#Scout's stupid dialogue:

[weevmo]

Get Booped Idiots (lovingly) - with some Team Fortress 2 arts!

My Main Fellas Scout n' Solly + some doodles as I work to figure out how to draw these dudes simply.

[zomquette]

Dunno 'er (Part 1)

Daryl Dixon x Wife!Reader

Summary: What was supposed to be just another hunting trip turns sideways when you cross paths with a group of armed, bald creeps who seem more cult than crew. Captured and dragged into their cold, clinical regime, you and Daryl are forced to pretend you’re strangers—just two more bodies in their machine. With your daughter back home, waiting for your return, survival isn’t just about making it out alive—it’s about holding onto what’s yours. You've got to fake it till you make it baby.

Era: Post-six-year time jump.

Genre: Post-apocalyptic angst, some fluff, slow-burn psychological tension, undercover drama, emotional hurt/comfort, dark humour, cult dystopia, established relationship, survival thriller

Warnings: Graphic violence, kidnapping, psychological manipulation, captivity, cult themes (indoctrination/assimilation), sexual harrassment, emotional distress, weapon use, reference to childbirth trauma and motherhood, forced separation, mention of infant loss (as a lie), emotional manipulation, strong language, suggestive dialogue, unhinged banter, mentions of torture, and oppressive regime ideology.

Auther's note: Nothing much to say really if you like this you're gonna love part 2 (it has smut hehehe 😈). Why don't I just write stupid short fluffy stuff so you don't lose your mind tryiing to ptoofread your long ass fics? Oh idk cause i hate myself 😃 Anyway enjoy and lemme know what ya think🙈

The woods were quiet in that honeyed, late-afternoon kind of way—the hour when the light poured down through the pines in long golden shafts and everything seemed suspended, like the earth itself was holding its breath. Somewhere off to the left, a bird called out low and slow, and the trees rustled with the lazy hush of wind threading through branches. It was peaceful in that deceptive, makes-you-forget-you’re-still-in-the-apocalypse kind of way.

Dog was in a world of his own, padding soundlessly through the underbrush with his nose low and ears alert, every inch of him the seasoned scout, weaving between the trees in wide, lazy arcs like he’d done a thousand times. Daryl walked slightly ahead of you, crossbow slung across his back, grumbling to himself like some kind of backwoods thundercloud in a leather vest. Every time his boot hit a stick or his elbow bumped a branch, he muttered louder.

“Y’know,” you called after him, smiling like a fox, "for someone of your supposed stealth caliber, you sure sound like a one-man marching band.'

He glanced over his shoulder, narrowed his eyes. “Ain’t the one who’s soundin’ like they need an inhaler.”

“Oh, c’mon,” you huffed, tossing your arms in theatrical exasperation. “If I knew we were doin’ cardio, I’da worn my good bra. I thought this was gonna be quality time with my husband—not a vivid reminder that breastfeeding ruined my center of gravity.”

That pulled a twitch from the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but close. "This is quality time," he retorted. "You bitchin', me enjoyin' the view.'

You attempted a scowl his way but faltered completely, just grinning like an idiot. Teasing aside, he would never get used to you calling him your ‘husband,’ and he would never admit to it, but it made his chest flutter slightly every time.

You trotted forward a little until you were close enough to bump his shoulder with yours. “Dani said you looked like a Sasquatch when you dropped her off this. Dunno where the hell she is learning those words from but she told me to tell you that you need ‘less scowl and more sparkle.’ Her words.”

“Told her she was lucky to even get a walk to school. Sulkin in the morning cause we were headin’ out later.”

“You love it,” you said, looping your arm through his as you walked. “You let her ride on your shoulders the whole way there and gave her your bandana so she could ‘look tough like Daddy.’”

“She’s five,” he muttered. “Don’t need to be lookin’ tough.”

“She made you wear her pink backpack the whole way home.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Said it was heavy and her legs were tired.”

You raised an eyebrow. “She rode on your shoulders the entire walk.”

“She said her arms were tired, too.”

You grinned. “Ya know she drew a picture of it in her journal and told her teacher, quote, ‘My daddy’s real strong ‘cause he can carry me and my stuff and he only complains a little.’”

That one cracked him, just a little. His mouth tipped into a slow, reluctant smile and he shook his head. “She’s too damn smart for her own good.”

“Gee, wonder where she gets that from,” you said sweetly, leaning into his side. “Not from you, that’s all I’m gonna say.”

“Oh yeah?” he raised his eyebrows in question; “What did she get from me then?”

“The patented Dixon brand of sulking in silence until someone guesses what’s wrong. She does it when I don’t cut her sandwich right.”

Daryl made a face like he wanted to argue, but couldn’t. Not when it was true. Not when you were looking at him like that.

“She’s a drama queen,” he replied, wiping a smudge of dirt from your face to get a reaction from you, which of course worked, with you swiping his hand away to do it yourself. “Gets it from you,” he finished with a smirk.

“She gets it from me?” you echoed, all mock-offended. “You’re the one who gets all worked up when someone goes near your bike.”

He shrugged, noncommittal—but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth, the start of a smirk he was trying to swallow.

“You mean to tell me,” you went on, walking backwards so you were facing him, “that you, Daryl Dixon, most dramatic man in the tri-county area, think I’m the diva?”

In two long strides he caught up to you, now toe-to-toe, his hands found your waist like second nature—fingers curling around your hips, thumbs sliding beneath the hem of your shirt like he’d been waiting for an excuse. 

He dipped his head, murmuring low, close to your mouth. “I think you talk too much.”

“Jokes on you - you married me.”

“Don’t remind me,” he said—gruff, teasing—then kissed the corner of your smirk just to shut you up.

You laughed into it, hand fisting in the front of his shirt. “You’re obsessed with me.”

He huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching, eyes fixed on you like he hadn’t heard anything more true. “Mhmm.”

You smiled at him, leaning in slowly, lips brushing his—soft, smug, almost taunting. He caught your bottom lip gently between his teeth, tugged just enough to make you gasp, then kissed you proper—slow and greedy, like it was his favorite habit.

You lingered, lips still brushing his; “hey, y’know, I was thinking—it’s pretty quiet out here—”

“Don’t,” he said immediately, sidestepping you.

You gasped, mock-offended. “You don’t even know what I was gonna say!”

He gave you a look—half fond, half warning. “Always know what you’re gonna say. You get that look in your eyes when you’re about to start somethin’.” He pointed lazily at your face. “That one. Right there.”

“Oh, but it’s already started,” you said, catching up to him with a wicked little smirk.

You slung your bow off your shoulder, circling him with that slow, swaggering walk he always pretended not to watch. “Tell you what - first one to drop dinner wins,” you said, all innocent-like. “Loser’s gotta go down tonight.”

Daryl blinked, once. Then narrowed his eyes. “You serious? What is it with you n’ that?”

You gave a dramatic little shrug, like it didn’t mean anything at all. “Because it usually works out pretty well for me - that’s why.” 

By ‘pretty' well you mean 'mind-blowing-level' well but that goes without saying.

“I mean, unless you’re scared,” you said, drawing out the word like it was a dare. “S’fine if you don’t think you can perform under pressure.”

He snorted, shaking his head, but you didn’t miss the way his mouth twitched—trying not to smile.

“Aww,” you teased, leaning in just enough to crowd his space. “What’s the matter, babe? You chicken? C’mon. Rules are simple; win, and I’ll make you see stars. Lose, and I get to sit on your face. Sound fair?”

He rolled his eyes like you were exhausting, but his hand was already going to his crossbow. “…You’re on. Ten says you scare everything off with your talkin’ before you even get a shot off.”

You were already stepping backward into the trees, walking in reverse with a wink. “Mmhm. Go ahead - put your money where your mouth’s gonna be—literally.”

Daryl didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just stared you down like he was already fucking you with his eyes. He walked over to you, stopping when you were face to face with him, his hand going to your ass and delivering a playful squeeze.

“When I win,” he said, voice low and rough, bringing up his finger to point at your mouth; “I’m gonna sit back and letcha prove just how smart that mouth of yours really is.”

"Hmmm," you hummed, stutting further into the underbrush with a sway of your hips before calling back to him; “better shoot straight then, baby.”

——

Your arrow cracked through the trees like a knife —clean, sharp, final. You didn’t even need to check. You already knew you’d hit it.

Daryl exhaled through his nose, slow and measured, like a man holding back a lot of things: irritation, pride, arousal, maybe all three.

You turned on your heel with a grin so smug it could power a small city. “Ha! Well, well, well. Looks like I win.”

He didn’t say anything. Just gave you a look. To anyone else, that look would’ve read like a death glare—sharp, lethal, the kind of stare that promised blood and followed through—but you knew better, knew the twitch in his jaw wasn’t rage but restraint, the low simmer of a man three seconds from calculating whether the tree line offered enough privacy to absolutely rail you into the moss without a single goddamn witness. You ignored his stare; for the most part.

“Oh, don’t give me that face,” you said, slinging your bow over your shoulder with a victorious little sway. “Last time you looked at me like that, we ended up with Dani—so unless you’re prepared to give her a sibling, I suggest you remember the deal. I won fair and square, Dixon.”

Still nothing from him. Just that tight-lipped, jaw-flexing silence that always meant he was trying real hard not to rise to your bait.

You clicked your tongue, triumphant, and started backing away toward the fallen squirrel with a grin that was all teeth. “Better start hydrating now, baby,” you called over your shoulder. “I don’t wanna hear a single complaint when you’re down there fulfilling your husbandly duties later.”

That got you a grunt. Low. Muted. Real damn close to a groan. Which meant you were winning twice.

“You know,” you added, voice sing-song, “I’m starting to think you let me win. Missed your favorite meal, huh?”

“Get your damn squirrel, woman, and let’s go,” he snapped—but his voice cracked just enough to tell you exactly where his head was at.

You smirked, stepping into the trees with a little extra sway in your hips. “Eager,” you murmured. “I like that.”

You turned with a victorious little strut, weaving through the brush toward the base of the tree where your prize had dropped. The woods were quiet, still golden with afternoon light, the kind of peace that made you feel safe in a way you knew better than to trust.

You bent to withdraw your arrow and scooped up the squirrel by the tail, turning it over to check the shot placement—clean, right through the chest—when a sharp rustle hit your ears. Not the kind made by an animal. Not random.

The sound that cracked through the hush was sharp and calculated, a deliberate misstep masked as accident, but you knew better than to believe in coincidences this far from the walls. 

You didn’t make a noise Because just up ahead, Daryl was standing still—not stiff, not frozen by fear or surprise, but loose in that heavy, deliberate way he only moved when his senses were screaming louder than his words ever could, the kind of stillness that meant something had gone very wrong and his body was already three steps into the fight before the threat even had time to finish blinking.

Your eyes scanned the clearing, carefully, patiently, reading the space the way others might read a prayer—quiet, reverent, alert—and it didn’t take long to count them.

There were five of them, strangers in dark clothes with cruel faces, positioned like they’d done this sort of thing before—two flanking, two circling, one front and center like a stage actor performing for an audience he didn’t think could fight back.

One of them held Dog by the collar, gripping so tightly the poor mutt was practically vibrating with restrained fury, his snarl pulled taut like a bowstring and his teeth bared in a promise that would’ve made most men hesitate, though this one clearly wasn’t most men, because he didn’t seem to care.

Three more stood behind Daryl, their stances loose but not casual, one of them spinning a knife in lazy loops that didn’t look practiced so much as ritualistic, the rhythm hypnotic in its disregard for the tension winding the air between all of you.

But it was the man in front—the one who made your stomach coil and your fingers press just a little harder against the bowstring—who really mattered.

He stood tall and unmasked, built like a man who knew how to make his body a weapon, the kind of posture that said he didn’t need backup to be a threat. A jagged scar curved down the side of his face like a branding iron pressed into bone, catching the light with every tilt of his head — not the kind of wound that happened by accident, but one someone chose to wear like a name. His skin was pale, almost waxy in the half-light, but his features were all bite: sharp cheekbones, cruel mouth, and eyes the color of shattered ice. He had that look — the kind that made people cross the street, that made authority hesitate, that said he’d hurt things for fun and walked away clean every time. Al Pacino’s Scarface looked like a knockoff toy version of him. This guy was the real deal.

“Well, shit,” he drawled, voice smooth and slow, like he was savoring every syllable as he gave Daryl a long, sweeping once-over, his eyes dragging across him not with curiosity, but with the kind of sick appraisal that made your skin itch. “Ain’t this a surprise.”

Daryl didn’t react - just stared him down as if that would be enough to make them go away. The man stepped closer, boots soft on the mossy forest floor, hands swinging loose at his sides in a mockery of casual calm, the kind of predator confidence that didn’t need to raise a weapon to make a threat known.

“Didn’t think we’d find anyone worth our time this far out,” he continued, words syrupy with false friendliness, though the blade underneath it was unmistakable, “usually it’s just loners, runners, half-starved little roaches crawlin’ through the woods hoping not to be noticed.”

Still, Daryl said nothing. His eyes flicked—barely—past the man’s shoulder. Toward you. His gaze was quick, tense. Go.

You stayed exactly where you were, crouched in the shadows, the bowstring already kissed and humming beneath your fingers, your breath ghosting slow against your lip as you waited—not with fear, not with panic, but with the bone-deep patience of someone who had done this before and would do it again.

The man didn’t step forward. Didn’t need to. He just stood there, squared in the clearing like he’d already laid claim to it, his hands at his sides and his voice calm enough to scrape the nerves raw.

“My name is Marshal,” he said, not bothering with flair or warmth, the syllables crisp and almost bureaucratic, like he was introducing himself at a staff meeting instead of standing over a bloodstained forest floor. He didn’t wait for a handshake. Didn’t expect one. The name was a statement, not a courtesy.

Daryl said nothing. Not even a twitch of his jaw.

But Marshal, to his credit, didn’t seem offended. If anything, the silence appeared to amuse him, like he’d been hoping for it. He let his gaze wander lazily over Daryl’s frame, not in assessment, but with the idle confidence of someone who always assumed they held the upper hand.

“You know,” he said eventually, his tone lighter now, but no less pointed, “the quiet ones are always the ones with the best secrets.” He tilted his head just slightly, the edge of a smirk curling one side of his mouth like a reflex more than an expression. “So I’ll ask nicely—only once. You out here alone?”

Nothing. Daryl’s jaw ticked. Without realising, you pulled back harder on the string.

“That a yes?” the man pressed, voice light but sharpening at the edges. “Or you just don’t like my face?”

The silence that followed was heavier than any answer.

Daryl’s jaw ticked—just once, sharp and hard—and the tension pulled so tight inside your chest you thought it might snap.

“Yeah I’m alone. Just me and the Dog out here.” The lie rolled naturally off his tongue, however it didn’t seem to do the trick.

From the corner of your eye, you caught movement—Knife Guy shifting behind Daryl, like he was about to pat him down or worse. That was the moment. That was it.

The itch in your fingers was too much. You let go.

The arrow sang through the clearing, slicing the air in a single, unbroken line that barely rustled the leaves it passed, and in that fraction of a breath between release and impact, the world stood still in the way it always did just before violence made itself known.

It struck the man in the chest with a dull, wet crack—not a scream, not a roar, just a sudden and final exhale as his body recoiled, legs buckling beneath him like a marionette with its strings severed, the momentum of the shot folding him backwards onto the earth as though the ground had opened up to reclaim him.

The silence that followed was not shock but calculation, the space between impact and response stretched just wide enough for one heartbeat—yours—and then it all rushed forward at once.

The nearest man spun toward you with a shout tearing from his throat, his feet thundering over the forest floor as he charged with his weapon raised, but you were already moving, already rising, already meeting him head-on with the kind of brutal, practiced grace that turned instinct into muscle memory.

You caught his arm before the swing could land, your fingers locking around his wrist as you turned with the motion and brought your knee hard into the bend of his leg, using his own speed against him, driving him down into the earth with a thud that forced the breath from his chest and the balance from his bones.

Before he could recover, before anyone else could reach you, your knee was braced against his back, your handgun was out, and the cold metal of the barrel was pressed flush against the side of his skull.

Click.

The sound of the safety disengaging cut louder than any shout, and in that moment the clearing froze again, every movement suspended in an uneasy stillness, the tension folding in on itself as weapons hovered half-raised, as Dog growled low and furious in his captor’s grip, as Daryl’s eyes flicked between you and the men like he was already choosing which one he’d drop first.

The man beneath you stayed very still.

“Easy there little lady,” the man said, but still not lowering his weapon “no one else has gotta die here… not unless you make it so.”

“Sounds pretty tempting,” you said, gun pressing harder into the man’s temple.  Dog let out a whine, as if begging you not to make things worse; but that was kinda out of character for you.

“So you aren’t alone,” The guy said to Daryl, voice slightly rising in volume. 

“I am… dunno her,” he replied, eyes darting between you and scarface.

You arched a brow, not breaking focus, but somewhere behind the tension you appreciated the quick thinking, the way he slipped into the lie without hesitation, the way it played into your hands like you’d planned it together.

“Yep,” you said, your tone breezy despite the gun still pressed to the stranger’s temple, “figured I’d be a good Samaritan and step in to save the poor guy and his dog. Y’know, just doing my civic duty. You boys believe in that sort of thing, right?”

The sarcasm slid off your tongue like silk, but the truth was already shifting beneath the surface of the moment, something you could feel in your stomach before your mind could name it.

You spoke again, this time with more stern;  “Listen here Mr Clean; you’re gonna let this guy and his dog go, and we can all go on our merry way.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat; something told you that these guys wouldn’t go for the bait.

“Or what?” Marshal asked, his voice low and almost amused, like the whole exchange was nothing more than a curiosity, a story he’d tell later. “You gonna shoot him, then kill all of us?”

He looked you over from head to toe—not with fear, not with caution, but with the kind of condescending smirk that said he didn’t believe you had it in you.

And then, without breaking eye contact, he said this;

“Do it.”

For the first time since your arrow flew, your grip wavered—not with fear, not with doubt, but with confusion, because there was no tremble in his voice, no hint of bluster or false courage, just calm, almost bored resolve.

You studied his face, searching for a crack, a flicker of guilt, something—anything—that would mark him as human, but there was nothing there beyond ice and conviction.

“What, getting nervous now?” he asked, cocking his head as he gestured wide to the men around him, to the man you were pinning, to the man holding Dog, to Daryl, to the still body behind him cooling in the leaves. “See, there are plenty more where he came from. He’s replaceable. We all are”

Your stomach turned slowly, something cold creeping along the edge of your spine, and when you looked to Daryl, his expression mirrored your own—no longer tense with violence, but with something deeper, something stranger, a knowing that this wasn’t just another ragtag ambush in the woods.

You looked down to the man beneath you, expecting resistance, maybe a flicker of fear, but instead you found him staring back up with calm, hollow eyes, and when he spoke, it wasn’t to plead or protest.

“To serve The Creed is to survive.”

You blinked once.

The words didn’t register at first, not fully, not with the weight they carried.

They sounded rehearsed. Like a motto. Like something he’d said a hundred times before.

You looked around the clearing again, to the others, to their expressions—unmoving, unwavering, untouched by the death or the danger or the very real threat of violence.

Either they were the best bluffers you’d ever seen…

…or they were completely unhinged.

You drew a long breath, slow and deep, and exhaled it like you were shedding something heavy.

Then, with a soft mutter beneath your breath—“I’m not gonna shoot ya”—you eased the gun back from the man’s head and stood slowly, offering him your hand like a peace gesture carved from something sharp and ironic.

He hesitated, just briefly,  perplexed, then accepted it nonetheless .

You helped him to his feet with a small, polite smile, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulders as he looked at you, clearly confused, clearly unarmed, clearly wrong to assume anything.

From the edge of the clearing, one of the armed men let out a low, amused chuckle — the kind that reeked of dismissal and cheap bravado. His gaze dragged lazily down the length of you, then flicked back to his companions with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Knew she didn’t have it in her,” he muttered, like he was doing them the favor of stating the obvious.

You met his gaze without blinking, something colder curling behind your eyes — not fire, not fury, but that hollow kind of calm that came just before something terrible.

“Right.” SNAP.

The motion was fast, practised, fluid—nothing about it hasty or messy. Blink and you missed it.

You stepped forward, reached around the man you had just pulled up from the dirt, and without a single wasted moment, you braced your hand at the back of his head and twisted sharply to the side.

The sound that followed was quiet but final—a soft, vile crack that echoed louder in the silence than any gunshot.

The body dropped like dead weight.

You didn’t flinch.

You didn’t look down.

You just stood over him, breathing slow and steady. The rest of them stood stunned, as if the script had suddenly changed and no one had passed them the new lines.

Except for him.

Except for the one who had been watching you the whole time like he had been waiting for this exact moment, like he’d known what you would do before you did it.

He turned to face you fully, his head tilting slightly, and the grin on his face never once slipped.

“Now you’re definitely coming with me bitch.” His voice was almost reverent, almost amused, eyes glittering with something dark and pleased. “You just cost me two of my brothers. ”

You stepped into the clearing with your bow now drawn, arrow notched, your posture calm, steady, lethal.

The third arrow rested against the string like a promise.

“Three if you keep talkin’.l”

The scarred man laughed—full-bodied, amused, like you’d just entertained him far better than he’d expected to be today.

“Oh, I like this,” he said. “This is fun. This is real fun.”

Then his voice changed. It was subtle. But you heard the shift. A coldness bleeding in around the edges.

“Bag ‘em both,” he said.

Before you could let your arrow fly—before you could even fully shift your weight—something slammed into your ribs from behind, a hard, focused jab from the butt of a rifle or a boot or maybe just someone’s elbow delivered with military precision.

Your knees gave out before you even realized they’d locked. The ground came up hard and unyielding, slamming into your shoulder and hip, bark and grit grinding into your skin, your cheek mashed into the loamy earth that smelled like rot and pine sap. Your lungs stuttered against the weight of it, each breath arriving late, shallow and wrong, your limbs jerking in spasms that looked more like refusal than resistance. You weren’t out, not fully, Dog's erratic barking was still very much echoing through all of Virginia, but whatever was coursing through you had hijacked your body, pulled the strings loose and left you twitching, scrambling, powerless.

Daryl moved before he thought. “Hey—” The word cracked out sharp and rough, more breath than voice, but it carried. It punched through the silence like a warning shot, a reflex yanked from the gut, unfiltered and fast.

And then he stepped.

He didn’t lunge, not fully. Didn’t throw the first punch. But the second your body hit the dirt, he surged toward you, a single pace, like muscle memory alone had yanked him forward. He didn’t even realise he’d done it until the barrel of a rifle knocked sideways into his ribs and a hand shoved hard against his chest.

“Don’t try it,” someone snapped, the safety click loud and deliberate, like punctuation on a threat.

“I told you,” Daryl said through clenched teeth, “I don’t fuckin’ know her.”

“Mhm,” you muttered into the dirt, “and yet you’re still talkin’.”

You were halfway upright, already shifting your weight to stand—ready to hold your ground, to meet whatever came next with teeth bared and spine straight—but something struck the side of your head—not with the full intent to kill, but with enough weight behind it to scatter your thoughts like broken teeth in the dark.

You barely heard the crunch of leaves before Daryl’s voice cracked through the static one last time.

Then nothing.

———-

You woke to the sound of your own breath—shallow, uneven, catching in your throat like it had been fleeing something long before your eyes opened. The cold wasn’t the natural chill of the woods —it was the kind that clung to poured concrete, lifeless and stale, a chill that sank into your bones and made your skin feel thinner.

The light overhead was a jaundiced white, flickering just enough to make the silence feel haunted. A low electrical whine buzzed at the edges of your ears, almost imperceptible but persistent, like a mosquito in the dark.

When you moved, you felt the rope first. Not coarse, not kind—just tight enough to rub skin raw if you tested it. Your arms were cinched behind the back of a metal chair, your ankles fastened to its legs. A pulsing ache had settled into your shoulders.

Across the room—bare, concrete, windowless—Daryl sat slouched in a matching chair. His posture was deceptively slack, but you knew better. His fingers twitched faintly behind the ropes, already reading the bindings like a map, already planning. His eyes flicked up to meet yours.

Blood streaked down his temple, painting a line along the crease of his jaw, and his hair hung damp against his face, but none of it masked the panic beneath his scowl. His chest rose too fast, too shallow, like his lungs hadn’t caught up with the sight of you still standing.

His gaze scoured your face first—your pupils, your mouth, the side of your head where the blood had dried—then dropped down, darting across every inch of you like he was counting injuries. Like he was checking for anything you weren’t showing. His eyes burned into the rope at your wrists. Your knees. Your posture. Your breathing. Every tiny thing you didn’t say.

You good? he mouthed, jaw tight, eyes wide and wild with restraint.

You gave the smallest nod, not because it was true, but because it was the only answer you had. Survival wasn’t pretty—it didn’t leave much room for poetry. Your lips were split. Your head throbbed. But your spine was still holding, so that was something.

His jaw twitched. He looked back at the door behind him, then back to you.

Then—barely a whisper, rough as gravel and sharp with hope—“Think you can slip outta them ropes?”

"workin' on it,' you whispered back. You can worry about your rope burns getting infected later if you managed to get free. You couldn't do that if you were dead.

The door opened with a groan of metal dragged against metal, loud and long and intentional. Marshal stepped in, wearing a grin too wide to be real, accompanied by two other foot soldiers who stood guard by the door. The man's familiar scar ran from temple to jaw on one side of his face, cutting through the smile like a wound that never healed right.

He didn’t speak. Not at first. Just let the silence stretch thin and mean between the three of you, like he was waiting for the atmosphere to sweat.

Finally, Marshal stepped forward, boots echoing on the floor, his hands loose at his sides like he had all the time in the world to get what he wanted.

“So,” he murmured, circling the space between you. “Still sticking to the story? You two don’t know each other?”

You kept your eyes steady on his face, refusing to glance at Daryl. Any slip, any twitch, could give you both away.

The man’s boots tapped a steady rhythm across the floor, the kind of pacing meant to unnerve, each step heavy with intention, like he was winding something up inside the room. “I’ve seen a lot of liars,” he began, dragging the words out with lazy confidence, his voice pitched just low enough to make your skin crawl. “I’ve been lied to by the best—hell, I’ve trained people to lie. But even the good ones crack when someone they care about’s in the room.”

He came to a slow stop in front of Daryl, studying him the way someone might examine a mutt at a shelter—curious, condescending, waiting for signs of obedience. “She’s awful protective of you,” he continued, and though his tone hovered on the edge of admiration, the smile curling at the corner of his mouth was anything but kind. “Kinda sweet. Funny, too. For a stranger.”

Daryl didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn his head, just kept the man’s gaze. But the cords in his neck stood out beneath the dirt and sweat, tight as drawn wire, and though his body stayed still, the tension radiating from him was loud enough to be deafening.

The man turned to you, slowly, like he was savouring the moment, dragging it out just to see how much discomfort he could pull from the air. “And you,” he said, eyes glinting, “I gotta say, I like your style. All that mouth. All those arrows. Righteous little bitch, huh?”

“Actually, that’s 'Little Miss Righteous Bitch' to you, Marshal Microdick.” You gave him your sweetest smile, the kind that usually came right before bloodshed Daryl exhaled through his nose, low and sharp, shooting you a look that said plain as day: You just had to make it worse, didn’t you?

Marshal's smile grew wider, his eyes never leaving your face as he moved to crouch in front of you. This guy had a PhD in being creepy; looking up at you now, his eyes bore into yours, it made you feel so irrevocably exposed. His stare didn’t undress you; it dissected you — like you were the frog in a middle school science class, and he was the kid who smiled too much while holding the scalpel. “Tell me something,” he said, his voice falling softer now, almost curious. “You got any kids?”

The question landed wrong, jarring in its shift, as if someone had skipped a page in a story. There's deflection and then there's deflection. You just called his dick tiny and now he wants to know about your family status? You looked to Daryl, to see if you had misheard the question, only to see that he was staring back at you, face slighty pale. Yep, you heard the man right. Your breath caught for the smallest of moments before you answered, a beat too fast to be smooth. “No.”

It wasn’t believable. You knew it as soon as it left your lips. And from the way his eyes narrowed, the slow smirk that pulled at his face, he knew it too. The knife appeared in his hand with unsettling ease, as if he hadn’t drawn it so much as conjured it from the very bones of the room.

His presence was so close now that you could taste the rot on his breath, could feel the heat of his body where the cold had ruled before. The blade teased the fabric of your shirt where it dipped over the valley of your breast, and you went still—not out of fear, but out of instinct, knowing that any twitch, any tremble, would only feed him. If he simply pushed forward, that was it. You were dead. Behind your back, your fingers curled against the rope.

Daryl surged forward in his chair, the scrape of the legs loud and jarring, his growl nearly animal. “The fuck you doin'?”

Marshal didn’t acknowledge him. He dragged the blade through your shirt with a kind of methodical cruelty, not rushed or frenzied, but deliberate — like he’d done it before and wanted you to know it. The fabric didn’t tear so much as it surrendered, parting inch by inch beneath the tip, splitting with a sound too soft to match the violation of it. First your bra came into view, then the smooth plane of your abdomen, the curve of your navel, the soft rise of your lower belly — until your shirt was no more than a pathetic flap clinging to your spine, the flimsy remains of modesty hanging on by a thread. The light betrayed, the sweat that covered your upper body apparent.. From behimd you heard footsteps shuffling closer. The 'guards' apparently needed to keep a closer eye on you now that your shirt was no more.

Daryl’s shoulders shifted with a sudden, barely-contained jerk, his wrists twisting hard against the restraints like he could brute-force them apart on willpower alone. His breathing was shallow, nostrils flared, eyes fixed on you with a rising panic he couldn’t mask anymore—like every inch of his body was screaming to move, to reach you, to stop whatever the hell was about to happen.

You forced yourself to breathe, slowly, deliberately, as the chill hit your skin, and when his fingers reached for the button of your jeans, you flinched despite yourself. He peeled back the waistband, just enough. Enough to see.

Your scar. Pale and unforgiving. A line etched by love, by pain, by survival.

He sat back slightly, something sharp and curious glittering in his eyes now, as if the final piece of a puzzle had fallen into place. “Interesting,” he murmured, dragging the point of his knife along the edge of the scar. “Saw this earlier—back in the woods. Just a flash. But up close? That’s a birth scar. Can’t be more than a couple of years old tops.

You closed your eyes, expecting to feel the white hot slicing of your flesh, but it never came. The chill that swept through you then was not from the room. Daryl’s voice cracked the air in response, not loud, but deep and fierce, a line drawn in blood. “Stop.”

That single word seemed to please the man more than any scream would have. He turned to Daryl with something wicked behind his eyes, something giddy, like he’d finally peeled back the last layer of a game he’d been playing alone. “Didn’t take much to get you talkin’, huh?”

Still, Daryl didn’t rise to it. He looked at your defeated face, then at your abdomen; “she’s someone’s mom.”

There it was—truth spoken like a prayer, low and reverent and shaking beneath the weight of restraint. His eyes flashed to yours, then to that familiar scar on your abdomen that he had traced, kissed, caressed a million times, only now it hurt to look at, because it meant leverage for those who wanted to hurt his family.

“The baby,” you said, and the words caught sharp behind your teeth like barbed wire, dragging as they came out. “She didn’t make it.”

You kept your eyes pinned to the floor, as if looking up might shatter the last fragile thread holding your composure together. The lie burned on your tongue, every syllable tasting like grief you didn’t want to imagine. But your voice didn’t crack from pretending — it cracked from the truth underneath it, from the unbearable thought of her not surviving, even in fiction. Your chest ached with the pressure of it, tears welling in your eyes, hot and honest. You didn’t look at Daryl. You couldn’t. One glance and whatever was left of your control would splinter to pieces.

You sat motionless, the remains of your shirt clinging to your ribs, the scar exposed, your skin aching with shame and fury and the deep, gut-level fear of being seen in a way that had nothing to do with nakedness. You finally met Daryl’s gaze just for a heartbeat, and the grief that passed between you was heavy and wordless—because he was pretending not to know you to protect you, and that lie was a noose around both your throats.

The man stepped back at last, brushing off his hands like your body was something he was done dissecting. “You got pretty lies,” he said, too calm now. "Cry pretty too."

You glared at him with a glassy stare. Usually now you would make some bitchy remark about his bald head, but you couldn't fimd the words.

Before Daryl could protest, before you could brace yourself, the two men who were standing idly by were on you—grabbing, lifting, and dragging you.

You didn’t fight. Not then. Not because you were afraid, but because your fight was still calculating. Still waiting. You turned your head just enough to catch one last look at Daryl, whose eyes were burning with fear.

The door slammed shut with a finality that stole the air from your lungs, and the cold rushed in again, swallowing you whole.

——-

They didn’t simply shove you through the doorway—they dragged you like something unwanted and inconvenient, a burdensome weight rather than a person, their hands impersonal and rough as they gripped your upper arms and forced you forward until your boots scraped against the concrete with resistance. One of them, the taller one with the dead eyes, pressed the cold muzzle of a rifle against your spine with just enough pressure to remind you who held control, and when the rusted door finally groaned open on hinges that screeched like an animal in pain, they didn’t hesitate—they tossed you inside like you were nothing more than trash at the end of their shift.

You hit the ground hard, the collision knocking the breath from your lungs and sending a jolt of agony up your shoulder as it took the full brunt of the fall. Your hip followed, then your knees, scraping raw against the grit of the floor as dust and gravel scattered beneath you, clinging to your torn clothes and skin as if eager to mark you further. Your hand landed on something sharp—metal maybe, or broken plastic—and you hissed through your teeth, curling your palm protectively while trying to gather what little dignity you had left.

For a long moment, there was no sound but the slow settling of your breath and the final clunk of the door as it slammed behind you, sealing in the cold and sealing out any remaining illusion that you were still in control of your fate.

You stayed on your knees longer than you should have, arms shaking from the tension you’d been holding since they first separated you from Daryl. The silence was thick, suffocating, broken only by the fading echo of footsteps and the distant hum of something electrical—a light perhaps, or a fan that hadn’t worked in years but still emitted that nauseating buzz. The air smelled of mildew and rust, thick with the sour scent of old sweat and something that reminded you of dried blood, and though you hadn’t yet looked around, you already knew what kind of place this was.

When you finally lifted your head, blinking the grit from your eyes, you took in your surroundings with the caution of someone half expecting to see bones. The cell was narrow and windowless, the walls poured concrete, cracked and flaking in places where time had eaten through the paint. Old graffiti—names, tallies, desperate phrases carved with fingernails or knives—clung to the back wall like ghosts, and in the far corner, a cot sagged with the weight of neglect, its mattress stained, its frame bent inwards like it had given up the effort to hold weight long ago. Near the center of the room, a small drain was embedded in the floor, surrounded by a ring of dark discoloration that your brain refused to label, and scrawled into the concrete above it, deep and angry, was a single phrase that made your stomach tighten.

TO SERVE THE CREED IS TO SURVIVE.

The words from earlier - that man's final words

You closed your eyes, heart pounding, the words branding themselves into your brain. You wanted to laugh, maybe, or scream, but your throat was too dry for either, so instead you leaned your head back against the wall and let the ache in your bones settle while you clutched at the fabric of your torn shirt, trying to warm yourself, trying to feel something other than helpless. But the silence didn’t last.

Somewhere beyond the wall, muffled but close enough to bleed through the cracks, you heard the sound of voices—low at first, then louder, angrier, the kind of cadence that made your body stiffen instinctively. You held your breath and shifted toward the source, pressing your ear to the chill of the wall as you tried to decipher what was being said.

Then you heard it—a grunt, unmistakable, raw with defiance and pain—and your heart stopped mid-beat.

Daryl.

You froze, every muscle going rigid, and then a second sound cut through the tension like a blade—something sharp, like a fist against flesh, followed by the low scrape of a chair dragging across concrete and the dull thud of boots shifting unevenly beneath weight.

You didn’t need to see him to know what was happening.

You could picture it clearly—the way he would sit with his chin low, his shoulders coiled like a spring, his hands curling into fists even though they couldn’t swing, the look in his eyes daring them to try harder. Your breath hitched as you imagined his face—the blood, the stubborn set of his mouth—and when the door creaked open again somewhere down the hall and another voice joined the fray, colder, more practiced, you knew without a doubt that this was the man in charge.

You didn’t need to see him to know what was happening—didn’t need to watch the blows land or hear the chair legs screech to feel the echo of it vibrating in your ribs like a warning. You knew Daryl’s body like your own. You could hear the way he held pain in his breath, could imagine the stubborn set of his jaw as his fists curled against rope and frustration, knew he’d be taking hits with that same quiet defiance that made people hate him or fear him or both. And you knew—without a shred of doubt—that he hadn’t said a word.

Not until they made him.

Not until they started looking for cracks.

There was a lull in the rhythm now. You heard the scrape of something heavy being dragged, the low murmur of voices you couldn’t quite catch. Then came the familiar cadence of boots on concrete, slower this time, almost casual in the way only true danger could be.

Marshal.

His voice cut through the corridor like a blade dulled by disuse—still sharp, but serrated around the edges. “Y’know, the thing about people,” he said, tone light with that salesman swagger you remembered too well, “is they’ll tell you everything you need to know without ever opening their mouths. You just gotta know where to look.”

Silence followed.

You leaned closer to the wall, breath held tight in your chest, every nerve alive with the kind of tension that left you aching.

“I found somethin’ on her,” the man continued. “Thought it was cute at first. Real sentimental.” You could hear fabric shifting, something small and metallic being fished from a pocket, and the pause that followed was deliberate, practiced, designed for maximum effect.

Another voice stirred behind the silence—one you would’ve missed if you didn’t know it like muscle memory. Daryl exhaled through his nose, the kind of breath that came with effort, like he was trying to swallow something back before it could escape.

The man chuckled softly. “See, I thought maybe it was just a trinket. She looks the type, doesn’t she? Nostalgic. Soft around the edges, even with all that bark.” His voice dropped a little, laced with something colder now. “But then I took a closer look.”

You pressed yourself tighter to the wall, fingers curling against the concrete as you waited for the hammer to drop, because you didn’t know what he was holding—but Daryl did.

“Know what this is?” the man asked, his voice eager and chirpy. “She was wearin’ this on her ring finger. It’s a wedding ring.” You could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “Custom made, even. Not bad work. Bet it was handmade. I’ve seen one like it before—twisted copper, that rough-welded join. Real pretty.”

Daryl said nothing.

But the air shifted. Your breath hitched in your throat before you even knew why, some muscle memory reacting faster than thought, and without meaning to, your thumb brushed across the skin where the ring should’ve been—an automatic, unconscious gesture born from countless mornings waking up beside him, from years of grounding yourself on the familiar twist of copper wrapped around your finger. But this time, there was nothing. Just skin. Bare and foreign. The absence was so stark, so wrong, it made your stomach twist, your heart lurching in your chest like it couldn’t find its rhythm. That ring had never left you—not through blizzards or ambushes or illness or childbirth. You had clutched it through nightmares, twisted it when words failed, kissed it during times you needed Daryl with you but he couldn't be there, and now it was gone, ripped from you without you even knowing, and held by the same bastard who had tried to peel you open with a knife. Daryl had made that ring for you, and asked you to be his forever. That ring means more to you can words can comprehend.

The man hummed as if savouring the discomfort. “I reckon she never takes it off. Women like that… they don’t take things like this off unless they have to.”

Still no response.

But that silence—it deepened. Got denser. Tighter.

And then came Daryl’s voice, low and flat, the kind of tone he only used when the restraint was about to crack. “You oughta give that back.”

The man didn’t laugh. He just tilted into the quiet again, dragging it out like he wanted to catch something—anything—in the stillness.

“Why?” he asked, but the word was laced with interest, not confusion. “Why would I give it back?”

Another pause.

And then Daryl answered, too slow, too cautious, like he was measuring every syllable against a cliff’s edge. “’Cause it’s hers.”

Nothing else. Just that.

You couldn’t see his face, but you knew the look in his eyes—that storm of fury behind the ice, that helpless rage masked as indifference. You imagined him still bound to the chair, bleeding from the mouth, hands flexing behind his back with the kind of restraint that tore muscle from bone, and yet somehow still managing to sound like he didn’t care.

But it wasn’t enough.

Not quite.

Because Marshal let out a sound—low, curious, not convinced but not dismissive either. “Hers, huh?” he repeated.

There was a moment there, so fragile it barely held, where you could feel the man teetering between suspicion and satisfaction, like he wanted to push a little harder but couldn’t quite figure out where to press. The silence stretched again, elastic and dangerous.

And then the crack came.

Not in the lie but in the man’s patience.

The first punch landed, so harsh you swore you felt it, like it was you who had just been hit and not Daryll. You heard the dull smack of fist against flesh, followed by the scrape of a chair leg as Daryl’s body recoiled but didn’t fall. Then another—harder, this time—and a wet sound that meant blood.

“You're gonna break. Just a matter of time,” the man said, colder now, less amused.

Daryl spat—on the floor, maybe at his feet, maybe just to get the taste out. “You asked a question. I answered.”

Another hit followed.

Then footsteps retreated, not rushed, just done for now.

You backed away from the wall as silence crept in again, this time different—heavier. It sat in your chest like stone.

It felt like hours before they opened your door again.

When they finally dragged him in, his boots dragged behind him and his shirt was soaked with blood, but his eyes—oh, his eyes—they found you instantly. He said nothing, didn’t reach for you, didn’t flinch when they threw him into the opposite cell and slammed the bars shut with a sound like a gavel.

But that ring, the one you didn’t realize was gone until just now, that small, sacred thing—they still had it. And Daryl knew it.

And that was almost enough to break him. Almost.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did you.

There was no breath left for it, no courage or comfort that words could offer now—not when the distance between your cells felt like a chasm, not when the only thing separating you from him was a strip of concrete and an iron silence too wide to cross.

He sat where they left him, slumped against the wall like gravity had finally caught up to him, one leg crooked, one arm trembling just slightly at the elbow where he tried to shift his weight and failed. Blood was drying at his temple, smeared across the side of his face like paint, and there was a bruise blooming over his jaw, so dark it swallowed the shadow. But his eyes stayed on you, steady, hollowed, wild. It hurt to even look at him now, in that state.

It reminded you of that time he came home late, muttered something about a long day and being tired, barely even looked at you as he slipped through the door. That in itself wasn’t strange—Daryl had always been quiet when he needed space—but what threw you was how he didn’t even spare you a glance, didn’t give you the usual kiss hello, that soft, wordless way the two of you always reconnected after time apart. You’d racked your brain trying to figure out what you’d done wrong, replayed every moment from earlier that day and came up empty. Eventually, you chalked it up to a mood and let him have his space, curling up on the couch with Dog for the night.

The next morning, you found out why. He’d tried to sneak out early to head to Denise’s, hoping to get patched up without you knowing. What he didn’t count on was you lying there wide awake—because of course you hadn’t slept. And when he turned toward the door, you saw it: the black eye, the swollen jaw, the way his knuckles looked like they’d been through a grinder. You’d flipped, right there in the doorway. Turns out he’d run into a couple of less-than-neighborly types. He gave the usual “you should see the other guy” deflection, but he hated that look you got when you saw him like that—wide-eyed, sick with worry, on the verge of tears or homicide, maybe both.

That’s why he’d avoided you altogether.

You’d made him promise not to do that again. To stop shielding you from the aftermath like you weren’t part of it. But you both knew he would, if it meant sparing you the worry.

But not today - he knew that you heard what went down just momemt sago, and it was useless to pretend not to.

You curled in tighter, hands pressing against your knees, clutching the torn fabric of your shirt as if it could still hide the places that had been exposed, the places that still burned. Your skin felt cold where the scarred man’s fingers had lingered, colder still where your ring used to rest.

Daryl’s gaze dropped. Not away from you—but down. Down to your hands. Your bare fingers.

His breath caught. He didn’t mean it to. It was too small to be a gasp and too soft to be a curse, but you saw it, felt it across the space like a tremor underfoot. And then his jaw locked. His hands, still bound in front of him, curled into fists so tight his knuckles whitened beneath the dried blood. Not because of pain. Not even because of anger. But because the truth had landed now, fully. Your ring—his ring—was gone, and not by your choice.

You saw it, the realization settle into the lines of his face like dust. He didn’t ask where it was. He didn’t need to. He knew. He always knew.

“He must have taken it off me when I was out,” you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath, brittle and breaking in your throat. “It feels wrong not wearing it, like—” Your voice cracked before you could finish. “ Like I'm missing a limb."

He didn’t answer right away.

Just sat there, staring at your hand, his brow furrowed like he was trying to rewrite time itself, like maybe if he looked hard enough, it would just reappear on your finger, copper catching the light the way it always had when you fidgeted with it during long watches or sleepless nights.

His voice, when it came, was low. Hoarse. Not sharp. Not angry. Just tired.

“I know.”

And you did.

You knew he believed you. You knew it without question.

But there was still something in his face—something fragile and dangerous and flickering behind his eyes like a fuse that had been lit but hadn’t yet reached its end. Not rage. Not yet. Just fear wearing the mask of restraint.

He shifted, dragging himself up with visible effort until he could lean back against the wall properly. The movement sent a wince through his features, and his left hand went instinctively to his side where the bruises were darkest. But his gaze never left yours.

“They touch you?” he asked, voice rougher this time, like the words tasted like blood on the way out.

You hesitated, and that pause alone was enough.

He turned his head. Just slightly. Just enough that you saw the cords in his neck tighten again, that silent storm building. But then he breathed in, slow and jagged, like he was wrestling with the need to stay grounded—for you. For her.

“I’m okay,” you said, which wasn’t true, not even a little, but it was the only thing you could give him right now.

He closed his eyes at that, not like he believed you, but like he needed to pretend he did. For just a second. For the sake of sanity.

Across the floor between your cells, the silence stretched long and heavy, like a third body laid out between you. You looked at him, really looked, and for a moment, it wasn’t the pain or the bruises or the blood that made your chest tighten—it was the way he looked at you like you were still whole. Like even here, even now, you were still the girl he slipped that copper ring onto by moonlight, with hands that shook like it was the only thing in the world that mattered.

He didn’t move for a long time, not even to sit up straighter, just let his head tilt against the back wall like it was the only thing keeping him upright, his gaze flickering to your face and then away again like he couldn’t quite hold it without cracking. The blood on his shirt had started to dry in heavy patches, and every shallow breath he took looked like it cost him something he didn’t have to spare. And still, he hadn’t said a word. Not yet.

You wanted to reach through the bars. Crawl to him. Stitch your hands into the bruises on his ribs and tell them to give him back. But your body stayed locked to the wall, knees drawn up, arms crossed tight over your torn shirt, and your fingers—gods, your fingers—wouldn’t stop tracing that empty groove on your hand where your ring should’ve been. You’d touched it a hundred times a day without noticing, the curve of it like punctuation to every thought. Now it was gone, and the hollow space it left burned.

“…I ain’t ever wanted to kill someone that bad.”

The words rasped out of him like sand dragged across stone, slow and sharp, and they hung there between you, suspended in the cold with nowhere to settle. His eyes were already on you, half-lidded and rimmed in purple shadows, but now he turned fully, jaw clenched against pain, and the look he gave you wasn’t just fury—it was grief, raw and unravelled.

“Not since the Sanctuary,” he said, and the way he said it, like he was reaching through memory to some long-buried rage, made your stomach twist with the weight of everything he wasn’t saying aloud.

You didn’t answer him. You just looked back, open and hollow, the silence between you not cutting this time, just bearing down slow like fog in the woods.

“When he grabbed your shirt,” he murmured, and already you could hear the break coming in his voice, that thin edge he tried so hard to sand down, “I thought he was gonna—” He stopped, swallowed, shook his head like he could throw the image off if he just tried hard enough. “Didn’t matter why. Didn’t matter what he was tryin’ to prove. All I could think about was gettin’ my hands around his neck.”

You pressed your forehead to the bars. Your knuckles had gone bloodless.

He exhaled harshly, stared down at his lap, and for a moment you thought he might stop there, might wall himself back up like he always did when something hurt too much. But then he spoke again, and his voice was quieter now, almost unsure.

“And then I saw it. Your scar.”

You didn’t mean to flinch. But the words hit like cold water, and your spine curled in instinctive defense.

“Never really got why ya didn't like it,” he went on, a little steadier now, “Guess it puts it into perspective...How close I came to losin’ you. How close we came to losin’ her.”

You clenched your jaw and said nothing. You didn’t trust your voice not to break.

“He made it ugly,” you whispered finally, and it wasn’t even the words—it was what they meant. What they’d twisted inside you. That something sacred could be used as a threat.

“Nah,” Daryl said, and it was the first time in hours his voice didn’t sound broken. “He tried. That’s all. He tried. But he don’t get it.”

Your eyes flicked to him through the dark, heart caught in your throat, waiting.

“I remember when she was just shy of 2 years old,” he said, and something in his expression softened, like memory was the only comfort left to him. “You were sleepin’. Out cold. Couldn’t blame you—you hadn’t slept for shit in weeks. She was wide awake though. Just starin’. Fussin’, but not cryin’. Just lookin’ at you like you were the moon and the stars n'... somethin’ else she didn’t have a words for yet.”

Your breath caught, chest rising in a silent hiccup.

“She kept pokin’ your stomach,” he went on, and there was a warmth now, like even here, even in hell, he could conjure the glow of your home. “Kept touchin’ that scar. Over and over, real careful, like she was tryin’ to figure out what it was. I asked her what she was doin’, and she looked up at me, so serious, and said, ‘Mama’s got a zipper.’”

You laughed. You couldn’t help it. It was cracked and watery and half-swallowed by a sob, but it was real.

“I told her that's how she got here”, he said, rubbing at his jaw like he could still feel her small hand in his. “Like we unzipped you and there she was—all red and mad and louder than a goddamn siren.”

You buried your face against your arm to muffle the sound you made.

“She thought it was magic,” Daryl said softly, smiling. “Still does. Says it’s her magic door.”

You tried to breathe around the ache in your chest. “And now he used it like a weapon.”

“He can’t touch that,” Daryl said. “Not really. Not where it counts.”

You didn’t reply, didn’t need to. Your silence was agreement, was gratitude, was a desperate tether to him across the cold and the dark.

You stayed quiet for a long time after that.

Not because there was nothing left to say—there was too much, in fact—but because your throat felt thick and raw, like you’d swallowed a scream and hadn’t managed to keep all of it down. You held your knees tight to your chest, fingers digging crescents into your arms, the cold from the concrete floor bleeding up through your spine, but that wasn’t what was making you shake. It wasn’t the chill. It was the memory.

You were still trying to scrub it from beneath your skin—the way his hands moved with that awful, clinical deliberation, like he’d done it before, like peeling you open wasn’t an act of violence but one of strategy. Fingers curled beneath your shirt like they were reading a map, like your body was just terrain to him. You hadn’t felt fear for yourself, not at first. Not until he saw it. Not until he stopped smiling.

That scar—your scar—the one you barely remembered unless Dani asked about it, the one that lived in the blurry corners of mirrors—had never once made you feel ashamed. Sure, you occasionally cringed at it, how it contrasted so heavily with your skin, but it was a shallow insecurity. That meant nothing in comparison to how you got it. Your scar had meant survival. It had meant sacrifice. It had meant her. But tonight, when his eyes landed on it as if it was something he could exploit, something he could weaponise, you felt it shift inside you—like he’d tried to rewrite what it meant without your permission. He’d looked at it and seen leverage. He’d seen life.

And you’d lied, again and again, your voice breaking under the strain of trying not to name her. You’d bitten your tongue so hard it had bled, afraid that if you said it—if her name slipped, if the wrong syllable cracked in your voice—they’d know. They’d take her from you in some unthinkable way, even from miles away. You hadn’t even let yourself imagine her face. You were too afraid it might disappear.

But now it was full dark.

And Dani was alone.

You let out a breath that wasn’t steady, rested your forehead against the bars, and felt the cold press against your skin like punishment. The ring finger on your left hand ached with phantom weight, and you rubbed at the empty space instinctively, even though it made you feel worse.

“I’ve never—” The words caught on the raw edge of your voice, so you swallowed hard and tried again. “I’ve never spent a night away from her before.”

Across the dark, Daryl stirred. He lifted his head, humming in quiet acknowledgment, but didn’t speak — didn’t push. He hated being away from you and Dani, but sometimes it was unavoidable. Runs happened. Patrols needed bodies. And when it came down to it, both of you knew how to handle yourselves out there. You weren’t some stay-behind-the-walls housewife — hell, you were one of the best shots in Alexandria — but even so, your time away from her was always measured in hours, not nights. You could stomach a day trip, a supply loop, even a walker-clearing route that ran long, but you’d always made it home by nightfall. That was the unspoken rule. The line you didn’t cross. Because when the sun set, Dani would be tucked in between the two of you — warm and safe and dreaming in her corner of the bed. And now that line had been shattered. For Daryl, being away hurt. But for you, sitting in this cold cell with no idea if she was scared, crying, alone — it wasn’t just pain. It was unbearable.

“She never falls asleep where she’s supposed to,” you whispered after a long silence, your voice low and fragile, like you were afraid saying it too loud might shatter the memory. “Even when she starts in her own bed, she always finds her way back to ours. Tiptoes in like she’s some kinda thief, all quiet and sneaky, even though she always brings Spaghetti with her and he rattles — you know that damn giraffe has the loudest little bell stitched in his neck.”

A breath of something close to a laugh passed through your nose, but it caught in your throat halfway. You pressed your cheek against the cold bar and closed your eyes, trying to picture it — the creak of the floorboards, the soft pad of her feet, the way the blanket lifted and that tiny furnace of a child wedged herself between you and Daryl like she was born to belong there.

“She always curls into me first,” you said, the ache blooming sharp in your chest now. “Little arms around my waist, nose tucked against my stomach, just like how it was when I was pregnant. She says it makes the monsters go away. And I stroke her hair real slow until she settles and falls asleep.”

You paused, voice nearly trembling with the memory.

“She always hums. Not a song — just this little noise, like a sleepy cat. You can feel it through her ribs.”

There was a silence after that, heavy with feeling, and then Daryl’s voice cut through it — quieter than before, like it was meant only for you. “She never stays on your side, though.”

A faint smile touched your lips. “No. She doesn’t.”

“She always ends up rolled over on me,” he said, and there was something so painfully tender in the way he said it — like it physically hurt to remember. “Uses me like a goddamn jungle gym. Then she falls asleep with her arm across my throat like she’s tryin’ to choke me out.”

You let out a wet laugh, burying your face in your arms.

“And then if I move,” he added, “even a little — I mean, just tryin’ to breathe — she gets all huffy and dramatic. Throws that little arm over her eyes like I’ve wronged her somehow. Then flips back over to your side and acts like I don’t exist.”

“She’s a mama’s girl,” you said softly, chin trembling.

“She’s a damn traitor,” he muttered, voice rough but curling at the edges with that rare kind of smile that lived somewhere behind the gravel. “Wakes up a daddy’s girl every single time—no matter what.”

Then, softer, like it slipped out without thinkin’: “It’s alright though. I’ll take the mornings, and you can be her favourite the rest of the time.”

You nodded slowly, swallowing against the lump in your throat. “Best part of my day,” you whispered. “Waking up like that. With both of you. Her all tangled up between us, snoring like a piglet.”

He didn’t say anything right away, but when he did, his voice was softer than ever. “It's the best part of my day, too.”

Your hand curled against the cold floor, aching with the absence of her weight, the way her little fingers always found yours without looking, the way her whole body seemed to relax the second it touched skin — yours or Daryl’s, didn’t matter, just so long as it was home.

“She’s gonna wake up,” you said, barely audible now. “And we won’t be there.”

There was nothing in the world more awful than that thought. Not pain. Not captivity. Not even death. You pressed your cheek to your arm and blinked hard against the tears that clung to your lashes. “She’s gonna wake up scared,” you whispered. “She’s gonna look around and—”

“She’s gonna be fine.”

Daryl’s voice wasn’t loud, wasn’t soothing, wasn’t even certain—but it was solid. It cut through the dark like a root finding earth.

You looked over at him slowly, heart tight.

“I promise,” he said, the syllables uneven but anchored. “We’re gettin’ outta here. You’re gonna hold her again. Gonna tuck her in. Gonna... tell her some dumbass bedtime story about how Mama and Daddy escaped a bunch of bald freaks and came runnin’ through the woods like some forrest trolls.”

A laugh pushed out of you before you could stop it—wet and shaking, the kind that hurt your chest. “That the bedtime version?”

He shrugged faintly, wincing again. “Gotta leave out the part where you snapped a guy’s neck with your bare hands. Might give her ideas.”

“She’s your kid,” you muttered into your arm, letting the tears fall without apology. “She already has ideas.”

He gave a quiet huff, something close to a laugh. “Last week she told me she’s gonna be a monster-catcher. Said she needs a big stick and a helmet with spikes on it.”

Your chest ached with something warmer than pain. “Spelled her name on the stick with a backwards N, didn’t she?”

“Mhmm. Wrote it twice,” Daryl said, his voice soft with pride. “Said if the first one rubbed off, the monsters would still know it was hers.”

“She said you helped her paint it,” you whispered, that bittersweet smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

He nodded once. “Told her I’d make it glitter-proof. Said you’d be mad if it ended up in Dog’s fur again.”

You exhaled slowly, like trying to fold yourself around the sound of her voice in your memory. “I don’t want her to think we left her.”

“She won’t,” Daryl said immediately, like the idea offended him. “You didn’t. We didn’t. We’re comin’ back. That’s it.”

There was no poetry in his tone, no sentiment. Just truth. Hard and clean.

You didn’t answer right away. Just let the quiet hold you both, not in silence, but in something steadier. Something shared.

Eventually, your voice found its way back, worn thin but clearer than before. “They’re gonna watch us closer now. We’re not gonna be able to fake it forever.”

“No,” Daryl said, adjusting his position with a grunt, one arm braced along the wall behind him. “Just till we get outta here.”

You nodded faintly, already feeling the gears in your brain shift into something sharper, colder.

“We figure out the shifts. How often they switch guards. Which ones carry blades and which ones don’t. Who blinks first. Who watches the gates. We act useful until it makes them lazy.”

Daryl tilted his head, eyes glinting in the low light. “You really up for playin’ nice with these assholes?”

Your mouth twitched. “Nice is flexible. I’ll be civil. Until I don’t need to be.”

“Attagirl.”

You leaned back against the wall, not for comfort, but to look at him properly again—at the weight of him across from you, bruised and bloodied and still yours. That thin stretch of space between your cells felt narrower now, less like a canyon and more like a line in the dirt that both of you already knew how to cross when the time came.

“We’ll get back to her,” he said again. “No matter what it takes.”

And this time, when the words reached you, they didn’t land like a promise. They landed like a vow.

_____

At some point in the endless dark, your body gave out—curled stiff against the wall, head tipped sideways, sleep dragging you under like a tide. But your dreams were shallow and feverish, half-shaped memories tangled in terror, and every sound outside your cell pulled you half back to the surface, heart pumping in your throat, ears straining for a voice that never came.

Now, morning—if it could be called that—bleeds in through the cracks of artificial light. The overhead fluorescents hum back to life with an electrical sigh, flooding the corridor in a washed-out white that burns the back of your eyes. There’s no sunrise here. Just power. Control. Permission to wake.

You were already awake.

Opposite you, Daryl shifted with a wince, jaw clenched tight against a groan as he rolled his shoulder. You watched the stiffness in his body, the way he flexed his fingers like they didn’t want to obey. His gaze found you in the quiet, and you held it for a second too long before the sound of boots marching snapped it.

But then the footsteps came.

They moved too efficient for you to stay seated. No slamming doors. No barks or shouts. Just the faint, synchronised drag of boots against the floor outside, followed by the mechanical hiss of the cell locks disengaging. You and Daryl were already on your feet before they opened the doors.

He didn’t look at you, not directly. But you felt the twitch in his jaw, the unspoken question that passed between you in silence. You gave the smallest nod back. Ready.

They led you out of your cells and through a different corridor this time—no graffiti, no rust, just bare, bland walls that hummed with faint electricity. You couldn’t here anything other than the artificial hush of a place designed to swallow sound.

When they finally brought you to the room, you thought at first it might be another cell.

He was stood at the center of the concrete chamber with his hands clasped loosely behind his back, spine ramrod straight, not a wrinkle in sight. He was younger than you expected. Mid-forties maybe, sharp-featured, clean-shaven. Everything about him looked deliberately scrubbed of history—like he had burned his past away to make room for something purer.

Marshal stood motionless by the doorway, his usual sneer absent, the silence around him sharp enough to draw blood. It was the first time you’d seen him quiet, and somehow that unsettled you more than any of his smirks or taunts. Something about his stillness spoke of obedience, of a hierarchy so firmly entrenched that even his cruelty bowed to it.

The guards guided you and Daryl into the centre of the room with practised precision, keeping just enough distance between your bodies to make the separation deliberate. No contact. No whispers. No comfort. When Daryl was moved into place, his shoulder brushed briefly against yours—a single, accidental point of contact. Or perhaps it wasn't accidental, and the two of you were losing all sanity by not being able to touch each other - it was anyone's guess. He kept his face forward, locked in a mask of unreadable resolve.

The man at the center of the room—unassuming in build, dressed in uniform so plain it could have been borrowed from any one of the men beside him—did not speak immediately. He simply regarded you both in silence, his eyes cold and analytical, his head angled with a quiet sort of curiosity, like a man observing the structural integrity of something already cracked. He wasn’t asking if you would break. He was calculating when.

And then, with all the ceremony of someone setting a glass down on a table, he spoke.

“There is an infection that lives in the world.”

The words left his mouth with a measured calm, each syllable laced with precision rather than urgency. His tone was not raised, not even slightly, but something in the quiet demanded attention, made your ears strain for every word. There was no theatrics, no raised voice or dramatic flourish—just the steady cadence of a man who knew he never needed to shout to be heard.

“It festers in communities. In settlements. In families.”

He moved slowly as he spoke, not pacing—but measuring distance. The way a surgeon might measure an incision.

“It takes the form of attachment. Affection. Mercy. And when allowed to grow unchecked, it spreads through the body like rot.”

He stopped in front of Daryl, but didn’t look at him. He didn’t need to.

“The Creed,” he announced, “removes infection. Before it kills the host.”

You could feel your heartbeat in your throat.

“We are not here to offer comfort,” he continued. “We are here to build something that will not die. That will not bend. That will not be weakened by nostalgia or grief or love.”

He finally turned, his gaze landing on you.

“If we are to rebuild, we do it clean. Cold. Absolute. Every cell of the body must serve the same function. To serve The Creed is to survive. To waver is to contaminate.”

Still no raised voice. Still no need.

Behind him, mounted on the wall in scorched iron, the symbol loomed—an unbroken chain of identical hands, each gripping the next. No variation. No faces. Just function.

“Commander,” Marshal called out, stepping forward with a measured gait, his arm lifting slowly, deliberately. His fist was clenched tight around something unseen, knuckles pale from pressure. And then — without flourish, without even turning — the Commander held out his hand. And of course, Marshal dropped something into the man's hand immediately upon being beckoned, like the obedient Marshal he was.

“Hey Marshal,” you said sweetly, tilting your head like you were asking about the weather, “blink twice if he’s pegging you under duress.”

A snort broke the silence—one of the Creed men on the left, a younger guy who looked like he hadn’t fully grown into his rifle yet. He tried to smother it into his sleeve, but it was too late.

Marshal didn’t move. Just turned his head—slow as a cocked rifle—toward the offender. That single, glassy-eyed glare was enough to choke the air out of the room. The younger man stiffened like he’d been slapped, spine ramrod straight, the color draining from his face.

You leaned back a little, grinning. “What?” you said innocently, eyes still locked on Marshal. “Your safe word get revoked?”

Still nothing. Not a flinch. Not a word. He just stared at you with that carved-from-ice face, something unreadable and venomous glittering behind his eyes. You heard a grumpy redneck mutter 'Jesus Christ' under his breath from beside you.

The smirk faded from your lips—just a little.

Because suddenly, you got the feeling he was quiet, not out of rage, but satisfaction. He knew something you didn’t. And that was never a good sign.

The Commander regarded the object he had just been handed with clinical detachment, rolling it once between his fingers, not like a sentimental object, but like a contaminant. A defect in the system.

He didn’t look at you. He didn’t look at Daryl.

Instead, he walked—slowly, with eerie precision—toward the hearth at the center of the room, where a small controlled flame crackled low in a steel brazier. The fire wasn’t for warmth. It was too precise for that. It burned like part of the architecture, like something ritualistic.

He held something out between two fingers like it was nothing more than a scrap of trash. But you saw it. The shape. The glint. Your ring.

Your stomach dropped so fast it felt like your body forgot how to hold itself up. Every thought in your head screamed at you to reach for it, to snatch it from his hand, to put it back where it belonged before it got any colder—but you didn’t move. You couldn’t. Not unless you were ready to take a bullet to the skull for lunging at a glorified cult leader with a loaded entourage.

“A symbol,” he said calmly, almost conversationally. “Of choice. Of devotion. Of weakness.”

The word settled like ash. Only then did his gaze lift, sweeping from you to Daryl. Not accusatory. Not cruel. Simply final.

“There is no place for it here.”

And with no ceremony, no smirk, no grand display, he flicked the ring into the flames like it was nothing. Just a gesture. Just punctuation.

You couldn't breathe.

The copper glinted once as it spun through the air, and then it was gone. Swallowed by fire without a sound, as if it had never been at all.

A small, strangled gasp caught in your throat, but you bit it down hard, like you could crush the sound before it gave you away. Tears surged behind your eyes with such force it made your vision blur, but you didn’t let them fall. You couldn’t. Your throat had closed up too tightly to speak, too tightly to breathe, and your fingers twitched at your sides with the phantom impulse to lunge—grab it, save it, stop this.

But you didn’t move.

You stood your ground, even as something in your chest caved inward. Even as your ribcage became a coffin for what that ring meant—the promise, the history, the busload of bullsshit the both of you had survived to be married at all.

You could still feel the weight of it on your hand. Could still feel Daryl’s fingers slipping it on, rough and reverent, back when forever was something you fought for with teeth and blood and hope. And now it was gone.

And you just stood there. Because you had to.

Because this performance—the pretending, the restraint—was the only thing keeping you alive. And if that meant swallowing your scream and letting the ashes cling to your skin like grief, so be it.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t move. But your body reacted like you’d been struck—something inside you recoiling so sharply your knees locked, your breath caught high in your throat, and the air left your lungs without permission.

Daryl’s eyes never left the fire. His face didn’t change. Not to them.

But you saw it. The flicker of something dangerous curling in his expression like smoke off a fuse.

The Commander turned without waiting for a response.

“Begin their assimilation.”

The words were dull, mechanical.

A switch flipped. A process resumed.

As they pulled you out of the room, your body remembered movement before your mind did, and the silence followed like a second shadow. If this was just the start of assimilation, then great — things were already going to shit. They’d taken your ring. You just had to hope you could last long enough and come out the same person.

[lausticzt]

LAURA STARTED IT (...) yet brows furrow in defense, recoiling at his response with a pointed stare / offended (by little) enough her mood seemingly bitters. In retaliation, she tilts her chin, retaining composure. “ I would have thought a flea ridden mutt. I guess rolling around in the dirt doesn't apply. ” Because she is incapable of holding the bite in her words; belittlement rolls of her tongue as casually as she breathes. SHE KNOWS ENOUGH ABOUT THE UNDERGROUND / he has no place to interject. Words would always get under people's skin; she wasn't one to question the extent of her remarks.

Don't look away from her. Laura's annoyance is silent, expression instead twisting at his disregard. In truth, she's been called out. NO EXACT REASON FOR BEING HERE. But admitting that to either Levi or herself was out of the question. Curiosity. She follows it still, despite how often she curses the very thing.

“ I don't need permission to be anywhere. I had my own things to take care of here. Don't be so arrogant. ” Projecting, and while there's truth to her words, how she finds herself here is a different story.

“ I just wanted to see for myself if the rumors about you were true. I still can't understand why. I suppose the scouts really don't have anything better to do with their time. ”

Levi has always been good at reading people. First impressions, hidden feelings, a person's true nature... he may not have the book-smarts or intelligence of geniuses like Hange and Erwin - but that just makes it easier to forget just how perceptive he really is.

But even if he lacked that skill, he thinks - what Laura just said already tells him everything he needs to know about her.

"Is that right?" he responds with a slight sneer. Though he's grown to be able to tolerate people's insults over the years, and he doesn't particularly care what people think about him - that doesn't stop the simmering indignance he feels in his gut at the assumptions they make, and this one, common as it is, is the worst of all.

"My apologies. I suppose you were expecting someone who rolls around in the dirt like a pig." Levi makes no attempt to hide the sarcasm in his words, but that's all he says immediately. He's insulted, but it's not like he's riled up - instead, after he speaks, his gaze drifts away from her and to the table itself as if she's unimportant.

If she doesn't understand, what's the point in trying to make her understand? There's nothing to be gained from wasting time on the ignorant.

"Is there something you needed, or did you just come here to share your disappointment with someone?"

[rayclubs]

Which tf2 merc do you think gets mischaracterized the least?

Good question! Let's do a rating.

In my opinion, there are three aspects to characterizing someone.

Facts - you have to get basic character backstory right. This includes all objective canon truths, events, and, well, facts about said character.

Behavior - you need to understand how the character acts, how their interpersonal relationships function, what they're like in their day-to-day life. This is the nitty-gritty of fanfic and fanart, this is dialogue, line-to-line characterization.

Integrity - you need to understand the character's core beliefs and principles, what their values are and how they view the world around them. This isn't something you can easily quote or point to as a mistake in fanfic, it's more of an overall idea of a character.

Each of these is going to be worth up to three points, with zero for terrible characterization that gets everything wrong. This would ideally total to nine points. I'll be awarding an additional bonus point for character interpretation that doesn't make me scream "he would not fucking say that". Let's go.

Scout:

His backstory is fairly simple. He has an absent father, half a dozen siblings, and a crush on his boss who doesn't reciprocate. People mostly get this right, except they also call him a virgin despite the fact he canonically lands the fried chicken queen, and seems to do it with ease. 2/3.

His behavior is also mostly portrayed accurately, in that he's loud, obnoxious, self-absorbed, and can be kind of a dick, though not completely without endearing qualities. The fandom is, admittedly, guilty of making him more insecure and self-conscious than he actually is, to amp up the drama. 2/3.

His core values, however, are completely off. The main interpretations I see of him are "depressed Scout", "homophobic Scout", and "baby Scout", neither of which is true to his character. This is a grown man with a force-a-nature complex. The homophobia is just projection and internalized prejudice, but that phenomena is too complicated for me to dissect here. I talked about it before and might make another post later. Anyway, 0/3.

Scout does not get a bonus point. He would not fucking say "poggers" but he would say "daddy-o".

Overall characterization score: 4/10

Soldier:

Very little is known about Soldier's backstory so there isn't really any room to be wrong about it. What we do know is also vague and unreliable, so it's open to interpretation. Given how little room for error there is, I'll give him a 3/3.

His behavior is completely off in most cases, often shown to either be overly aggressive or so dumb you start to question how this man functions in his day-to-day life. Canon Soldier has plenty of endearingly stupid moments but a lot of them can be read as deadpan jokes on the character's part, and many turn out to be secretly clever moments, such as him infiltrating the robot base with a goofy cardboard disguise. Likewise, canon Soldier has plenty of aggressive and mean moments, but he's not cruel and very clearly not a threat to his teammates, which isn't captured at all in fanworks that decide to go that way. 0/3.

Soldier's core ideals are mostly captured well, as in - yeah, he calls people communist as an insult in fanfics. I feel like he should mention God more often than he does in fanon, it's, like, one of the two ideologically meaningful things he ever talks about. The importance of "America" as a concept to him is mostly preserved but left unexplored. 2/3.

Soldier does not get a bonus point, he would not fucking say [homophobic slur] yet here we fucking are.

Overall characterization score: 5/10

Pyro:

His backstory is nonexistent yet people still fuck it up. His technical knowledge is clearly extensive and impressive, as shown by the complexity of his weaponry - which, mind you, looks HAND MADE - but people treat him as if he's altogether incompetent and maniacally stupid all the time always. He also ran an engineering company for hell knows how long and people just forget about it because they're allergic to adults or something. God this pisses me off so much. I mean for fuck's sake, people act like his full job description is "Pyromaniac" and not "Pyrotechnician". I'm so tired. 0/3.

His day-to-day characterization and dialogue is also completely off. People treat him as if he's INCAPABLE of communication, make him obsess over childish things he's only shown a moderate liking to in a manner that's borderline creepy and insulting, and take away his whole entire agency in everything he ever does. I will literally not give y'all a single point, you do my man Pyro so dirty. 0/3.

His ideology is complex and vague in canon, and I don't blame people for getting confused by such things as Pyrovision, but FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. In my time on Ao3 I've seen animal Pyro, cryptid Pyro, monster Pyro, alien Pyro, evil mindless maniac Pyro, incompetent baby Pyro, nonbinary Pyro (HENCE MY PROBLEM WITH THE HEADCANON, do you see how it looks next to all these other interpretations?) but I've rarely, if ever, seen competent adult Pyro with actual hopes and dreams and agency. 0/3.

Pyro does not get a bonus point because he would not fucking say "uwu" but he would say "fuck", let Pyro say fuck.

Overall characterization score: 0/10 are you fucking surprised

Demoman:

Oh poor lad what have they done to you. So, Demo's backstory is arguably the most detailed and fleshed-out in the entire canon. Too bad nobody fucking read it. Admittedly, in the recent years I've seen people mostly manage to remember he has several jobs and is overall a competent and successful man, but it's rarely - if ever - explored, I've seen exactly one fic where the author bothered to explore what one of his other jobs might be (and it was not a good fic for many other reasons, don't ask me for a link), and it honestly feels like people don't want to dwell on it? Like, they mostly mention it to fill a quota, y'know? Here, I'm not racist, I've acknowledged one of this character's achievements, leave me alone. Also the subject of him being fucking adopted as a kid never comes up. 0/3.

His day-to-day characterization suffers a lot because people think alcoholism is the most morally repugnant thing that can ever happen to a human being. This man honestly barely even has a presence in the fics he's in. Are you wondering where Demo is? Well, he wasn't there! He was BUSY! He couldn't come! There is a handful of writers who bother to write his actual inner monologue and point of view, and this point goes out to them only. Also there was a pretty good Boots and Bombs fic in which Demo was a dick to Soldier but then got better, and it stuck with me. 1/3.

His core character is fucked up by fandom because he's either all flaws or not allowed to have any flaws, and there's no in-between. Ever since I joined the fandom I've seen a lot of critique floating around, and people mostly seem to listen and realize they've been mistreating the man for long enough, but it created a whole separate problem of Perfect Demoman which is bland and boring. People don't want to write an offensive caricature but don't feel like fleshing him out either, so they just make him great at everything and never let him fail and grown in ways that are meaningful. Except that one fic I mentioned earlier, but I've already awarded a point for that. 0/3.

Demo does not get a bonus point. I couldn't find a meaningful example of bad dialogue because, like I said, he has no presence in any of the fics he's in. He would fucking say something.

Overall characterization score: 1/10 and honestly it's too generous on my part.

Heavy:

Okay so Heavy's backstory really confuses people. I've got like a dozen asks in my inbox when I called his father a revolutionary AND a counter-revolutionary. Wait till I call him a royalist, it'll blow your tits clean off. I don't feel like explaining the history of the communist regime in the USSR on this post, let's just say people are mostly faithful to canon but don't really "get" Heavy. 2/3.

His day-to-day characterization is plain bad. He's treated like a mother hen to the mercs when he's more of a stoic friend with a mean streak and a crude sense of humor. I think the main problem is the dialogue, people just can't give him the dignity of speaking in an intelligent manner. It's honestly also pretty bad in the comics. 1/3.

His core ideals are fine, if oversimplified. He's not a complicated man, he loves his family, his guns and his doctor. People rarely give him any more depth than that but it's not offensive to his character or anything. I feel like he should have more political opinions than people give him. I also feel like people make him way more protective of Zhanna's romantic pursuits, to a creepy degree. I mean, yes, he's annoyed by her marrying Soldier, and seems horrified for a brief second, but it's not like he's against it or anything, he's just kinda surprised? Anyway, 2/3.

Heavy does not get a bonus point because he would not fucking say "da". Pizda.

Overall characterization score: 5/10

Engineer:

Yeah people mostly get him. He's got 11 Ph. Ds. Some treat him like he grew up as an actual cowboy or something but most remember he's a nerd. I'd actually give all the points here because Engie's backstory is NOT complicated. 3/3.

His dialogue and day-to-day characterization is also okay, though people really mellow him down a lot. I had a bit in one of my fics where he said something like "let's teach those sumbitches how the real killin' is done" and like three different people commented on it saying they liked or were surprised by his mean energy. It's not even that mean, I think it kinda shows my problem with his interpretation. 2/3.

I asked about mischaracterization once and a lot of people replied "Engie is the most mischaracterized because people treat him like he's good but he's actually evil" which I think pretty much covers it? It's hard to write someone who is not implicitly strictly good or strictly evil. Engie treads this balance really well, I'm actually convinced his demeanor is not a facade, he is nice at times and mean when he wants to be. Fanon Engie can only be one of two things and neither is right. 0/3.

Engie gets a bonus point as an exception. I actually can't tell why, people just have his voice on-point. Is his accent and manner of speaking really that easy for you? I struggle to write him a lot. I think he should say "bitch" more.

Overall characterization score: 6/10

Medic:

People focus on the fact he lost his medical license more than on the fact he HAD a medical license in the first place. Other than that he really doesn't have a backstory. I dislike that people try to give him a sad one, I think he grew up loved and maybe even a little spoiled, but I can't fault others for not following my headcanons, so. 2/3.

His dialogue is the WORST because it's written phonetically. His goofy yet self-confident energy isn't captured well at all. The best I can put this is "people wife him" but it sounds kinda mysogynistic so really I'm at a loss. Submissivepilled breedablemaxxer. 0/3.

His core values are also all over the place. The complicated thing about writing Medic is that he actually doesn't come with pre-packaged drama. His backstory is vague, his demeanor is optimistic, his vibes are fun, and the worst thing that happened to him in canon was working with the classics for a bit - people amp it up to squeeze hurt out of it, which is fine, but not many people actually like going there. Thing is, fanfic writers aren't that good at writing drama when it hasn't been established before. They have to warp his character, make him edgy, self-conscious, or plain mad evil without redeeming qualities. I remember really struggling with my big Medic fic because I wanted it to be dramatic but had to put a lot of work into actually building up the emotion, because Medic is fine. He's fine. He's alright. He's fine. He's doing well. 0/3.

Medic does NOT get a bonus point, he would not fucking say "babygirl" and I'm not even sure if he would say "yass queen slay" I'm SORRY

Overall characterization score: 2/10

Sniper:

People mostly get his backstory right, probably because it's the most well-explained in the comics and it gets the most "screentime". It's also literally a Superman parody which is funny and memorable in concept. 3/3.

People can't find a good balance between stoic professionalism and social anxiety. I think Sniper is actually pretty simple, in that he's a little self-conscious which pushes him to actively better himself as a professional, but also makes him a little awkward so he comes across as standoffish and a little mean. He's a solid bloke that's balanced and feels real. Fandom has to go for the extreme every goddamn time with him. It sucks. 0/3.

People kind of get his drama, his relationship with his family and whatnot - mostly because a lot of us losers can relate, I bet - but, again, go for the extreme in making him anxious, whiny, and sad as a wet kitten. Unless it's a porn fic in which case he's an absolute freak that growls at people. I don't know what it is about Sniper that makes him so difficult to characterize. Manic pixie dream boy. Dark and moody lover love me like no other. 0/3.

Sniper does NOT get a bonus point because he doesn't say "cunt" nearly as often as he should. Also send me asks about my Sniper takes I want to stir up some shit.

Overall characterization score: 3/10.

Spy:

The only piece of his backstory we actually know is that he fathered the blight of the earth that is Scout TF2. 3/3.

His obnoxious and insufferable demeanor is mostly captured well. A lot of his portrayals aren't nearly as classy as people think they are, but that's because most authors are themselves proletarian, myself included, which is fine. Not many make the effort to pepper his speech with French words it would actually be natural for him to say, and blame it on the nonsensical complexity of the French language, but I'm not buying it as an excuse. 2/3.

His core values are off in regards to Scout - he's often portrayed as soft, mellow, overbearing, and critical of Scout's love life to either a comical or an uncomfortable degree. His fandom portrayal often also lacks the self-confidence he's demonstrated in the comics. Spy is not above strangling a man with a chain that holds the shackles around his ankles, he wouldn't consider it a blow to his dignity to fuck any of his coworkers either, come on. He's also funny and goofy but the fandom tends to neglect that. 1/3.

Spy does not get a bonus point because he would not say "perchance" but he would say "your mother".

Overall characterization score: 6/10

The final scores are:

Spy - 6/10

Engineer - 6/10

Heavy - 5/10

Soldier - 5/10

Scout - 4/10

Sniper - 3/10

Medic - 2/10

Demoman - 1/10

Pyro - 0/10

There we go! Pyro is the most mischaracterized, Demoman is a close second, and nobody is characterized well. Cheers!

[natsuki208]

The Under-appreciation of Marlowe!

What I love about AOT is that there’s always some side character or a bunch of them still get a group of fans, getting loved and talked about despite their lack of screentime. Of course I have a few; the one I’ll be talking about is this straight man with the bowl haircut.

Marlowe Freudenberg was introduced as a naive yet righteous young man, whom’s main goal was to change the Military Police from the inside, knowing too well how badly it operates from the veterans’ actions. Others around him found him weird and stupid - this included Hitch although she was more teasy - but Annie claimed that he seems to be ‘special’ in the same way that Eren was.

(this line of dialogue was not shown in the anime)

Speaking of the former, with the little screentime they had, Marlowe and Hitch became an odd pairing yet an endearing one. Hitch’s laid-back personality just synced perfectly with the straight-forward Marlowe, giving us some funny interactions within both the main story and some side stuff.

They grew mutual respect as shown in season three, and heck, Hitch whacked Jean right in the face as he was interrogating Marlowe - looks like he managed to bring out her caring side.

Further proof to this was when he decided to join the Scouts after failing to change the MPs as he hoped for too long. He said Hitch tried to persuade him to stay - in her own way - but he declined.

This did lead him to having an interesting talk with our main scouts, especially Jean, as the guy further shows his compassion and leadership skills by giving advice to the new rookie. I think Marlowe taking that advice to heart was shown later in the Shinganshina arc… but I forgot.

Now with all of that said, seems like we had an underused but interesting character. He wants to make good within the workplace and has some strong justice, just a bit thick-skulled from time to time. And with him bring in the Survey Corps, you’d think he’d get a more active role, right?

Wrong! He got bouldered and replaced by a red-headed a**hole instead.

To think that all that buildup got plummeted down the drain (just like most characters in this show) and it even pushed Hitch back to the sidelines as well, only to have small interactions with Armin and Annie until they left her behind too. If Marlowe were still around, things like the jaegerists would not have happened since he’d wanna talk some sense into you know who.

Either way, I finally got to express my thoughts on this minor yet charming character who should’ve been a bigger deal near the end of the story; a guy whom wanted to make a difference in such a complicated reality he lived in.

[voraciouspangolin]

Thread of my second read through The Days Have Worn Away

his stupid smile . I want to put him through a food processor

ok one of them came out wearing an eyepatch i think soldier got cheated on and zhanna had a kid with demo

he proposed with a grenade. and. and he pulled the pin and put the ring on zhanna's finger. and threw the grendade

tbh I fear for the person who becomes the centre of her devotion next

she is willing and ready to use her powers for evil

new sniper lore dropped too. He can fly bush planes

hes so real for this

i think these are the team classic characters... There's a plaque missing on the stone statue at the bottom, I wonder what was on it.

I like how everyone at… Administrator HQ is wearing purple

So earlier we got miss pauling's first name initial, f. Pauling.... so this is a confirmation that her name starts with F, and she's on first name basis with engie. Flo- like, Florence? Florida?

This might be a stretch but I think that these paintings on the wall, I think they're like, the BEST of the best mercernaries of their respective class. Pyro is looking at a hard to make out person surrounded by flames, and demo is looking at a high tech looking demoman

look at all these stupid idiots. i love them

she's SO done dude. SO DONE

also this whole thing. Love the detail that spy is checking his watch pompously . and how everyone else is lined up waiting for them to continue walkign

And this one... god, that smile she gives scout. The way scout beams

The art in this comic has improved so so much, its absolutely gorgeous. The way its layed out, the emotion it conveys without needing dialogue.... magnificent. I like how Miss P's undone hair shows itself as more messy. She's at her wits end- she's past the point of anxiety, past the point of tightening and adjusting her hair so that no strand sticks out.

I think this is the most creature like I've seen pyro and I'm so here for it. E's got eyebrows over the mask lol. Also medic's stupid ass tippy toeing to see over heavy

I love the placement of this context we're getting for how Helen became involved with the Manns. It immediately makes you think to the place where The Naked and The Dead ended, with Helen fully perked up on the final bits of australium she had. Yet its a look into the past

big fan of this painting. Three rifles... and these book titles. So silly i love it

New competitor for Most eyebrows, Zepheniah has two eyebrow spikes, beating medics mere one spike

A whole graveyard of Manns.... I like the one thats just a giant M. Really hammering in the notion that the Mann last name is an identity of immense value, that takes over your whole life. oh, and that panel before the final one, its so full of tension... so good

And here's the actual moment we get to see her in all her insanity. What a woman. I like that the screens all face him, constantly displaying the products of redmond's and blutarch's failure to follow the family line of succession. His eyelids constantly forcefully open, unable to speak, yet his brain still processes the information his body is percieving. He's like if Mr House (fonv) had a dominatrix

me too, scout. me too

big fan of how heavy's eyes are the only ones that are dots

her and miss pauling both, they share the Devotion, the ability to pour their entire beings and lives into one single thing

I bet that thing felt like jerky. who said that

Absolute cinema. Amazing. Magnificent. Wonderful. No notes

[akayralylegacy]

EMESIS BLUE IS ONE OF THE BEST THINGS I EVER WATCHED

Yeah, this is going to be some sort of analysis bc I am having a massive brainrot about this movie and I HAVE to share my thoughts of it somewhere, so I hope you enjoy reading this huge post ig lmao

Btw, if you're a person who doesn't like spoilers... SPOILERS WARNING IF YOU HAVEN'T WATCHED IT YET (and plan to do so)!!!

First, yeah, for those who didn't know I've been really into TF2 since last month, and being a very new fan, I started watching lots of SFMs and vids in a row to catch up with all the memes and lore, and well, I stumbled across EMESIS BLUE. And, it got me caught up with its plot/concept and the overall movie itself SO MUCH that I will never think of TF2 the same way-

No I mean, I know TF2 is more humoristic and stuff most of the time, the canon comics themselves have lots of funny moments of nonsense and weird situations, and not even counting the zillions of memes the community has created, those being pure gold. I love the comedic silliness from the comics and memes, plus the chaotic vibe from the game itself is just so fucking funny and stupid I always burst into laughter

But, TF2...with... horror? That's a combination I never thought I'd like so much. The whole concept of the respawn machine not working like it was supposed to, making them suffer from physical and/or mental problems after each respawn, creating an eternal loop of suffering, breaking the characters' sense of reality, torturing them by having to wait an eternity within some sort of limbo of "afterlife"...bro that's so...so disturbing yet so amazing at the same time. The fact the respawn machine caused Scout to develop brain atrophy, decreasing his IQ score and causing dementia and schizophrenia symptoms, while Medic developed some sort of split personality and schizophrenia as well, and you know that each time they return it will just get worse and worse, even them reckoning it later on. It's...just, it is simply horrifying.

The movie's atmosphere is so well made and constructed that I was tense from start to end, I felt like I was inside the movie, like I was witnessing all the carnage and agony of each one of the characters from up close. Like, there was practically no calm moment during those whole (almost) 2 hours of movie, but at the same time so many stuff happens very quickly, it also seems to go a bit slow but not in a bad way, and the details are shown here and there bit by bit. I like very detailed stories that construct the events based on its slow pace, revealing stuff on its right time, but on the other hand, being mixed with agitation, brutality and things happening in a flash. I hope you can understand what I'm saying? I hope I am being able to explain it well, but I think you get what I mean.

Cinematography wise, everything is stunning. The animation, the effects, the light and shadow, the colors and textures, sounds and background music, everything so well made, if you pay attention you can notice tiny details that make a lot of difference and make it even more agonizing yet thrilling to watch. I was so impressed with it just from the start. I mean, the animation>>>>

The quality being SO. GOOD considering it was animated purely on SFM??? THAT'S SO FUCKING IMPRESSIVE AND JAWDROPPING LIKE THAT'S SUCH A BANGER I COULDN'T EVEN BELIEVE IT.

Dialogue and quotes is something to be noted out as well. Many dialogues made such impact to the movie, some quotes making more sense later on as the movie progresses. I swear, that moment where Soldier is in a black n white room, with all those skeletons sitting around a table, and the sound at the background is a phone call from Jules to Blutarch, where Jules says: "We have about 800.000 corpses on the site," that line hit me SO HARD I CAN'T EVEN EXPLAIN. This is SO. FUCKING. DARK AND MORBID BRO I MEAN WHAT THE FUCK

Not only this one but lots of lines caught my attention and hit me so hard, like:

"You ever get the feeling like you're being watched?"

"Doc, I was at the second floor"

"Some get stuck inside trying to come through"

"You don't want to know..."

"It's eternity in there"

"Longer than you think..."

"Who was there to save me, Jules?"

"And I'm giving you exactly what you deserve"

"See you on the other side..."

ISTG THESE ARE SO??? LIKE, THEY HIT SO HARD AND I GOT CHILLS FROM SOME OF THOSE

Also, the voice acting, OOOH THE VOICE ACTING. Some people say it wasn't that good because many characters were voiced by Chad Payne himself, however I think it shows quite a talent from him to voice numerous characters tbh, even if he couldn't perfectly change the voice to fit all the characters 100% it doesn't mean his voice acting isn't good! I think he did an amazing job :]

And all the other voice actors as well, all of them are so amazing and I loved their acting so fucking much, but shoutout to Jazzyjoeyjr (voice of Soldier) and Cameron Nichols (voice of Scout) bc bro YOU DUDES DID A *PERFECT* JOB I SWEAR-

Talking abt moments of the movie that impacted me so much, I think it was Scout's death, and well uh, many Soldier moments tbh. Scout's death scene was agonizing to watch, I was in total despair hearing his screams at the background while Medic was trying to kill Maynard, I was almost having a crisis I was almost yelling of desperation I was like: COME ON MEDIC PLEASE GO SAVE HIM ISTG

It was SO. FUCKING. SAD. AND UNFAIR. I will never get over that moment.

Soldier's moments? Bro, he was the most sane out of everyone, which says a lot... and he was the ONLY one to indeed survive, without dying at any moment. He witnessed it all, the death of his best friend, Fritz shooting himself right in front of him, the pile of bodies, the truth being revealed....everything.

It even saddens me to imagine what could be passing through Soldier's mind after all those events, he seen gruesome and horrifying shit throughout the movie.

So, long-story short, EMESIS BLUE is a fucking MASTERPIECE that traumatized me for LIFE (in a good way), and I highly recommend you to watch it if you haven't yet, I am impressed with it and it doesn't get out of my head I am so fucking obsessed with it ISTG-

[imsogonesposts]

scoops ahoy era robin x reader where they’ve been secretly dating for a while and it’s post russians bathroom scene where steve’s like “and this girl blah blah blah” talking abt robin and reader’s just like “i’m sorry to break it to you but the girl is taken” and she’s holding hands w robin (jealous reader :3) and steve’s like “what. OH”

the boys the girls they all like carmen robin

starry im oh so sorry this took so long tog et out, but she's here!! i hope you like it and ty for requesting 🩷🩷🩷

Bathroom Confessions

|| ao3 || robin buckley masterlist || requests are open!! || an: this is low key mostly dialogue, im sorry ||

summary: When Steve confesses he has feelings for Robin, you break the news to him that she's already taken. (wc: 619)

warnings: very very very brief mention of throwing up

“So, what do you think?” Steve asked, looking between you and Robin. 

It seemed that after spending the night trapped in a Russian elevator and beaten and drugged by said Russians, now was apparently a good time for Steve to confess that he had a crush on Robin. You weren’t stupid, you had a feeling that he had liked the girl, despite Robin’s constant insistence that he didn’t. You also knew it was stupid to get jealous of Steve Harrington of all people in a scenario like this as Robin would never like him as anything more than a friend, but emotions tend to have a mind of their own, it seems. 

“About?” Robin asked, delaying the inevitable.

“This girl,” Steve replies. 

“She sounds awesome,” Robin replies, hand absentmindedly reaching for yours.

“She also sounds like she’s taken,” you say, quickly interjecting yourself into the conversation as you squeeze the girl’s hand. 

Steve, despite himself, looks so comically shocked at your words that you almost want to laugh. Almost. 

“You have a boyfriend?” He asks Robin, looking half shocked, half disappointed. “Well, who is he? How come he never comes to visit you at work?”

You feel more than hear Robin’s visible sigh as she shoots you a quick glance before moving her gaze back to the boy across you both. 

“Steve…” she says softly as she raises your joint hands to Steve’s eye-line.

You can feel Robin grow tense as Steve stares at your joint hands in confusion. “Yeah?” He asks, oblivious.

You shake your joint hands, as if trying to emphasize your point to him and get the guy to understand what the both of you are trying to imply, when suddenly–

“Ohhh. Holy shit,” he says with a nod and a small laugh, as if suddenly all the dots are connecting, as if a switch was flipped in his brain turning on the lightbulb. “That’s why you’re always here!” He exclaims with a laugh as he points his finger in your direction. “And why the two of you are always in the storage closet! I thought you guys were just gossiping or something, but no,” he says still laughing. 

You let yourself smile when you feel the tenseness leave Robin’s body as she moves to rest her head against your shoulder. 

“Yeah,” she replies quietly with a smile. You were happy for your girlfriend, you knew she had liked Steve, really liked Steve, and that, despite herself, she was worried about losing her friendship with him, so you were happy to know that not only was he surprisingly understanding about the situation, but that she wouldn’t have to worry about losing him anymore. You squeeze her hand in reassurance. 

“You’re not gonna tell anyone, right?” You ask tentatively as Steve animatedly shakes his head no, hair flopping this way and that as he does so. 

“No, no, your secrets safe with me, promise,” he says, placing a hand over his heart and raising the other in the air. 

Robin laughs at that, body vibrating against yours, “Boy Scout? Seriously?”

Steve nods with a shrug, beginning to laugh as well. “My parents,” he says through a laugh, and before you know it the three of you are laughing about nothing and everything. Maybe you guys hadn’t thrown up all the drugs yet like you thought you had. 

You aren’t sure how long the three of you are laughing when suddenly, the bathroom door is slammed open revealing Erica and a glaring Dustin, causing your laughter to stop. 

“What the hell?” He asks looking at you all lying on the bathroom floor together, and something about it can’t help but make the three of you laugh yet again. 

[teamtakagi]

Characterization Cheat Sheet: Jerran Thorne

Following @seizethemage-main and @booksncatsworld ‘s lead. This is meant to only be a guide, not a rule, so don’t feel pressured to follow this to a T!

General:

Full name: Jerran Thorne

Gender: Cis Male

Pronouns: He/Him

Race: City Elf

Age: 20

Nationality: Northern Thedas (Doesn't claim a country since he's traveled all over)

Faction: Grey Wardens

Skills: Archery, Sword fighting, whittling small figurines, being a pain.

Languages: Common/Trade, Elven (learned in childhood, a bit rusty).

______

Body Language/Physicality

General Behavior:  Jerran is outgoing, fun-loving, and full of energy. Basically channel your inner Sokka from Avatar: the Last Airbender.  He often plays up the “dumbass” role to keep people at a distance and throw them off balance, but he observes more than you would think. A lot of the pushing buttons is deliberate to either make a point, or test someone so that he can make a judgement call. 

He votes with his feet. If he thinks the idea is stupid or doesn't respect you, he just leaves.

With Friends: Generally Golden Retriever puppy or cat on zoomies. He has no problem running up to friends and flinging an arm over their shoulder if they’re comfortable with it. With others who need a less-energetic approach, he’ll try to tailor it to their preferences. 

Flirting: Absolutely awkward. Scratching the back of his head, shifting his weight, tongue-tied. “Girls are hard to talk to” attitude. 

With an Established Romantic Partner: (Eleanor Ingellvar**) His demeanor relaxes and his eyes soften. He doesn’t feel like he needs to play a role, so everything is genuine. Softer voice, bigger grins. Acts protective if his partner is on the smaller side. He wants to try hard to please his partner, so he’ll try to learn everything that she likes, even if he’s terrible at it. 

In Combat: His eyes sharpen and he becomes more focused on his objective. His movements become more deliberate. He makes split-second decisions and acts decisively. If he sees what he thinks is a better opinion, he will disregard orders and do it instead. He’s actually quite capable at combat, but is more comfortable using his bow and arrows and grenades. He was often sent out as a scout in the mercenary band and in his previous Grey Warden squad.

He fights dirty in battle-- he will absolutely target an enemy's weakest points, stab them in the back, or slit their throat if it means he and his team will come home.

He is also cross-dominant, meaning that he switches sides depending on the task. His right side is reserved for fine motor skills (writing, picking things up, eating, whittling) while his left side does the more physical aspects (shooting his arrows, sword fighting, kicking, throwing). This often gives him an advantage because most enemies don’t expect him to be left-handed. He can switch to his right side in combat, but it’s not pretty.

_________

Dialogue/Speaking

Voice: His voice is in the tenor range (think Jeremy Jordan, most of the Disney Aladdin actors, or Jeff Berg - Rook’s American Male option, medium).  A casual, playful tone that can be snarky. 

General: His vocabulary tends to be simpler, with maybe an out-of-place phrase that he heard someplace and is repeating. He stumbles over larger words, often mispronouncing them. He goes straight to the point, no dancing around the subject. He tends to do really bad puns as well. Uses fillers like, "Uh... um...."

With Friends: His speech will be sprinkled with swearing and creative euphemisms for the Maker’s various body parts. 

Superiors/Leaders: He’ll be slightly more professional than with friends if he respects you.

Romance: He uses a more gentle and genuine tone; he’s not playing the dumbass role with his partner. There may be casual swearing, but it’s less prominent. He’s earnest, wanting to try hard to please his partner.

Humor: Channel your inner Sokka: the more serious the situation, the more blasé he gets. It’s when he drops the humor that it’s an Oh Shit moment.  

Anger: He drops the act and becomes aggressive. He flattens his tone and clips his words. The sentences are shorter and harder with no banter. When he gets to this point, he is going to burn bridges and raze the land. 

If he doesn’t respect someone, he doesn’t bother to pretend to hide it. He deliberately mispronounces the gods’ names as an insult; he won’t waste the brainpower to remember them properly. 

Cursing: Swears in casual speaking, often with just a single “Fuck.”  “Shit, goddamn” are also favorites. He also casually uses the Maker and Andraste’s name in vain: “Andraste’s tits,” “Maker’s balls,” “Maker’s little toe.” 

Combat: He doesn’t have time to be funny; it’s all clipped words and “get the job done” attitude. Much like Anger, but without the “burning the land” aspect.

Post-Minrathous Reaction

_____

** Eleanor belongs to @a-mumbling-nerd

[thunderboltfire]

So, Harding's whole problem showcased throughout her personal quest is that she's a bit of a people pleaser and preferring to be out of the spotlight, and that she bottled her negative emotions up until they basically blew up in her face by awakening similar negative emotions in the remnants of the Awakened Titan.

Yet I think what's interesting in the Heart of the Titan quest in particular is how quickly she finds her footing - the team goes in guided only by her Stone sense and vague clues, but once she identifies the problem and figures out how to solve it, she instantly becomes more confident, to the point she walks straight into a lion's maw. She does it because it's a right thing to do, of course, but also because she probably thinks she's able to take the lyrium shadow on. And to be honest, she's not far off. She goes into a trap blind, which may seem very stupid (especially for a scout), but to be honest, the shadow was clearly very aware of their whereabouts to begin with. You cannot exactly approach a manifestation of trauma with conventional tactics.

She also is quite assertive here - when Stalgard tells her she probably shouldn't have come and that she surely shouldn't try to confront the shadow she opposes him, in a charming, maybe even cocky, but rather undisputable way. Also, interestingly, she opposes the romanced Rook, if the heart dialogue option is chosen. I like this part of the dialogue a lot, because Rook has valid concerns, but Harding has equally valid reasons on why she has to act, and Rook gets a soft, but firm "no" from her. She has a job to do, and by Maker, she will do it. Also, the fact she's 100% confident Rook will have her back nonetheless (and they do!) is very sweet.

I can see how people think she's gotten weirdly wobbly and unsure of herself in DA:TV, but to be honest, I think that's mostly the case of her newfound powers and a very chaotic situation she's put in. Once she has a clear task to do and she mostly understands her position, she's shown to be very confident and driven.

Also, the lighting in the cutscenes and dialogue in the final stretch of this quest is just insane. Veilguard does very well in the story-relevant close-up cinematic shots departament, and I love how vivid the animations in the confrontation with the shadow are.

[gaefandomlover]

if i still can ask about the make me write, can i get a bit of it all?

Sure! Any of my Make Me Writes' or WIP Game Lists are open for anyone to ask, even if it's been several weeks/months. --

Sthiam:

Theo sighed; there was no use escaping from the pack; they'd find him one way or another.

“And why would you, of all the people track me?” Theo asked, directing his question specifically at Stiles.

He knows why Liam would track him down, but Stiles? Any idea as to why he would got through all the effort for him, who was nothing but a science experiment for the Dread Doctors is nothing but a blank screen with static. Stiles looked at Theo like he had seven heads.

“What? Do I have something on my face.”

“Yeah, stupidity.” Stiles teased bluntly, “Why wouldn’t I come looking for you?”

Thiam Pirate:

Theo nodded as Brett walked off to inform the scouts. He then turned back to watching Liam, who was on his final crate, when his father called from the main deck.

“Hurry up, boy! We don’t have all day! I swear I wish your mother took you with her when she ran off with that doctor!”

Liam rolled his eyes, as he mumbled to himself, “You say that every time.”

Apparently his father heard bits and pieces. Theo watched the whole scene unfold, Liam’s father not even noticing him.

“What was that?” Jonathan asked, his impatience and anger rising.

“Nothing, sir.” Liam replied out of habit,

“You better watch that mouth or I’ll throw you in the brig tonight with no food!”

Liam shrank as he held the last crate, avoiding his father’s sharp glare. “Yes, Sir.” Before walking onto the ship to load the last box. Thiam Hero: By 9AM, Chris expected Theo to be on the move again, but he hadn’t moved. He decided to wait a little longer just in case Theo was still sleeping. After two more hours had passed, Theo finally woke up but hadn’t moved; everything felt like it weighed 100 pounds, and the pain wasn’t helping. His stomach growled loudly, and that’s when he remembered he had the remaining protein bars left. Chris smiled when his thermal radar picked up his movement. After Theo ate the protein bars, he didn’t move right away.

Chris watched as Theo just sat there. After a few moments, he picked up the audio. Theo was crying. When the realization dawned on him, it tugged at his heart, but he was interrupted from his thoughts when his phone buzzed with a text. It was Liam who was watching from the cameras back at the base.

“Is everything okay?”

Chris composed himself before replying.

“I don’t know. He’s crying.”

“Awe, 🥺.”

Chris chuckled as he thought, "Leave it to Liam to reply with an emoji."

It's You:

I don't have much to this one-shot, and I've already had to extend the deadline again on AO3, lmao. It's inspired by a song from the band Bad Wolves, It's You, from their recent album. The Oneshot is Theo-centric, and it really dives into Mental Health, which was loosely inspired by Cody's mental health talk from the Paris Con.

"There's only one place I escape....It's you." - Or - Theo didn't realize how bad his mental health had been. Only wanting someone to care about him without a hidden agenda or expecting something in return leaves him lost in his thoughts, trapped like a 9-year-old in a 20-something body, waiting for that wall to break down. One song broke down that wall.

Here's a small line of Dialogue!

"If only I had clicked Scott's number." Theo thought, "Then they would've at least noticed I was in trouble."

Theo paused.

"Now here I am, crying for attention."

WSLTE:

I still don't have much from the third chapter, but I do have a small line of dialogue.

--

“If it were a date, would I be okay with that?”

--

Cody was scared that he didn’t have an answer at that moment. It should have been easy, but it wasn’t. Dylan treated the night like a date; that part was clear, but admitting it was harder. IWBBYS: Pulled from chapter 2

Liam is standing in his room when the mysterious boy suddenly comes up to him with a warm smile as he admires him. Liam blushes under their gaze, which causes the boy to smirk, a smirk that feels very familiar to Liam, but he can’t place it. As Liam fully takes in the boy’s appearance, he notices the boy is roughly two inches taller than him and has fluffy brown hair. Hair that Liam feels the urge to run his hands through. Then, the boy took his hand and led him downstairs. 

“Where are we going?” Liam asked, 

The boy didn’t respond; he just continued to lead Liam downstairs, where he saw the living room was all set up for a movie night. Liam now sees Deja vu as they sit on the couch. There’s pizza in front of them, and the TV turns on, but a random movie starts playing on the screen; Liam isn’t paying much attention to it as he tries to understand what is happening. Then, Liam hears his parents talking from somewhere in the room, and he turns his head to try to find the source. He sees them in the kitchen. 

“I’m so happy Liam has found someone who truly loves him.” His mom says, “I never liked Brett. I had this feeling about him that I couldn’t shake.”

“I agree.” His stepdad replies, “I’m glad Liam has found someone better than Brett; he deserves it.” 

Liam can’t help but blush lightly as he turns back to the movie, looking at the boy beside him, who is so mesmerized by the TV. Liam assumed the other felt his eyes on him because he turned his gaze to Liam with a smile and pulled him close to his side. Liam blushed as he got caught up in his green eyes; he felt himself leaning in closer and seeing the boy do the same as they were about to kiss. Then suddenly, a voice woke Liam out of his dream. “Liam!” Theo shouted, YSWU: Pulled from chapter 2 I don't have much for the next chapter of this fic; my writer's block is a struggle.

--

Before Liam could reply, lips crashed onto his, locking them in a passionate kiss. Theo pulled back slightly, afraid that he fucked up, but Liam pulled him back, deepening the kiss. When they pulled back to get air, Liam looked up at Theo, his Bambi-blue eyes locked with Theo’s forest green ones.

“I would die for you, baby wolf,” Theo whispered, 

Liam froze; he had just gotten Theo and was willing to sacrifice himself for him.

“No, I’d die for you.” Liam countered,

“Li, I’d rather you live your life without me than try to live without you,” Theo replied, his eyes filling with tears,

“I don’t want to live without you. You’re my anchor, Theo. Without you, I lose control.”

“You’re my anchor, too.”

Liam’s breath hitched as tears welled up. When the tears fell down Liam’s cheeks, Theo couldn’t help but gently wipe them. He hated it when Liam was sad; it hurt his heart.

“I love you, baby wolf.”

“I love you, too.”

They sealed their lips in one last kiss before shifting and opening the elevator doors to fight for their lives.

[kleptomaniask]

I mean, you can only use the method if no one finds out. Once, I tried to pull that by sliding them under the floorboards, but I know everyone could hear them.. beating..

@thebubblybutcher

@anotherbloodiedbonesaw

tha Scout urge ta annoy all of your teammates 'cuz you're bored

[yuurei20]

Jack Info Compilation part 8: Competition, Cactus and more

While Jack claims he is “more concerned about losin’ to myself than losin’ to other people,” this might not actually be the case: he often expresses displeasure at the thought of losing to others.

Deuce says that whenever they are on the sports field at the same time they end up competing and “wear (themselves) out to the point of exhaustion.”

Jack says that he doesn’t intend to let Deuce or any of the upperclassmen on the track and field team show him up and that he does not participate in Beanfest to “be a good sport” but to “win with a show of overwhelming force.”

Jack owns at least one (and possibly three) cactus of which he is very fond, turning down a request to discuss shaved ice with Sebek in order to give his cactus a sunbath in the school’s greenhouse. (Sebek: “That’s…surprisingly diligent of him.”)

Jack takes his cactus home during winter break, and when asked what comes to mind when he thinks of something beautiful during Fairy Gala IF he responds, “my cactus.”

While never confirmed in dialogue, in the groovy art of his first birthday card it is insinuated that Ruggie and/or Leona gifted him with one of the cactus in his room for his birthday.

Jack is described as being very large (Cater: “No wonder all the scouts are after him") with Ortho saying that he “has visibly bulging muscles.”

Jack says that being at Heartslabyul makes him feel “like a bull in a china shop,” and Ace teases him for how he looks sitting in the lounge next to the smaller Riddle.

Jack says, “Guys are always tryin’ to pick fights with me just ‘cause I’m tall. It’s so stupid.”

While both Leona and Ruggie are extremely adept at Animal Linguistics Jack says that he only knows a few words in wolf and nothing else.

Jack says his best subject is defensive magic and his favorite food is pear compote but, much like Leona and Sebek, Jack is big on eating meat.

Jack seems uncomfortable in formal wear, saying he is “much more of a school uniform kinda guy” and he doesn’t like “fancy-pants, flowy stuff” like the school’s ceremonial robes.

From Jack we learn that “most beast-people tend to use bone conduction headphones” rather than standard earphones.

Jack may not be particularly technologically inclined: he says that “Aside from Leona, most of the sports club guys are pretty bad with tech.”

He goes to bed by 10pm.

[angelofchaos001]

Me and doodle were making our friend play Outer Wilds yesterday, and it was certainly a funny time

Spoilers for Outer Wilds and Echoes of the Eye ahead, lol

Our friend does some pretty funny things since he knows nothing. Among those things he's done that are stupid are:

He's very good at getting caught in the sand column, and it's very funny.

He accidentally got past the current on Giant's Deep after seeing the model through the projection stone, and then ran right into the core. He has suspicions about the jellyfish since they can pass, but he's not found Feldspar yet.

He hates anglerfish, they eat him every time he enters, but he wants to explore the red light. (egg room)

He almost got Hotshot

He found one of the secret EotE rooms by accident, though couldn't do anything with it yet since he hasn't found the simulation (which is astounding)

He is an amazing pilot (He is not)

But by far, the funniest thing that happened was when he found Solanum.

When he originally landed on the Quantum Moon, he knew the rule of quantum imaging and the rule of the sixth location, but didn't get anywhere with the shrine because he didn't know entanglement.

Well he learned entanglement by accidentally finding the shard and noticing how it yoinked his scout when he launched it on the shard.

So he went back to the Moon, and after going supernova the first time before he saw the woman, he got to Solanum and this was roughly how the conversation went:

Me and Doodle: Woman!

Friend: Huh. (*said while talking to her*)

Me: Notice anything?

Doodle" About the woman?

Friend: (*reading dialogue*) Cool...is this all that's here?

Me: ...Do you not realize what you're looking at?

Friend: Uhhh

Doodle: [Name] this is a LIVING NOMAI.

Friend: oh.

Me: That all died a fuck-long time ago.

Friend: oh.

Doodle and Me: [Name] YOU ARE TALKING TO A LIVING NOMAI.

He reacted very normally to this news.

This combined with his ritual of eating a burnt marshmallow at the start of each loop for good luck has earned him the nickname 'Gabbro'

[carriedlikeabriefcase]

Small snippet of a party scene from chapter four of my modern au Douma x reader, The Girlfriend Experience. The dialogue is heavily inspired by Superstore

Cw: substance use

Aizetsu was unphased as Karaku wrapped an arm around his neck, “Bro, have you found any ladies to lure back to your room?”

“I'm sorry,” Giyuu shifted his head to face Karaku. His nose was scrunched up in a combination of disgust and confusion, “Lure?”

His question fell on deaf ears as Karaku fled the room. Probably to scout out who he'd convince to keep his bed warm that night.

Urogi, however, remained behind to ask, “Aizetsu, are you the one putting up pictures of naked horses in my room?”

Your eyes blew wide. Who the fuck starts a conversation like that?

After finishing your drink, puzzled, you asked, “Aren't all horses naked, all the time?”

The man flashed you a menacingly toothy grin, “Not this naked.”

Aizetsu took another hit of Karaku's vape pen, before passing it off to Giyuu. Almost certainly the reason Sekido was planning to join law enforcement in the near future was to keep his younger brothers out of trouble. The earthy scent that clung to the air and their clothes told you all that you needed to know.

The sullen stoner pinched his brow and shook his head, “Urogi, I'm not putting up pictures of naked horses up in your room. That's stupid. In fact, ask Karaku. He knows all about that.”

The conversation at your other side was somehow equally as strange.

In a strangely serious tone, Tengen announced, “One time, I got my dick caught in Kyojuro's zipper.”

Thankfully, your cup was parched. Had you made the mistake of drinking at that moment, you would've choked. Dying while listening in on a conversation about Tengen Uzui's penis was not how you wanted to go out.

One of his girlfriends, Hinatsaru, asked, “I'm sorry but I just gotta ask...where was Rengoku's penis?”

Her face was a little flushed from the alcohol. She had probably pregamed before her arrival, or at the very least your arrival.

Kyojuro let out a booming laugh, rattling the room, “To be completely honest; for a while, neither of us knew.”

Yup, that confirmed it. You needed another drink.

[zalrb]

PLL 2x02 Review - As Per Anon Request

"And WHY is Melissa answering him?" "I mean is she?" Can you not see the text history?? It's the 2010s, we know how texts works now.

Someone is probably going to have remind me that Jason is Alison's brother.

And Spencer's half brother or something? Is that right?

"He's worried about you" does he pay child support?? You were stealing shit because you refused to downsize, Hanna's mom.

Emily's mom: Leave your phone downstairs so I can regulate who you're calling.

Also Emily's mom: *leaves Emily's bedroom without taking her phone so Emily can just call Spencer*

"omggg how are we going to talk at school??" Aria's mom is the only one who is actually at the school and she doesn't know her daughter is being groomed by her colleague, you can do whatever you want at school, wdym.

Aria needs to stop wearing big earrings.

THEY ARE SO BORING.

"Don't you read the papers or listen to the news?" "No." MONA. The actress commits to the bit. I respect it.

Aria, why are you telling Mona all this?

LMAO is this Toby's hero hair??

Ngl, it's a step up. His season 1 hair was a MESS.

Just let Claire do her regular accent, please.

Samara, how old are you? Why aren't you at college?

They have the most chemistry, though.

Bro, do you pay child support or alimony?

GET OUT OF HERE. I like how the music is dramatic to show how unhinged Jason is but when he throws the newspaper it lands on the ground in front of the dog instead of him actually hitting the dog with the newspaper, and not that we had to see the newspaper hit the dog but they could've cut away so it looked like he hit the dog with it.

The issue with PLL is a lot of the dialogue is rehashing things we already know, like why do I have to hear AGAIN about what's going on with Spencer and the police just because she's talking to Jason. Give me NEW information.

Jesus christ, the scout would be at her house or at a restaurant.

Like, Emily would not be explaining this to her mother herself, the scout would be having this conversation with her.

Toby, I swear to God, you can inflect.

Aria, it's been over an hour. LEAVE. You shouldn't even BE there in the first place.

I do think it's funny that Aria was all Spencer you're the Queen of Time or Master of Time or whatever and Spencer never answered Aria's question, she just sees Toby and is like gotta go. Another show would've had her drop her Time Wisdom before hanging up. But not this one. You're on your own, Aria.

"I'm sorry it seems that way." LOL at least they got deadbeat dads right.

Seriously, Ezria or whatever they're called are boring AF.

Claire's accent is struggggggggling.

Sophomore English ... sophomore high school English or college?

I ship no one on this show more than Mona and Hanna honestly.

No, I don't *ship* ship them, it's just they're fun.

LOL gotta love Spencer and her rationality. "You should've told me he was texting her." "Why? What would you have done?" "I would've done something." "WHAT?" "... ... I don't know." Mmhmm. And she knew it.

Why aren't you two comfortable with each other yet? You fell asleep on his lap, Spencer. Girl, sit next to him.

Aria's shoes are RIDICULOUS.

Well, it was Aria's turn to be attacked.

"The fact that A can just break into our houses??" And none of you have security cameras. It probably wouldn't have mattered anyway since A is a supernatural entity.

She's going to forge the letter obviously but he would just talk to her parents.

Stop using the classroom time to talk to your underage girlfriend through code, Ezra.

"Always read, have a good life!" Shut UP.

Is this the stupid rain kiss scene?

No, but it's a parking lot kiss. Outside the school. Which is ... SHE IS SIXTEEN.

And also NOTHING. N O T H I N G about them, morality and ethics and general ick factor aside, merits a slow-mo jump kiss. THEY DO NOTHING. THEY WHINE. THEY ARE SO BORING.

My link froze so I won't see this episode's epilogue, though I never really watch those anyway.