.”
“And you wanted to? Marry her, I mean.”
For a few seconds, Daryl thinks deeply about whether sharing one of his many secrets is the right thing to do, whether saying those words out loud would change the course of things, but at that moment, he considers that saying them is appropriate.
“I bought a ring a year after we got together. It took me a while to get the money, but I finally did it.” Daryl is relieved that she can’t feel the heat on his cheeks, the blush of a boy who fell in love long before he knew what the hell love was.
“And how did you two get together in the first place?”
Daryl shrugs, smiling slightly at her like a little boy: and thankfully, he’d stopped pressing the knife against his finger.
“I don’t even know myself. I guess it started with the dinner she made us the next day. I told 'er she could stay as long as she needed to get 'er life together, and Merle asked her to stay if she made him dinner. She was about to shoot him when he told 'er that our mom had never made us such a delicious dinner…” Daryl chuckles, just a little humorous, because the funny memory is mixed with the sad one. “We just… at first it was purely carnal, we would have sex to release stress, we would do it and then I would leave my room that was hers at the time, but there was always something sweet about 'er, I could feel it in the way we kissed, in the way 'er body shuddered as I touched 'er soft skin, in the way she pulled me against 'er body during…” Daryl looks back into Carol’s eyes after realizing that he was dreaming out loud, but Carol is there, smiling at him. “There was one night, where I jokingly told 'er that I was enjoyin' this thing of makin' love every night so much that we should consider doin' it durin' the day too, and she just looked at me with a confused expression, but with a slight smile on those lips that I was dyin' to kiss in the mornings and at all hours, and she told me that that was the first time that I didn't tell we had sex.”
Carol smiles, quickly understanding what came next.
“You were falling in love with her.”
Daryl nods softly.
“I was completely devoted to that woman from the moment I met 'er.”
“And you told her?”
Daryl shakes his head.
“Not with words, I ain't good with words, never was. But she knew, I think that’s why she stayed with me all that time.”
“She stayed with you because you’re a good man, Daryl, you always were and you always will be.”
Daryl shrugs, this time in a gesture that dismissed such an affirmation.
“I never told 'er I loved 'er, and she never asked me to tell 'er, but I could feel that she loved me in every kiss, in every hug, in every blessed smile of hers.”
“And how did you two split up when the end of the world began?”
“She got a job shortly after I invited 'er to ma house. She was a vet, and even though she had little experience, 'er boss trusted 'er and gave 'er a job. That night when people started runnin' and shootin', I went to look for 'er but she wasn’t there. Her boss had been bitten n' even thought she had been too, but somethin' in me told me that she was stronger, smarter and that she had managed to escape. When Merle and I left town, I never stopped lookin' for 'er: I knew she was alive, and I jus' had to find my way back to 'er.”
“And you found her after all.”
“Yes, I did, but when we got to the prison, somethin' in me kept tellin' me that I wasn’t enough for 'er, that even if I took care of 'er, she deserved better. That night I told 'er that I couldn’t be with 'er, not in the way she would have wanted. The way she looked at me, as calm as she had always been… I’ll never forget the way she nodded and walked away…”
Unconsciously, Daryl presses the tip of the knife against his hand again, so imperceptibly that neither he nor Carol notice.
“But you couldn’t stay away from her.”
Daryl chuckles again, embarrassed with himself at the memory of Carol almost catching them in the act.
“Hell no, I had missed 'er body so much. But it was like goin' back to the beginnin’. We had sex when everyone else went to sleep, but I knew it was jus' that: sex. I knew it the moment she wouldn’t let me kiss 'er, the way she hid 'er face in my neck, holding onto my shoulders. So I jus' held 'er against me, huggin' her for as long as she let me until we were done and she asked me to leave. It was like that all this time. I always have 'er close, but never close enough.”
Carol nods.
“That’s why you stayed here, even though you never really adjusted to this life.”
Daryl frowns, going deeper into his own thoughts.
“I always spent most of ma life in the woods, runnin' away from ma father n' mother, and when they left, I did it to escape from myself. But when she came into ma life, Merle used to tease me and tell me that I had been tamed, that after every job I had, I always came home jus' because she was there. When we came to this place, I considered livin' on the outskirts like I always liked, but I… I can’t be away from 'er.”
Carol’s expression turns into pure sadness, because she knows that Daryl is a good man, strong, loyal to his family, willing to die for one of them without a second’s hesitation, so the insecurities he kept secret were like a knife in his heart and hers. But when she sees (Y/N) from afar coming home after her job at the infirmary, Carol knows that everything comes down to that moment, as if there was no way to escape that decision that Daryl must make, which is now or never.
(Y/N) is still a little far away, so she takes advantage of the moment.
“You are the best man I have ever known, Daryl Dixon, and you deserve all the love you can ever get: from me, from our family, and from her.” Carol steps closer to him, hoping her words are as honest as she intends them to sound, and for a moment, they manage to draw Daryl’s gaze into hers. “I’ll ask you one question only. Do you love her? Do you really, truly love her?”
Daryl holds her gaze, but despite his terror, he manages to find the words he’s been dying to say to her. And when he speaks, his voice is low, husky, but self-assured.
“I do. I love 'er.”
“So tell her, Pookie.” Carol kisses his temple, smiling at him with all the love she has for him. “I guess you still have the ring. So take her to someplace she likes, tell her the things you always wanted to tell her but were always afraid to say, and ask her to marry you.”
Daryl looks at her silently, with the expression of a scared child.
“What if she says no?”
“She will say yes. I promise. But you have to do it now, Daryl, before she loses hope with you.”
Without saying another word, Carol gets up and goes into the house, leaving him alone, so Daryl can silently contemplate his life, the choices he made, and the love for her that he kept deep in his wounded, frightened heart. But there's something about Daryl that drives him to stop always keeping to himself like he always did, to stop staying on the sidelines, to stop being that man tortured by his own thoughts, to stop loving her silently from the shadows, always behind her to protect her from everything, just so that, in that moment, he would be the brave man she always saw in him.
When (Y/N) arrives at their house, she smiles at him slightly before walking past him, but stopping, just like her heart, when she hears him call her by that funny and almost ridiculous nickname, but with his voice full of love.
“Peach?”
Her hand stops on the doorknob.
“Yes?”
For a small, fleeting moment, Daryl forgets how to speak, as if she were able to snatch all the words from him.
“Are ya doin' somethin' tonight?”
She frowns slightly, and although he hasn’t turned to look at her, she looks at him strangely.
“I don’t think so… going to sleep I guess, why?”
Daryl swallows the lump that forms in his throat.
“I thought that… maybe I could take ya somewhere, but we would have to leave before the sun comes up.”
Her heart is beating fast, an involuntary movement, because it’s been a while since they’ve been truly alone.
“Okay.”
There’s a certain playfulness in her voice, masked behind her confusion, but Daryl can sense it.
“I’ll knock on yer door when it’s time to go.”
She nods.
“I’ll see you in a couple of hours then.”
“G'night, peach.”
She laughs softly, but it’s the same lively sound he heard when they first met, and that, somehow, is like a good omen for him.
“You too.” But she pauses, thinking deeply if her next words will make any change in him. She is afraid, she is so afraid of feeling close to him again, but the fear of losing him at some point is bigger than anything. “Daryl?”
“Yes?”
Her heart beats differently, but she can’t hold her words prisoner anymore.
“You promised me you wouldn’t do it anymore.”
He knows it without her saying it, and Daryl can feel his own shame blossoming inside him.
“M' sorry.”
There’s a deep emptiness in his words, and she can’t help but feel that weight on her shoulders too. So, silently, she sits beside him for a moment, admiring the beauty of the moon that, despite this new world, hadn’t changed thankfully.
(Y/N) reaches out her hand to him, the hand he hurt, and Daryl, unable to look her in the eyes, holds her hand as he feels the warmth of her body close to him, for the first time in weeks. Maybe she was never good with words either, but right now, all he needs from her is to have her close, as close as he would be to her if she said yes.
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small hc that mu qing is the best cook out of the xianle group and he still occasionally cooks. he doesn't need to. he usually doesn't eat the food himself, instead leaving it to his poorest devotees. those meals are a secret even from other people in his camp. he doesn't plan for anyone to find out but people never plan for their secrets to be revealed.
xie lian, after the honeymoon period calms a bit, loves to drop by on short notice. he only does it to fengxin and mu qing. after mu qing's friendship confession the air, while occasionally a bit awkward, was much lighter. xie lian wanted to catch up and also be mire straight forward with the fact that they are friends. when he asked hua cheng how to do that, his husband told him to just be himself.
so xie lian sent a letter stating, he'd be at mu qing's palace that afternoon. when he appeared, the palace seemed to be mostly empty, no mu qing in sight. xie lian was ready to hop back down when a scent caught his attention. xie lian had come right after fulfilling a prayer and was a but hungry.bhe let his nose lead the way.
he found mu qing, relaxed, hair in a low braid, plating what he'd just finished cooking. he was so focused he didn't notice xie lian until he called out.
"ah mu qing," xie lian didn't bat an eye when a serving spoon was sent his way. he dodged it easily and stepped closer "what are you doing?"
"your highness, shouldn't that be my question? why are you in my palace?"
xie lian tilted his head in question "i sent notice didn't i?"
mu qing shook his head in disbelief but he had shown up at puqi shrine unnanounced more than one. "its nothing."
"i didn't know you ate?" xie lian pressed.
"I don't," mu qing got his serving spoon and cleaned it.
"but you cook?"
mu qing sighed and handed xie lian the plate. xie lian shook his head to deny but mu qing put the plate in his hand. "you're practically drooling over this. if i let you leave in this state who knows what that thing you call a spouse will pull."
xie lian saw through the lie. he's not so weak as to faint and if xie lian returned early due to hunger hua cheng would be happy to spend time eating together. still, he sat and happily took a bite. then his tears began to flow.
mu qing, who had been leaning with his arms crossed across from him, was startled. he walked closer with his arms outstretched unsure what to do. "your highness? what's wrong?"
it was like xie lian was in a trance, he took another bite and more tears fell.
"your highness if my food displeases you spit it out!" mu qing raised his voice in panic.
"no no," xie lian finally said. "it's good. i just haven't eaten this in so long."
mu qing relaxed. what he'd cooked was the staple dish of the kingdom of xianle. the recipe had long since been lost and its no wonder that xie lian hadn't had it forever.
"please wipe your tears," mu qing handed gim a napkin. "it's nothing to cry about."
xie lian took it graciously. "my apologies."
"now you make me look like the bad guy," mu qing said. "just finish your food, your highness."
after a few more bites, xie lian offhandedly mentions how he'd like to hua cheng to try the meal. as soon as the words left his mouth, his husband appeared by his side. seeing xie lian's red and puffy eyes, he wanted to make someone suffer but xie lian gives him a bite of the food. hua cheng pauses and chews.
"good right?" xie lian said. "mu qing made it."
"not as good as what gege makes but its passable."
xie lian laughed.
"you two know I'm still here," mu qing said. "you can take it home and please do not come and go to my palace as you please."
"ah, sorry mu qing."
the three bid their goodbyes.
that night, when they were laying in bed together. hua cheng brushed a stray hair from xie lian's face and asked "do you miss the kingdom? it was your home after all."
xie lian leans in to the touch and smiles. "my home is with you. the meal was just a nice memory."
#mu qing#xie lian#mxtx tgcf#tgcf#hualian in the background#it becomes a regular thing#hualian start eating at mu qing's palace regularly#hualian#xie lian asks mu qing to teach him to cook#it goes as well as you think#heaven official's blessing
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Ok I'm making a change to Veronica's backstory
You know her teacher Miss Averesch? The human teacher who taught her how to control her temper better (at least with her friends) and was the closest thing she ever had to a mother(that she can remember)?
I've decided that instead of just leaving, Miss Averesch was killed by someone. Specifically in a hate-crime against humans in Briar Valley.
And some other students (whom she'd been friends with and was on good terms with) ended up also being killed, for being witnesses.
Veronica wasn't there because she was away running an errand for Miss Averesch.
Here's the new version:
Miss Averesch actually taught a class for students where no magic teaching was involved. It was meant for magicless students like Veronica (of which there were very few) or other students who had good enough grades to get into the school, but not the magical aptitude recquired. A 'general studies' class, basically.
Though one day at the age of 13 in the middle of a lesson, a man living nearby who was very against a human teaching at one of the best school's in Briar Valley, holding a great grudge due to having lost people dear to him at the hands of humans, snuck into the school to kill Averesch. And as the rest of her class was there...well, he wanted no witnesses.
At the time, Veronica was in the city, getting a few materials Miss Averesch had asked someone to buy. And being her little helper, Veronica volunteered.
When she came back to the school, the building her class was supposed to be in was dead quiet. No one answered when she called out that she was back and apologized for taking so long— she got a little distracted looking at some pretty fabric. Then when she went towards the classroom, the door was open, which was unusual, since Miss Averesch liked to always keep it closed during lessons.
When she went closer and saw a drop of dark red on the floor, the panic set in.
She was afraid to go into the classroom.
But she did anyway.
The scream she let out alerted nearby authorities.
She developed a lot of survivor's guilt after this incident, since she was the only one who survived. She also feels guilty about not being able to do anything, and feels like it's her fault for not being there, that she might have been able to prevent their deaths. She was the only one among them who had any experience with a weapon, and she'd even said that she'd try to protect the others if it was ever necessary, but she couldn't do anything.
She often asks herself what would have happened if she hadn't volunteered to go purchase those supplies, or if she'd gotten back just a little bit earlier.
And all other teachers at the school, including the new teacher of her class, looking down at her for being a magicless half-fae, Veronica knowing they thought she would never be anywhere near as good as the other students at said school, meant that now more than ever, she had something to prove.
This was actually the original version of her backstory— I just changed it because I thought it might be too edgy. But I've realized that, her once again failing to protect people she cared about and had even promised she'd protect, and how it impacted her ability to trust people, how it added to her protective side, and gave her survivor's guilt, is a vital part of her backstory.
She's just not the same without it.
So uh yeah!
I'm changing her backstory! And I'm gonna update Veronica's Showcase post to include that
Tag list: @another-random-paradise @thehollowwriter @faefum @cactus13-rolloflammesimp @beneathsakurashade
@nyx-of-night @theolivetree123 @babyghoul138 @skibidibabygirl @screamintoad
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veilguard thoughts!
rook + solas parallels edition
spoilery ofc because my head's not full of cotton balls today and i haven't stopped chewing on it all since i finished the game! so! this is a little endgame heavy; you've been warned for what's below the cut <3
the final first playthrough counter has come in just over 67 hours and i am all but physically holding myself back from launching right into another one with another rook because i had a blast. i'll concede it was a bit heavy on the exposition in the first several hours, but what followed has certainly won my heart, and i think the game is visually beautiful.
but i'm not even looking to do a full review here, but i think one of the most fascinating things this game did was set up rook and solas. so, two parts of preface then: one, i was a little determined to love this game and hoped it would at least perform decent. that's my spite about it, lol, but that's not the point, so we're not here about that. two, one of my admitted concerns when they had first announced this game having its own protagonist was... that i wasn't sure there was another person to finish solas's story other than the inquisitor, and this isn't a solavellan thing for me, though my beloved canon inquisitor is a lavellan. solas's friendship wasn't the biggest hitch in inquisition for me, but it was important to my inquisitor. he wanted to prove his friend wrong.
i don't believe hallaren had a plan at the time for how to achieve that. he wasn't sure it was actually possible to convince solas the dalish were not as lost a cause as he seemed to believe, but he had to try.
and when i started veilguard, i wouldn't say i'd have anticipated the parallels of solas and rook, nor how well they ended up working for me. i admit: they got me. i didn't see that twist coming. and the hindsight of losing varric from the beginning makes a lot hurt (i say that as a compliment). i think it's easy enough to explain why i didn't see it, why (my, at least) rook didn't puzzle it out, but i also readily admit i'm historically bad at seeing these kinds of things, so you're free to be amused on your own time, lol.
anyway. regret. not becoming what you hate, what you claim to fight against. not being beholden to what you were or what you've lost. the game hits these beats several times, and i think its a real beautiful repeating thing they've done if you hammer all the companion's stories with the main deal, and i did the memories of the dread wolf as well. rook and the inquisitor have a conversation about it that about touches on all of it way more eloquently than i could summarize.
and, of course, part of the reveal is solas did dabble with blood magic on the matter of varric's death, did set rook up for the level of regret and grief they must settle with to trap them in the fade - a prison fit for gods, a prison fit for a god's regrets.
and this is where i transition into blorbo-specific thoughts. because i think part of what fascinates and delights me so much about the rook and solas, potentially two sides of the same coin deal is how tyr's relationship with solas starts and then develops.
tyr does not trust solas from the outset. which i think is where a very interesting presentation of similar (at their roots) choices begins, as varric says: in a bar, as all good stories. one of the first story notifications we get is how rook chooses to handle the bar owner: charm your way out, or a more direct approach, and we're told varric takes note of this.
varric's own plan is an appeal to solas's nature. to talk his way out. as is varric's way.
normally, i'd call tyr the kind of character (having played with him as an oc in various medias for oh... going on 2 years, is it? maybe 3? time's fake, different post) to also prefer talking his way out. but he doesn't believe solas will listen. so he rebukes varric's plan of just waltzing up and charming him with his babygirl eyes.
then at d'meta's crossing, he spares the mayor. not because he doesn't hear the concern that the greedy bastard will fall to said greed again, and not out of an entirely conscious mandate for live with the consequences of your actions, but... in hindsight with other choices, i'd argue it's... from at least a little of that kind of place.
he tries and fails to reason with the first warden. several times. in the heat of weisshaupt, and with the recent conversation with solas about whatever it takes on his mind, he ends up decking the man. the stakes are too high for risking the first warden staying on his high horse again if another attempt at reason fails, is the driver of the decision.
i'd chewed for a while on how that would seem to make tyr's commitment to "talking things through" indicated by that first choice in the bar inconsistent. it all seems justifiable at the time, and he didn't get to the place with the first warden he was out of intentional malice, but he still wound up there.
much of that is natural by the circumstances he was presented. by making calls with the information and under the conditions that were present at the time, as anyone, not just rook, would have to do under such circumstances, if they traded places. sure, some of it is also by solas's engineering of his conversations with rook. by setting them up to be a leader asked to make those hard calls. maybe even for arguably goading them a bit into a situation where whatever it takes was their only feasible option. which neve has a great comment on:
this is, i think, most directly about varric's death, but also, personally, i have to say is applicable for solas's intervention during blood of arlathan.
so, back to blorbo for a moment. tyr begins from a place that mistrusts solas's motives. the I'm quoting you here, "lies, treachery, and rebellion" kind of mistrust. and then, as things progress, as the team unveils more about solas's past in the crossroads and through the murals, it circles back to what I think motivated much of his comment to varric that talking with solas wouldn't work: that even if solas has any regret for what's happened, he's too stubborn to concede, too trapped by the mistakes of that past to ever admit fault, to hear himself sound like the 'gods' he claims to despise. tyr continues to take solas's advice into consideration the whole time, true, because it's... hard to discount the only potentially close to the problem kind of advice and knowledge they don't... exactly otherwise have themselves. he's not sure what the other shoe dropping in that equation is going to look like, but he's more convinced it'll happen than he is entirely happy with the situation.
the murals create... a hunch. or develop it. that rather than just being too prideful about the harm he'll cause by tearing down the veil, that solas is trapped in this plan by his regrets and guilt for actions of the past. at that point, tyr... has a better understanding about how they got to this point, but it kind of only solidifies his reservations that solas might actually be reasoned with.
the one moment this is changed, then, is during blood of arlathan. because frankly i think that was one of the worst experiences tyr has in the entire game. elgar'nan's influence in their minds, and an incident where they're trapped with no conceivable way out and potentially facing down an archdemon again, not so long after weisshaupt that the losses have stopped aching.
whatever his reasons or motivations and whatever else happens, solas saves their lives. tyr can't find a way around that one, and he's not even certain he wants to. because it's one of the definitive moments where he didn't have a plan, and he was terrified the tables had finally turned against them, and they'd fail.
it's not... trust. but tyr's also spent all this time working with his team on this concept that change shouldn't exactly be beyond anyone if there's a little effort put in. and whatever his own feelings are, varric wanted to believe in his old friend, and so does the inquisitor - both people he respects greatly, and he's constantly calculating their desire for a better outcome into the rubix cube that is trying to figure out how to stop the gods.
the problem then, is that solas all but instantly takes advantage of this... lapse. this faint relaxation of tyr's guard against his manipulations. that whole little incident with the fade after ghilan'nain's fall is all but immediately after, and its a betrayal nearly thrice or so over in rapid succession: that varric's been dead this whole time, that solas has manipulated him and how he feels responsibility for the team and the regrets that arise out of having to make hard choices, especially in times like these, and then on the other side of the fade, that solas has gone to minrathous, solas is playing "hero" about it all in tyr's and the shadow dragons' backyard. and to add salt to the wound, in minrathous, it's been blood magic all along.
and, y'know. solas says sorry, says he won't tear down the veil by his own hand, but hands rook the weapon to do it for him. sets them up again. so maybe that's more like... four or five times, depending on your count and categorization of it all.
and rook has a choice about all of this to make, a certain level of peace they have to make with it all to even get out of the fade. and how much to follow varric's advice about don't become what you hate - what you were fighting all along, or trapped by what you lost.
here's tyr's opinion that solas has more than likely been beyond reason because he's too far gone on his own path to even see that he's done exactly that: that he talks like elgar'nan's control, he's just dressing it up in a different way. that he's trapped by what he's lost and sacrificed and admitting that will be too much.
and here's tyr's inescapable bitterness of having been betrayed, of having spent so long trying to be careful with the god of trickery only to have danced right to his tune the whole time. a fiery emotional response for a threat to his home, to minrathous that he's tried very hard to protect and leave a smidgen better than he found it in this whole fight.
by circumstance... and by a little of solas's own design then, rook and solas confront the same trouble of what sacrifice being a leader demands. what cost is too high? how much is too much?
i had the pieces at that point for the ending with mythal, but now i had tyr bitter and a bit more resentful about solas - in a kind of pain about betrayal that was still asking why? about it rather than worried about if regret was present or meaningful. which is where this came from in my head akdfnas;dfnsadf
you're both thinking it. and the endings directly focus on whether or not solas succeeds in tearing down the veil, but the thematic part of it, to me, was... do rook and solas recognize where they might be held back? does tyr act on the pain and resentment of betrayal and swing blindly at solas as repayment? or is it bigger than both of them? is it about posing the question to solas about regret? how much is it like what drove solas to this point to act on that resentment? is it just retaliation? or did either of them learn anything from that prison in the fade?
and that's what makes the parallel, and it's what sets them apart.
and that's how, still, in the end, i have tyr who is willing to choose trying to reason one last time. for the sake of the advice of an old friend. for the people that brought them this far, the ones who chose to believe against the odds. and maybe, even, a little bit for himself. a choice against letting regret and resentment rule.
for the sake of it and because i couldn't get this game out of my head, i checked out the other endings, just to see, and i... think i like sticking with convincing him the best for both of them.
the trick with the dagger swap i think is the only other fitting course of action tyr might've taken from that point, and i think some of its elements reflect similar beats here about... learning from the past, if you will.
the accusation of likeness to the gods is still there. the banter about wits. i am a fool who finally met his match. one might argue that's for underestimating rook, which... fair enough, but i think... it also falls in line with solas's regrets, the appeal to be made to his nature, the... want, in the end, to be proven wrong. to find a 'better' way, as once he suggested to the inquisitor, and as mythal's release from debt and rook and the inquisitor's forgiveness, if you will, finally allows.
and that is... very satisfying to have said between them, when it's been on tyr's mind the whole time. and... they can both be proven wrong this way: for tyr, that solas wasn't beyond listening, and for solas, that there was another way.
for both of them that they could move on from what these trials have made of them, what they have done, and what they endured.
and man... man that was good. and so, so satisfying. it worked, veilguard. you sold me on these two as parallels to each other.
and that's just... one of many things in this game that gave me a lot of emotions, but this has already been. a helluva ramble, so if you've made it this far, congratulations and i salute you, lol.
i'm sure i'll do it all over again and have even more thoughts about even more rooks to throw around and chew on with this and what it'll reflect about each of them and that's. MMM. that's delicious. i loved this game. if my brain and time cooperates, i'm sure i'll have more thoughts and maybe even some writings for it in the future, we'll see where the blorbos take me. xD
#dot talk#dav#datv#dav spoilers#datv spoilers#dragon age rook#solas#vs: there better be a damn good punchline | da!tyr
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Snow Angel
Chapter 4: Affected Series Masterlist
low - medium honor Arthur Morgan x fem. Reader
Arthur has been living by himself, laying low (for real this time) somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. After the whole Pinkerton and Micah debacle, he has been hiding away, waiting for it all to blow over, occasionally getting letters from the people who still know that he's alive. He's been alone awhile and at first, he thought he could handle a little loneliness. He has been wrong before. Lucky for him, you look like the perfect thing to break up the monotony.
Warnings: dubious consent, low honor Arthur, NSFW content, vaginal and oral sex, spanking, darkish fic, a bit of naive reader and an allusion to slut shaming. Also a single grain of daddy kink, if you want reader to be strong and a fighter... this is not for you sorry WC: 3664 Hello! Thanks so much for reading and for all of your support, Arthur is very... something. He is so conflicted about everything. LMAO Tags: no TB, weird but not that toxic relationship, Arthur is sort of delusional omg,
You get a peek into Arthur's head.
The passing hours are filled with a bit of you exploring, looking around. He only watches fondly, after he pours himself a bourbon. When you go through all of his strange rocks he has displayed on his mantle you see those plain leather bound books he had picked one from earlier. When you move to pick one up, his hand is over yours.
“You really like to get in a man's business; don't you, girl?” He looks at your eyes and he gives you a harsh look before giving a huff. He turns his gaze away, shaking his head in disbelief before he lets out a “Fine…”
You smile and select one, this one is tan leather and looks a bit more well cared for than the others. The pages are nice and smooth under your fingers. You flip to the first page and can't help but wonder at his skill, pictures of horses and trees seem to come to life. Interspersed are his personal accounts, beautiful hand lettering with scrolling script. Arthur heaves a sigh before sitting in his armchair.
“Your pictures, they're… amazing,” You smile while looking at them, flipping past animals of all kinds. He can hardly muster a word, watching with obvious anxiousness. He’s red in the face but trying to hide how much your words affect him. The look on his face is somewhere between bewildered and panicked.
“Can I read? Or do you want me to just look at your pictures?” He seems embarrassed this moment is even happening. One hand covers his mouth, elbows down on his knees while he looks away, sitting in his chair.
“Do what ya want,” His tone is flooded with petty aggravation, like a grumpy dog who lost his bone. He waves his hand but you know it's anything but flippant. You read along.
At the beginning of this journal he describes a few months of living here, taking in the sights, getting to know strange folk; the visit and departure of a man named Charles. He speaks of missing people and some “nasty business”. He laments on things he could have done differently. Wishes that it had gone a different way. That certain people had lived and others died in their stead. The tone is rather somber in his writings.
Then he goes back to living by himself for a long while. Tedious writings of ‘nothing much’ ‘nothing new’ ‘saw a bird today’. Sometimes he writes of the headaches he has after drinking himself to sleep. Here, he writes his darkest thoughts. How he deserves this for all the pain he caused, for everything he had done wrong. When he sees you look up from the journal in concern, he stands and snatches it from you.
“That's enough of that, now,” He struggles with the strap to tie it closed. When you go to help him, he shrugs you off.
“I’m sorry, Arthur, I didn’t-”
“Don't need your goddamn pity,” his voice is sour, venom like a rattlesnake, spitting it out at you. You flinch just a bit, making him sigh and shove the book away. “Really could never stop being a fool,” You move closer, even though you know he is not quite in the mood.
“I thought… I thought your pictures were beautiful, Arthur,” His hands grip the mantle and he gazes down at the fire, not saying anything. You sigh and take the book from where he put it. You flip to a landscape he drew, the view from his porch in the springtime. “This one is my favorite,”
“I’m sorry, shouldn't have-” At your words, his shoulders sag and his posture softens. Arthur looks at you and the picture you show him, his gaze so sincere. His hands tighten on the mantle, his nerves, you suppose, might be a bit frayed at the ends. He doesn't finish his sentence. He looks conflicted and at odds with his own innards. Then he snaps back into himself, like a hammer on a bullet. “Won’t happen again” he says with an odd finality. You're not sure whether he means he won't lash out at you or if he just won't let you see his journals. He walks off instead of being more specific.
The storm is much quieter now. The bellows of air no longer whip against the walls of Arthur’s sturdy house, rattle the delicate glass of his windows. Still, the hearth is lit and he has a pot of water boiling to make some stew for dinner. You sit and wonder what should happen when the storm dies down. Arthur has gone out to tend to your horses, not before giving you a kiss and telling you to stay put. You nod and it makes him smile and pet your cheek, his beautiful ram skin coat shrugged over his shoulders and then he’s out to muck the stalls and put out fresh hay. You find your clothes from yesterday, riding pants and combination and undergarments, a bit strange smelling from sitting out while wet. You lay them on a line Arthur has strung up on the wall, hoping that some of the moisture can dry. You're not sure when you’ll be riding out again so you set your boots neatly by the door. You look at the front door.
You think of putting on your clothes and running out but there’s no doubt Arthur will hear you open the front door. And even worse, he’ll be on a horse before you, running you down. By the looks of his horse you got a peek of , it wouldn't be a good idea. Instead, you walk to his kitchen, beginning to peel and chop vegetables and aromatics for the stew, cutting some meat as well. The thought of leaving is not as hopeful as you thought, whether you’ve resigned yourself to Arthur or you just don’t want to leave; you’re not sure yet.
Dinner is rather quiet, only the sound of Arthur scooping stew into his mouth. He’s finished by the time you’ve only gotten through half the bowl of soup. He spreads his legs and crosses his arms over his chest, watching you. He gives you time to eat as slow as you need, fidgeting with his hands, scratching at his cheek or rubbing his neck.
“The storm is starting to blow over,” You comment stiffly between two mouthfuls of stew. He nods, fingers twitching and drumming on his arm. He hasn't smoked any of his cigarettes nor the cigars in his bedroom. Only poured a bourbon for himself. “Do you think we can go see my family?” You ask, setting your spoon down and crossing your legs underneath the table. He seems to think for a while, tapping his foot. Arthur looks deeply at you, something he sees in your pleading look makes him say yes.
“Sure,” a not too unusual twang lifts the word, sounding so casual, despite the set and flex of his jaw. You smile genuinely, excited to go and see them, even if in the company of a man who has taken you against your choice.
“Now, c’mere, honey,” His eyes are dark and you can hardly see that bright blue under the heaviness of his eyes. “Ain’t gonna say it again,” You rise from your chair, gulping down the saliva that pools in the pockets beside your tongue. He pats his lap and you sit gently on his knee, just like he had commanded you to. He makes the warmth in the cabin pale in comparison to the heat emanating from him as he pulls you to sit flush with him. You let his arms wrap around you, let his nose and face nudge along your skin.
You’ve never had anyone simply enjoy the way you feel in their arms. Such a foreign thing, a man holding you for so long, taking in the feel of you on his body. It makes your stomach tingle and you can feel something inside you rising to the surface. Your eyes start to droop, a warmth just like his bubbling up within the depths of you. Every sound he makes brings you away from your thoughts, the drag of his rough fingertips makes it so you can’t move away.
“Wanna have ya right here on this table, darlin’, show me that pretty little ass of yours before I tan it raw,” His command is so rough, the complete opposite of his softened affections, making you hesitate just a moment before you assign meaning to his words. Reluctantly, you move to the table, standing before bending slightly at the hips, careful not to disturb some of the objects on the table.
In a rush, he sweeps them aside, uncaring of the clatter he causes of spoons and a glass which merely rolls around on the ground. You feel a bolt of lightning go down your spine when his hand rubs the fabric that covers your behind. You're quick to catch his meaning, lifting the fabric of his shirt up to your waist, a deep heat floating up to your face, a twinge of embarrassment making your stomach curdle.
Arthur gropes and rubs slowly at you, chapped skin squeezing the fat of your rear. He scoffs when you flinch and try to retreat towards the table. His thumbs spread you open from behind, peeking at your center, beginning to dampen with the way he treats you, looks at you, commands you.
“You must feel so empty after I filled you up. Gettin’ wet for me, sweetheart?” As if his ego could get any bigger right now, your back arches even more at the thought of him making you feel what he made you feel the last time he lusted after you, made you his, made you beg for his ownership. He sits down and places his fingers at the softest part of you, the folds that cover your entrance part at his tender prodding. “Get my fingers wet, honey,” He wants you to push yourself back onto him. You bite your lip, thankful he can't see your face; the pleasure makes your mouth drop open when you let his fingers slide slowly inside of you.
At first, your motions are jittery and nervous. You know he’s looking at you; like no man has ever looked at you before. Between your legs, watching his fingers spread you open for him. You want to stall but know exactly the kind of spanking he’ll give you if you don’t comply. Your face is warm and you're making your lip hurt with how much you worry it between your teeth. He has praises for you that make your lower belly squeeze. “Look too damn good,” has your heart beating a bit faster.
The texture of his fingertips is so perfect, every little bit you take inside makes you shiver and sigh, wanting more. Your shame is forgotten, embarrassment left behind when you get the pace right, finding yourself moving to meet it. The sound of you wetting his hand doesn't even affect you, all you want is to make him proud, to feel that sensation of overwhelming pleasure.
“Ain't that a sight,” He murmurs, huffing and watching the spectacle that is you grinding back onto his fingers and moaning, small noises every time you push back and he hits as deep as he can go. You're running down your thighs, the room is heavy with heat. Just as you're about to crest over, he pulls his fingers, forcing a whine and a shiver from you.
“Arthur,” You whimper out, knees about to buckle. He’s there to support you, pinning you to the table. His hands pull his suspenders down, unfastening his belt out of the way. He pushes your shirt above you, stripping you. One of his hands squeezes roughly at your breast and the other hikes your knee upwards. You feel so small in his hold, his hands envelop your breast, lift you so easily. His hips are high enough to put you almost onto the table entirely, gently testing, the very tip of him piercing into you, making you wiggle and pulse.
“Shit, honey, you’re so-” He can't get any more words out, only a relieved sigh and a jerky push inside of you, slow and restrained. “Jesus, girl, ain’t had nothin’ better,” The thickness of him spreads you and you feel him drive forward to fit the length of him inside the sopping heat between your legs. His words pet your ego so smoothly, undeniably happy that he likes the feel of you, the most special thing you can give a man. The stretch is so nice, already sensitive and receptive from his fingers. You can't help the noises you're making, almost like you're crying. Without much build up, he has you gasping as he tilts his hips all the way flush to you. His hands and fingers dig into your waist, helping you meet him in the middle, a hard and slow rhythm has your thoughts melting away.
“You like having me fuck you like this, sweetheart,” One of his exhales of smugness and satisfaction leave him, can practically see the smirk he has on his face. His hand comes down on your ass, making you squeal, his hand soothing the sting and then holding your shoulder, your elbows up on the table, listening to the legs scrape on the floor, the knocking of wood to the pace of him slamming inside of you.
“Yes, I like- I like it,” you can barely speak, thoughts and tongue all jumbled together. You knew that would rile him but not so much. Arthur's even rougher, pinning you down completely. He has a fistful of your hair close to your scalp and he takes his pleasure while you brace yourself against the table. Little pants are all you can get out. “Sweet little girl, so goddamn wet,” His palm is on the side of your neck, feeling your pulse. Your hips wiggle and jolt, half away and half towards what he's doing to you. A succinct current of pleasure rolls over you, your eyes roll back in tune.
“Ruin you for good, won’t be another man but me takin’ you like this,” his hands paw at you, forcing you to meet him so that he touches just until it about hurts, so good that you hardly notice the stretch that you endure to take him. Your hips move so that he hits the perfect spot, lifting and tilting to push you towards the edge. Like a thread about to snap, you feel the tightness inside.
“You need me, darlin’?” He pants in the midst of you working on him as you chase your gratification. You nod, just wanting him to keep going. He catches on to your mindless motion, a hand slaps your ass, harder than before. You flinch and whine, “Yes, Arthur, need you-” You gasp and feel him touch and press into your most sensitive point. He’s doing something he hasn't done yet, flicking his fingers over the front of you, just under the top of your slit, rough fingertips finding something that makes you feel too much all at once. He makes you tense and moan far too loud, fingers gripping the table.
Your release is perfect, your mouth parting to call for him, his name dripping from your lips. You cry real tears when he keeps going, your wish granted; pushing you to your breaking point.
Arthur is merciless, driving his hips into yours, even as you struggle, far too overstimulated but too weak to fight against his hold. All you can do is cry and whimper, on your tiptoes bent over his dining table. Your thoughts can't seem to focus on anything too well, can only think of how good it is, the very tip of him nudging as deep as it can go; you’re so incredibly sensitive from the peak he pulled out of you. Arthur has a bruising grip on you, over your hips and thighs. You can hear how good you make him feel, how he hisses, grunts when you wiggle too much.
A small whine of his name has him responding to you. He cusses loudly, pulling away from you, his spend splashing down your thigh, rolling down to your ankle. He’s panting and squeezing you for what feels like his life, listening to him groan and pull you to sit with him on his chair again. He’s holding your body, which is almost limp in his hold, pulling you close.
Not much is said between you, he simply listens to your breathing as it evens out slowly, choosing to kiss you over your cheeks, wet with tears. Your hands hold his scratchy cheeks, petting a scar on his chin where his hair doesn’t grow. Letting him lick you makes a small smile break onto your face, his tongue in your mouth, you can taste the slight sting of bourbon. Your smile surprises even you, relinquishing your resolve to reject your feelings. Your instincts are confused, they respond to him, no matter how much your mind tells you that you should be running. Some part of you is possessed by the warmth in your belly, the fire in his hearth. His blue eyes consume every available piece of you, unable to look away when he stares at you. He’s happy to tuck you safely within him. Your hand explores the warmth of his neck and the unshaven hair that is starting to grow along the underside of his jaw. Arthur seems to enjoy your fingers and nails, soft groans rumbling deep in his chest.
He stands up with you, tossing you over his shoulder playfully. You squirm and gasp when he puts light pats on your ass while he ambles down to the bedroom, dropping you on the bed. Careful not to toss you too hard or smack your head on the bed frame. You can almost feel the way his gaze roves over you, like marbles, rolling along your skin. Arthur marvels genuinely, can’t hide his smile as he joins you, stripping down to his union suit, peeling his suspenders and trousers off. He contemplates taking it off and you’re up on your knees, helping to unbutton it. You look up at him and he’s almost shy about your eye contact, tips of his ears flush bright red. His chest is broad and muscled, honey brown hairs grow and swirl, all the way down his belly. A layer of plushness softens him, it only serves to make him even broader, fills him out. He helps you by shrugging off the shoulders slowly, a tad apprehensive in this intimate moment, much closer than when he first undressed in front of you.
He was quick and desperate to touch you, eager and unstoppable. Now he is softer, slower. It’s difficult for him to meet your eye but he does anyway, revealing a sensitive wound under the scab that is his hard and occasionally aggressive attitude. Some part of him takes pride in his body, a workman’s body, a fighter. And the other shies away from you.
“You don’t like when I look at you?” Your hand gently tugs the fabric of his clothes down.
“Hate these damn scars. Gettin’ old, too, bet you wish you had somethin’ better to look at, don’t you?” he heaves a sigh out. There are many scars littered over his skin, in no particular pattern. One looks quite painful, it must have been a burn, a violent cauterization.
“No, I think you look…” unsure what word to say to make him know that you like his body, that his scars tell his story, that he looked better than any scrawny farmhand or drunken grizzled lumberjack you’ve seen. You want to say he looks like your man.
“Nice,” is the word out of your mouth. He scoffs, looking down. You can’t believe you’ve flattered him. Maybe he thinks you just want him to feel better. To prove it to him, your hand drifts over his chest, the hair and thick chest, his skin, freckled in some places by the sun, pale from being under his clothes in others. He breathes slowly, you can feel his lungs puff up and upwards over his heart is the sure beating. You don’t understand how he can be so unsure of his body, even now his mouth twitches, he moves from side to side. He may not want to look nervous, unsettled. But you can feel it just under his muscles, under the scars. He has a hand under your chin, thumb petting your cheek. You hover over the scar you had noticed earlier.
“How’d you get this one?” The memory seems to make him sour a bit, grabbing your hand and ushering you to scoot over on the bed. Arthur gets comfortable, rolling his shoulders and crossing his arms behind his head.
“That’s a long story and not a particularly fond memory of mine,” he reaches an arm out when he notices you keeping your distance, tugging you into the space that he designated you, holding you. “Ain’t exactly proud; some idiot got the better of me, goddamn O’ Driscoll boys,” on instinct, he reaches for the pack of premium cigarettes on his nightstand but he puts them down. His brows crinkle, clicks his tongue. “The things a fool does for a woman,”
“Did you really stop for me?” You whisper, not quite understanding why he would do such a thing. A selfless act in the face of all that he has done, all that he has made you do. You lay down beside him, sleepy and relaxed on his chest. He pets your hair.
“Yeah, well, it’s like I said,” he puts out the oil lamp. In the dark, you can smell dried tobacco and you lay awake, listening to him fidget with the box of cigarettes, never striking a match.
i really enjoy writing this series and thank you guys so much for the feedback, it fuels me to write more for this deranged arthur LMAO
Snow Angel Series Masterlist
#red writes#arthur morgan x you#arthur morgan x reader#rdr2 x reader#low honor arthur morgan x reader#arthur morgan#low honor arthur morgan#red dead redemption 2 x reader#❄️ snow angel#rdr2 community#red dead fandom#red dead redemption 2#tw dark content#tw dubcon#tw dark fic
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It snowed a little here so I’m coming here with my little/cg hcs with snow!
-Hashira-
Gyomei:
Loves bundling up with scarfs and beanies and fuzzy socks, hates trying to walk. He’s adapted to his blindness over the years, but ice and the cold ground are hard to tell the difference. Definitely falls a lot, and the tears make his face very cold. Stresses him out as a cg because he isn’t able to know where his littles are as easy.
Tengen:
Hates it. Every single piece of winter he hates. He much prefers sitting inside cuddling his partners while drinking hot coffee by the fire place. Him and his partners have a weighted blanket for their bed just for this occasion. He is definitely not a happy flip whenever snow is involved.
Kanae:
She loves it, I don’t think there’s a stronger word to show how excited she gets for the winter months. She loved winter decorations, specifically the deer, she loves making hot chocolate, and making snowmen. She doesn’t need to worry about her littles too much as they stay mostly in her line of sight.
Obanai:
There isn’t a word to explain how much he hates winter. He loathes the snow. He’s already as cold as a reptile during the summer, the winter is just added salt to the wound. Every time he’s outside he’s the grumpiest toddler ever, he’s got three layers minimum and is just overall upset about the ordeal.
Giyuu:
He’s pretty “eh” about snow. He does like watching it melt in his hands though. Watching snowfall is his favorite activity. Seriously, he would just sit at the window and watch snow accumulate on the ground. When he’s little he likes just standing and watching others play in the ice.
Sanemi:
Adores it. He loves snowball fights, and it’s even better because he can get away with it. Loves watching people slip and fall, doesn’t love it when he’s the one to slip. As a cg he enjoys it simply because kids falling humors him, though he gets cold easy.
Kyojuro:
Due to his heightened natural body heat, he adores the cold. Fall and winter are his favorites because spring and summer gets him sweating. He hates having to wear gloves though, always putting up a fight. Little and big him get very excited when it snows, he loves making snow castles but he has to be fought into clothes.
Mitsuri:
Also due to heightened body temperature, she loves the snow. She does get a bit upset not getting to wear her normal skirts, but she loves her hakama pants that Kyojuro got her. Little her likes making snow pops, specifically the strawberry flavor ones.
Shinobu:
Hates it. Hates it all. She hates the decorations, hates the cold, hates the warm drinks. Loathes winter in its entirety. Hates having to clean up the wet floor from peoples shoes. Her as a cg has her getting much more snappy with littles.
Muichiro:
The most neutral guy in the world. He doesn’t care for seasons and doesn’t have a favorite. He doesn’t like having to wait for his hair to fully dry before stepping outside, that’s frustrates him. When he’s little he’s a bit happier about it, but his fingers get numb and he gets upset again.
-Kamaboka Squad-
Genya:
Very similar to Sanemi, he adores snow ball fights. He never starts them, but he does enjoy participating. His nose gets cold and red fast and so his cg (typically Gyomei) carries around tissues at all times. When he’s little he gets very eager to go outside and tries to get his clothes on as fast and physically possible.
Zenitsu:
This isn’t even a headcanon, he canonly hates the cold and snow and anything winter lmao. When he’s little it’s much much worse, he’s clinging to his cg and wears earmuffs the entire time he’s outside. The cold hurts his ears and hands and he lets everyone under the sun know about it. Has his pacifier in the entire time
Kanao:
She enjoys making snow angels, but having to get the frost out of her hair is a pain. She once cried because she lost her butterfly teether in the snow and couldn’t find it for over thirty minutes. When she’s little she doesn’t like straying far away from Kanae, so she waddles in the snow around her.
Aoi:
The biggest snow lover behind Kanae. She loves waddling around and helping with the decorations. If Kanae ever tells her she doesn’t need help she gets so sad. She doesn’t like snow ball fights because her hair always gets wet. She makes hot dark chocolate.
Tanjiro:
The hottest temperature naturally, they’ve learned to allow him a light jacket and he’s okay. The snow melts in his hands extremely fast, so snow ball fights are boring to him; he does enjoy making snowmen because of this though, the snow melts into compact. He gave a snowman his teether and got upset when Kyojuro took it away and cleaned it.
Inosuke:
Starts a snowball fight whenever he’s outside. He hates when he forced into heavy thick clothes because he can’t sense things as well, forgetting that his cgs have him protected. Constantly wandering off following animal tracks until a cg has to go and get him. Eats all the carrots on the snowmen, makes Tanjiro very upset.
Nezuko:
Similar to Tanjiro, her body is very hot so she only needs a jacket and pants. She loves helping Tanjiro in whatever he is doing. But when she is by herself, she loves finding hidden acorns and putting them in her pockets. Also finding little rocks that have surfaced near the river bend. Her pockets are filled by the time she’s picked up to go inside. Her paci falls all the time and she secretly just picks it up, she gets sick by the next day.
Senjuro:
He is identical to his brother in the fact that he’s much hotter than a typical person. He doesn’t mind the warmer seasons because he prefers staying inside, but it’s nice taking a walk and not getting home drenched. When he’s little he wants to only be outside in the snow like a little husky, even hollering like one when dragged back inside.
Kiyo:
She sits on the porch painting her, or the others, nails because the cold makes them dry in a neat pattern. She loves wearing her skirt even though you can see the goosebumps. Her as a babysitter consists of her just running around with her older sisters.
Sumi:
She is doing all the littles hair, Nezuko adores her. She is watching over the littles taking a break inside. She isn’t too keen on the cold, but the decorations are very nice to put up. She also has fixed up some scraps from littles that fell.
Naho:
Unlike her sisters, she hates the snow similar to Shinobu. She gets mad because her face gets numb and her teeth hurt under cold winds. She is also inside but she’s cooking food or cleaning the laundry so she doesn’t have to worry about mopping the snow off the ground. She is very opinionated on snow, she wishes it didn’t exist.
#zero rambles#demon slayer#kny#kimetsu no yaiba#anime#age regression#sfw agere#fandom agere#demon slayer agere#kny agere#sfw age regression#himejima gyomei#uzui tengen#kocho kanae#iguro obanai#tomioka giyuu#shinazugawa sanemi#rengoku kyojuro#kanroji mitsuri#kocho shinobu#tokito muichiro#shinazugawa genya#agatsuma zenitsu#tsuyuri kanao#kanzaki aoi#Kamado Tanjiro#hashibira inosuke#kamado nezuko#rengoku senjuro#butterfly triplets
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need u to know that while i've written various words about this in my google docs, i woke up the other morning needing a slight break but also wanting the same world, and so naturally my brain was like.
oh. daryl wakes up at the start of the end. again.
for the second time.
and his first thought is fuck no. we're not doing this again.
but then he actually takes stock of the situation, using all his senses and his insticts that have grown so sharp over the years, and realises, it's different this time.
this time; his throats fucked, forever hoarse, after that run he went on that turned out to be an ambush, and denise and hershel told him he was lucky he could still talk, that he was lucky he even survived, after how deep the wire cut.
he's still got the scar on his hand from the fight with the claimers, when they stumbled upon him in that house in the woods and had him at knifepoint, and he's sure if he was to check, he'd have the scar of his back from them, too.
his entire body aches, feeling every bit of his fifty four years, and then some, and, his hair's long, a complete mess falling in his eyes.
finally stretches his awareness to the rest of the tent and realises–he's not alone. that there's an entire body basically on top of him, weighing him down, except it's a breathing pattern he knows and a heartbeat he takes comfort in, something so familiar and so ingrained into his body and brain–his heart–that he doesn't even think to register it as danger.
looks down at his daughter asleep on his chest and curls his arms around her protectively, breathing her in.
as long as she's in his arms, she's safe. he'll die making sure thats certain.
focuses back on the tent–the shitty, measly, bullshit tent that he pitched all the way back at the start–and thinks, fuck.
anyway! just the idea of the first time daryl woke up in the apocalypse, it was after losing almost everything, after he had so little left; that when he woke up, he looked around and saw it for the second chance it was, and took it.
that he never, not once, tried to go back.
like, sure, there was the occasional thought, especially at the start, when he was missing judith and rj. dog. the few other pieces of his family that had survived alongside him, that he'd left behind. but when it came down to it, he never put any real effort into trying to find out why he was there or how to get back. never figured out why him and carol and maggie and a few others got to start again, with all their memories still intact.
they just took it for what it was and used every memory to their advantage. built every bit of their future with the knowledge they had, and created something.
and it was good.
not perfect, some smaller disasters getting lost in the chaos of the wars, but for the most part, it worked.
it was as close to perfect as they were ever gonna get.
they saved so many of their nearest and dearest, and their family lived.
not just survived–lived.
the second chance was everything they needed to thrive.
except now, he's here, in his stupid fucking tent–again–and he's lived a hundred different lifetimes, or at least two more than he ever thought he would, and his daughter–his daughter–is in his arms, and he needs to go back.
needs to go back to before.
he doesn't want a third chance.
they got it right the second time.
he doesn't want to build everything from scratch again, lay the foundations of their future brick by brick just so he can hopefully, eventually, maybe, one day, get his family back.
doesn't want to have to fight and claw and beg and wait for his future, doesn't know if he could live through it all again.
just wants to wrap his kid up tight and take her home, where their family is alive and happy and thriving, their community so fucking warm and full, everyone having a job to do and everyone having a place to call home.
thinks, not for the first time, time travel is fucking bullshit.
time travel fix it au's are done to death in this fandom but also they're my favourite thing in the world so au where the entire show happens as is and it's heartbreaking and inspiring etc but then. restart button. waking back up at the start of the end except only the people that lived remember
wanna think about what would happen when daryl and carol wake up at camp, remembering everything that happened; carol stronger, knowing in her gut that everything that she remembers is real, and daryl fucking terrified, because if everything in his head actually happened, then what the fuck is this
wanna think about a rick dragging a hostile merle and a wide-eyed glenn back to camp, memories completely intact, and running to reunite with his family. not letting daryl go and hugging carol so so so tight, collapsing to the ground with carl in his arms
wanna think about them dragging the atlanta group to the farm, maggie leaving the front porch light on for them, and everyone reuniting. rick seeing hershel again, daryl seeing beth, carol pulling sophia close, and maggie being unable to even breath, looking at glenn
wanna think about them tossing up whether to even go to the prison, but they met important people there, and alexandria's a long way, and if they're gonna survive this time–if they're gonna live–they're gonna do it right
so they go to the prison so they can figure out their next step, and michonne's there and waiting, andre on her hip, and they deal with the governor before the governor deals with them, and sasha and tyresse finally show up, they find the prisoners, and then one day they get a knock on the front gate, and it's negan
negan showing up, no baseball bat in hand but his leather jacket still in place, a sick but alive lucille by his side, laura and doctor franklin behind him, and all he's got to say is at the end of the world, i know which side i wanna be on
the fallout of that, of maggie being against it, of rick never having gotten to see negan at the end, not knowing the choices he made, the good and the bad. daryl and carol looking at glenn, seeing him alive and in love and having no memory of his last moments, and never wanting anything to ruin that, but negan saved judiths life, helped save all their lives. he chose, in the end, and now it's their turn
wanna think about a future where beth doesn't die, but they go on a rescue mission to get noah anyway. a future where tara turns up with her niece, led by eugene with abraham and rosita following right behind him
wanna think about how they'd handle terminus, how they'd handle the claimers. wanna think about them trying to find father gabriel, except gabe made it the first time around, and he wasn't wasting his second chance. he saved his flock, and he led them to alexandria, and he's waiting
wanna think of connie's group searching for hilltop. not finding maggie, or alden, but finding jesus. wanna think about lydia, being a fucking child, and watching her mother kill her dad, and remembering aaron telling her how loved she was
wanna think of the growing pains of them being able to save so many more family members this time, but god, a larger group is harder to keep alive
daryl trying to run interference with merle and everyone else, getting the jack of it one day and telling him he's already mourned him once, and he won't again. if merle wants to stay–to live–then it's up to him. daryl's not gonna babysit him anymore
rick trying to find his footing between lori and shane and judith, with carl, with michonne and andre. michonne looking at a weak but alive lori grimes holding a screaming and crying newborn in her arms, and knowing that she's never gonna be her daughter the way she was before, but knowing she'll always be something to her
carol struggling to be the mother sophia needs her to be, emotions too sharp and constantly fucking terrified. doesn't know how to hold onto someone like that anymore, either gripping too tight or not at all
maggie trying to exist in a world where she has everyone she's ever loved back, so close and so fucking dear, except it cost her her son. not knowing if she'll ever get him back at all. doesn't know how to live with the grief of losing someone she never technically had in this world
they make it to alexandria and it's aaron opening the gate for them, waiting to welcome them home
#this is all a lie btw because getting into the plot that i've thought of would mean expanding the plot of my original post#and everything that happens there; and well. i'm not doing that#but i just think that the idea of daryl waking up at the start of the end the first time#back in his original body; short haired and young and so fucking Weak; with so much fucking grief from what he's lived through#only to like. Fix Things. be Prepared for the wars to come–the troubles they face–and be able to fight back#and like. build a life. a life he fights for every day because its so fucking dear to him.#he has kids! he has family! he saved merle! saved beth! hershels thriving! him and aaron went out and searched for lydia#to bring her home! ricks alive! him and michonne raising their four kids! glenns helping maggie run hilltop!#everythings what it should be!!!! they finally built the future they always dreamed they could have!!!!#hes found Peace.#only to wake up#AGAIN; the start of the end#but like. this time. hes not young and hes not weak but dear GOD has he forgotten how deep the grief used to run#he's got all his scars hes got all his pain. but jesus christ.#he knows love. he knows how much he has to lose this time. he knows he has something to fight to get back to.#okay there's so much more plot but like. then i'd have to explain things. and im too lazy for that.#just know. it's there.#anyway tldr my mind was like. daryl wakes up at the start in his s1 body with nothing but grief only to fix (mostly) everything#only to wake up AGAIN but this time. in s11 body. still got grief but also got back aches and 20+ years worth of apocolyptic nightmares#but still. so much hope.#feel like 80% of this revolves around daryl and his kids/partner so i cant dig deep but. just know. its FUN for me.#ALSO i think itd be fun for shane and everyone to meet s11 daryl. like. Imagine.
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