#ch: the drifter

[waterdeep]

ERIS MORN and THE DRIFTER in DESTINY 2: SEASON OF THE WITCH.

[carmyboobear]

ALEXITHYMIA CH 1: onions, weed, and pizza

Roommate AU: Carmy Berzatto x Reader (R18)

ao3 link ch 2 ch 3 ch 4

Summary: Carmy can’t put into words how he feels about his roommate. It’s only been a couple months, but here he is looking forward to going home and sharing a smoke with them. That’s all it is, though. There are no underlying feelings, none at all, even if everyone around him has something to say about it. 

Or: Carmy is repressed as ever, but through the combined power of vulnerability, weed, and the horny, Carmy too can find love. 

Tags: hurt/comfort, friends to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn, cursing, yearning, repression, SO MUCH REPRESSION, angst, mental illness, canon-typical imagery, unresolved tension, for now, virgin carmy, use of weed, alcohol, all that good stuff, carmy character study, eventual smut, gender neutral reader, nonbinary reader, up to you

A/N: HI I've never posted fic on tumblr before but i deeply love Carmy...please enjoy!!!

CHAPTER 1: onions, weed, and pizza

It always stays the same. 

This is the thought that Carmy has when he wakes up, gasping for a chance to just catch his breath and keep it. It’s a kitchen knife twisting like a lock and key in his chest. It fits just right, as all awful and familiar things seem to do.

No matter how many times he wakes up, he’s never anywhere different. That drowning feeling suffocates him in his sleep and follows dutifully into his waking hours. He can’t remember when that haunting started, only that it’s always been with him.

He hates feeling like a drifter, like he’s lost (even though he is both of those things), so he picks a goal and runs after it like a monster. He’s an animal, hunting and working and bleeding until he fucking makes it work , because that’s who he is, and that’s who he’s always been. He can’t not make it work. Because if he can’t do it, then…then what was it all for? 

What is he even for?

These are the thrilling thoughts that serve as the background music to the swirl of his cheap morning coffee, oils rotating in a slow circle. He thinks about getting a nicer brand next time he goes grocery shopping. But that would mean change. That would mean less money on the restaurant, too.

Yeah, so it tastes like shit, but it doesn’t matter. Even if it mattered once. Less and less matters to him these days.

Mornings in Chicago are not technically quiet by definition, but when compared to other times of day, they are. Especially when most of his day is spent in the kitchen wringing out his throat. It isn’t bad to have a quiet morning by normal means, but for him…

The quiet is dangerous.

It’s not silent, but it’s not enough. There’s distant beeping of impatient cars. The whirring sound of the old AC unit. He tries to listen to them, but his rampant thoughts nonetheless rise above them all, buzzing everywhere with nowhere to land. 

A brief analysis of his thoughts reads as such:

Beef sandwiches eggs flour shipment Michael cigarettes smoking sore throat late shipment so tired not sleeping Michael Sugar Mom coffee tastes bad it’s too early my stomach hurts Michael fucking hates you Michael Michael Michael Michael Michael you piece of shit you fucking ki—

“Mornin’, Carmy.”

Until his roommate wakes up, that is. 

When he moved back to Chicago, there was a fact, plain, simple, and unchanging. He wasn’t gonna make rent on his own, not with the restaurant. Not with everything. So maybe he didn’t need to deal with a new roommate, but it’s not like there was a choice. It seemed bearable, survivable enough.

He keeps waiting for the thing that’ll make him grit his teeth, make him regret not getting a place on his own, but it never comes. They’re easy to live with. It’s so easy, as a matter of fact, that it feels strange. The difficulty that he was so certainly expecting just isn’t there. 

If anything, he looks forward to being at home. For someone who lives at work, that feeling is completely foreign.  

They don’t steal his food (not that there’s much). Instead, they cook him food, leaving heated leftovers on the stove on late nights. In Carmy’s case, that’s most nights. They don’t bring over obnoxious company and keep him up with the noise. Rather, he basks in their company, and they make a ruckus between their laughter. Their presence doesn’t stifle him, it soothes him, just like the candle they leave lit in the kitchen for him when he comes home.  They’re not just easy to live with, they’re good to live with, and that’s…

That’s been a hard adjustment, Carmy would say. It’s too much of a good thing that he’s not sure what to do with himself.

On those late nights, they’re usually fast asleep by the time he’s home. But as he sits and eats the leftovers they’ve kept for him, he wants to say something. Something about how a long time ago, there was once a Carmy who cooked for himself, who looked after himself, but that he’s not that Carmy anymore. That it doesn’t matter that he’s a five star chef and they’re just some guy in the kitchen, as they would put it, because he’s…

He’s grateful. Incredibly so.

And yet, the words will never come out. He feels the words tingling on his lips, but it feels scary. He can thank them as many times as he likes (which he does) but it will never capture what he’s really trying to say when he says thank you . There’s too many words, and it just can’t…it just can’t—

It always stays the same. 

“You’re up early,” he says to them when they enter the room. It’s a rare sight to see them up at the early hours he frequents. He sees the morning drowsiness in their mussed hair and big t-shirt stained with hair dye. They yawn back at him, nose scrunching.

Cute , he thinks, and he stamps it down as soon as it flashes through his mind. 

“Randomly woke up.” They fall into the empty seat next to him on the couch, and they rub at the crust around their eyes. “About to head off to work?”

“Unfortunately, yeah,” he replies. There’s a certain sentiment that lies on the tip of his tongue, something about how he wishes he could have a slow morning with them instead. Of course, he can’t voice it. He can’t even come close.

“The plague of the working man,” they sigh. “Well, I got an idea that might cheer you up.”

“...And that would be?”

“Let me paint you a beautiful picture,” they start. They clear their throat and gesture widely with their hands. He notices their chipped nail polish, the writing callus on their middle finger. “Imagine this—you come home from work, tired. You need to relax —something you need to do more often,” they add with a pointed look.  No comment. “And I have dinner ready. Some sort of soup, pasta maybe. I need to check the fridge.” They pause with a yawn. “And before we eat, we smoke a big, fat joint.”

He snorts as they finish, unable to hold back a laugh. 

“That’s a nice picture,” he admits. He doesn’t remember when he started smiling. “Y’know, I was wondering when the joint was gonna pop in.” 

“You fucking know me, man,” they reply, blooming with his interest, his smile. Not that he can perceive that. “So? Thoughts? Haven’t done that in a while, right?”

“Right, right,” he echoes faintly. His mind is already sorting through the pile of tasks on the schedule. “Well, I gotta go over this new recipe with Marcus, today,” he mutters, partially under his breath. “But before that, ingredient orders. And those invoices before the end of the day—and that, that toilet guy was supposed to come today…I think?”

“Dude, I do like, one task, and the day’s over for me,” they say sympathetically, and the look on their face is so serious that Carmy struggles to hide his smile. “You’re crazy.”

“I, I’ve seen you do tasks,” he argues. 

“Name one,” they argue back.

“You did two loads of laundry and did the dishes all before lunch time once,” he says, the memory clear and instant. “And when I woke up, you were vacuuming the whole place.” The immediacy surprises him, and it seems to surprise them, too. 

“Damn, I said name one , but I guess I’m just that good!” They laugh, a breathy, exasperated sort of thing. “Well, point taken. Anyway, it sounds like you’re not gonna be home early tonight.” 

“It is a Friday,” he says, “but…”

“But.”

“Can’t make promises I can’t keep,” he sighs, and shame melts over him like butter on a stainless steel pain. This isn’t anything new. 

“I know, I know,” they say, gracious as ever. “It’s okay. Such is the life of a business owner, yeah?” He searches for some thinly veiled shred of disappointment, frustration in their expression, but he doesn’t. No matter how many times he lets them down, the explosion he’s waiting for never comes. They remain patient, collected through it all. 

Says more about him than them, he supposes. 

“Yeah,” he mutters, “such is the life.” 

“C’est la fucking vie,” they say, and he laughs with a shake of his head. 

It can feel strange to laugh. He worries that the lightness in his chest will expand like a balloon, and he’ll float away. It’s uncontrollable, foreign. It should be scary, how his emotions lead him when he’s around them, not the other way around, but it’s not. 

It’s not scary to loosen up around them, and that’s the scary part. There are no words to describe why. All he can see is that the fear exists, stubborn and persistent. That fear is what makes him snap out of it, makes him look at the clock. He holds back a sigh. 

“Time to go,” he mutters, and they nod.

“And time for me to go back to bed.” They salute him. “Best of luck with your day, brave soldier. And just shoot me a text if you do end up coming back early, ok?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll try. And, thanks. You, you too,” he gets out. He stands up, readjusting the waistband of his pants. “I’ll, uh, see you later.”

“See you,” they say through a yawn, waving at him from where they’re lying down. They’ve taken his spot, sprawled across the couch, tangled hair flayed out on the pillows. 

Cute , he thinks again, and hearing the thought in his brain makes him wanna panic. 

He doesn’t wanna panic, doesn’t wanna think about it at all, so he nods, shuts the door, and heads out to work with a cigarette hastily lit in his mouth. 

By the time it’s Carmy’s lunch break, he swears his vocal cords must have snapped by how tight he was wringing them. 

The soreness has never stopped him from lighting a cig, though. As he stands outside in the back, finally forced to go on his 30, he smokes rather than eating. There’s a sandwich in his pocket, one that was bearing the brunt of test ingredients. He can feel the aluminum wrapping at his fingertips. 

Eventually, he does eat, though, because he sees the way his hands are shaking when he flicks his lighter. He doesn’t wanna shake when he uses a knife, so he eats. He tastes it, but he doesn’t really taste it.

In truth, he wasn’t even planning on taking his lunch break at all. Most days, he forgets about it. The kitchen’s always busy, there’s always something missing, there’s always something that hasn’t been prepped that’s ruining everything, the lights in the hallways keep flickering because they need to fixed, Fak’s supposed to fix them, but he can’t, because Richie’s still out getting the replacement bulbs, the pile of papers on his desk are bigger than he remembers, he doesn’t have enough fucking time—

But then he’s in the middle of chopping an onion, and the cutting board slips. The half-chopped onion and its sliced offspring scatter on the floor with the cutting board. The sound of its fall draws Sydney in like a whip. 

“You okay? Need a bandaid?” Sydney’s already kneeling by him, helping him pick the onions off the floor. 

“I, I’m fine, didn’t drop the knife,” he explains, and it feels like an ocean current is rushing by his ears. “Fucking, I just—such a stupid fucking—” He sucks in a breath and goes silent. 

His entire body feels tight, wound like a spring. He can barely fucking breathe. 

“Hey.” Carmy turns his intense stare from the onions to Sydney, and when he sees her searching expression, he remembers himself. “Maybe you should go take your lunch break.”

“No, I’m fine, really,” he repeats, and he feels like he’s heard this before. From someone else. He can’t remember. Who was it? “The onions—we’re behind on onions—”

“I can handle onions for 30 minutes,” she interrupts, decisive and firm. “Seriously.”

Carmy’s about to say something, but then he’s looking at the onion half in his hand. His hand is shaking. 

“Okay,” he sighs after a beat. “Okay, yeah. Sorry. For fucking up.”

“It happens. We all have our moments.” She shrugs. When he keeps standing there, she makes this shoo-ing motion with her hand. “Go on. Take your 30!”

So here he is, taking his lunch break a whole hour later than he’s supposed to. Although it’s better than most days where he doesn’t take it at all.

She wouldn’t have had to tell you to take a break if you didn’t fuck it all up, he thinks to himself, eyebrows knitted together. When the last time I’ve fucked up something so fucking easy?

He thinks about his dream from last night. A familiar sight of red fire and flames up to the ceiling, crackling so loud it sounded like screaming. The only good part is that when he woke up, he wasn’t at the stove burning his place down. It hasn’t happened at this apartment yet. Carmy hopes it never happens. 

Just get it together, he thinks. He aggressively taps the ash out onto the decrepit ash tray they have in the back. It’s full. You’re supposed to be at this shit. So just be good.

“Cousin.” Carmy snaps his head up, and Richie’s at the door, stepping out. His presence yanks him out of his inner whirlpool, a quickly descending spiral. “Gimme one.”

Wordlessly, Carmy hands him a cigarette. Richie plucks it out of his hand like a flower.

“You had a lighter, but no cigarette?” Carmy comments, squinting at Richie pulling a busted up red lighter from his jean pocket. 

“Shut up,” Richie mutters, but there’s no heat behind it. “Got the wrong damn light bulbs,” he explains unprompted. 

“Alright,” Carmy sighs. He has so little energy that the frustration bypasses him completely, diving instantly into deflated acceptance. “Just return ‘em.”

“Can’t,” Richie says, and when Carmy gives him a look, he elaborates, “no receipt.” 

“ Dude .” Carmy opens his mouth, but then he shuts it again. It’s just not worth it. “Thanks anyway, cousin. We’ll get it done.”

“Don’t fuckin’ thank me, you asshole. I didn’t do shit.” Richie nudges him, but like before, it’s not an angry thing. “Also, toilet guy’s not comin’ today.”

“The fuck? Why ?”

“Canceled,” he replies simply. 

“Fucking hell,” Carmy mutters under his breath. “Did he say when he could reschedule?”

“Not yet.”

“Great.”

“Yep.” Richie tilts his head up, blowing out a slow stream of gray cigarette smoke. “Might as well wait for Fak to get his ass back in town at this rate.”

“I guess.” Carmy sighs. He thinks about all the things he still needs to do. “I dropped this onion I was chopping, earlier,” he mentions out of nowhere. 

“Okay.” Richie gives him a look. “And? You bitches chop those things up faster than I could cut one in half.” 

“I dropped it on the floor,” Carmy tries again, but Richie’s expression remains unchanged. “I never do shit like that.”

“Well, cousin, you did.” Carmy feels something in him deflate. “What’s the big deal?”

“Nevermind,” he replies, because he’s a coward. “Just—just forget it.”

Silence. The spark of a lighter. 

“I’m gonna leave early,” Richie says, like he can just do that. Which…he can, Carmy supposes. “If no one’s gonna show up, what’s the point?” He slaps Carmy’s back, and Carmy doesn’t watch him as he heads back inside. 

Guess all I need to do later is get rid of those papers on the desk , Carmy thinks to himself, idly moving the shortening cigarette between his lips. Then that’ll be it, I guess.

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s gone home early. It’s hard to even imagine what he does on days like those. Sleeping, probably.  There’s nothing much else for him to do, not with how tired he is—

Shoot me a text, okay?  

He hears them in the back of his head all of a sudden, and he remembers. 

Oh, he remembers, hands moving to take out his phone. Almost forgot.

“Sorry to bother you, chef.” Carmy’s not sure how he didn’t hear the door opening. Marcus’ head pops out, nose covered in flour. “Just wanted to let you know that we’re gonna need more flour for tomorrow.”

“Order’s not gonna come for a couple days. I thought we had an extra bag left,” Carmy tries, but the guilty look on Marcus’ face explains it all. 

“Dropped it,” Marcus grimaces, and Carmy’s already fucking over it. 

“We’re all fucking up today, chef,” Carmy replies, and the day goes on. 

. . . . .

It’s a strange, delightful miracle, but he manages to get out of the restaurant before the sun sets.

Considering their collective track record, the fact everyone was able to leave early was cosmic intervention. It helps that the toilet guy didn’t come, in an unfortunate way, but still. Standing outside of the restaurant in the evening like this feels…weird. 

It’s not that Carmy’s complaining about a nice thing, it’s just that he wasn’t prepared to have anything good today.

Shower, dinner, and weed, he thinks absentmindedly on the way home. He juggles the three around in his brain. Just the thought of it feels like relaxing. A little.

With company , his brain helpfully adds, and his stomach squirms. 

Self control, he thinks. He needs more self-control. He can’t just keep thinking of them so indulgently. He’s not allowed to think of them that way, because it’s not fair to them. Even if no matter how many times he chastises himself, it never works. Even if they remain in his brain like sun-spots in his vision. Even if it’s not his fault that he just can’t help it.

The thing is, though, it always is. Even when it’s not his fault, it actually is. Always.

You dropped that fucking onion , his brain helpfully adds for no particular reason. Fucking loser.

Fuck off , he thinks back as he approaches his front door. Predictably, it does not stop.

Just as his fingers search for his keys in all of his pockets, he hears something that makes him pause, hands stopped on his waist. It’s music, distant and muffled. They’re probably listening to music in the kitchen. He stands, trying to place the song, but he doesn’t recognize it. 

He does recognize the voice that’s singing over the music, though.

Oh, he realizes. That’s them.

The way their voice clumsily layers over the music shouldn’t make him pause like this. He shouldn’t be doing this, standing in the doorway and listening rather than opening the door. The keys are in his hand. This, this is a breach of privacy, he tells himself, feeling a little dizzy with distress, he just needs to just—

There’s an abrupt, loud clang, and he shoves the door open.

Concern is on the tip of his tongue, but it dies there. The source of the noise lays face-down on the floor—a pan sitting in what seems to be tomato sauce. The matter next to it is what makes the words evaporate from his lips, like they were never there at all. 

They’re kneeled down next to the pan, paper towels in hand, but all they’re wearing is an apron. 

His mind blanks. He thinks he stops breathing. He’s never seen so much of their skin at once. He needs to look away, he thinks, but his eyes keep traveling, traveling, and traveling. It just happens so quickly. He doesn’t mean to look, he doesn’t, but they’re right there and he can see right down their—

“No, I—I’m sorry! I didn’t know you were coming back early!” They exclaim, quickly crossing their arms over their chest, and that’s what makes him tear his eyes away. 

“I—I thought I texted you,” he says quickly, hot face turned to the side, “on my lunch—...“ He stops there, the memory reconstructing itself. 

He forgot.

“It’s fine, I just feel bad about dinner, and, uh—okay, I’m just gonna change real quick, and then I’ll clean this up,” they reply, words rushing out. In the corner of his vision, he sees their bare legs dart to their room.

It seems wrong to just stand here staring at the tomato sauce slowly expand outwards on the floor, so he cleans it up. A couple paper towels later, he’s gotten most of it, and they’ve returned with a change of clothes.

“Sorry,” Carmy starts right as they also go “I’m sorry”. He pauses, meeting their eyes. It’s a lot easier now that they’re wearing leggings and a t-shirt as opposed to, well, nothing. Not to say he doesn’t appreciate the leggings. 

“Sorry you had to see me like that,” they sigh. “I don’t—I don’t usually walk around the place naked, I just—I didn’t think you’d be back—“

“I should’ve texted,” he interrupts. He struggles to not think about them walking around the living room naked. “I forgot. But it, it’s fine. You’re fine. Really. Sorry for not texting.”

“Okay. Cool.” They exhale, a tired noise. “And it’s okay. It happens.” They look at the floor and make a sound of surprise. “Did you clean this up?” The look they give him has far too much gratitude, and it feels like a searing hot iron.

“Yeah, uh.” His hands are moving like he’s trying to explain something, but no words crop up. “Felt weird not to.”

“Well.” They smile, grateful. “Thank you. That was gonna be dinner, but…” They trail off, looking at the floor with a sour expression. “I fucked up.”

“It’s just that sort of day today,” Carmy mutters.

“Shitty day for you, too?” 

“Yeah. Lots of shit went wrong.” Especially me, he thinks, but he doesn’t say it. “You?”

“Gotcha.” They shrug. “As for me—yeah. Really not my best day. It was just, uh, some family shit. You know how it is.”

Carmy makes a sound of acknowledgement. “That sucks.” He doesn’t know much about their family other than that they’re fairly shitty. It’s the same the other way around, too. 

“It’s whatever,” they say, even though it really isn’t, and he knows it. They look at the floor one more time before looking up at him. “Do you just wanna order pizza or something?”

“Yeah, I do,” Carmy replies, his words coming out much more despondent than expected. 

They settle on some pepperoni pizza from a place down the street. It’s a tried and true method—they deliver, it’s cheap, it’s oily, it’s cheesy, it’s good. Just talking about it makes Carmy taste it on the tip of his tongue. 

“You can go and shower if you want. I’ll get the door when pizza comes,” they offer. They’re standing at the sink, sleeves rolled up. 

“Okay, thanks.” Carmy pauses then, gears turning. He’s vaguely worried his memory is going to shit. “Did—did I just say I was gonna shower?” 

“Oh, no, you didn’t, you just always shower when you get home from work, right?” They say it like it’s the weather, like it’s familiar, and that’s when Carmy realizes because it is. After several months of living together, of course they’ve picked up on his habits. It doesn’t need to be a thing. There’s no reason for it to be a thing.

“I do,” Carmy replies faintly, and for some reason, that’s all he can say. 

“Thought so.” They look at him for just a moment, but it makes him feel like his body’s gone transparent. “I notice these things, you know.”

“Yeah.” Carmy looks at them when they turn back to the dishes, back facing him. “You do.” 

He tells himself he’s not gonna think any harder about any of it. He’s not gonna think about the singing, the apron, the way they just notice these things, but then he does. 

He’s in the shower, and he thinks about everything.

The water pressure is pathetic, but the warmth still feels nice. Between that and the sound of the running shower, it’s usually enough to quiet his thoughts. This time, though, it doesn’t. To his credit, he does try to think about anything else. 

He thinks about work, because he always does. He thinks about flour, about onions, about knives. He thinks about the shampoo lathered in his hair. He thinks about those lightbulbs they still need to get. He thinks about food. He thinks about them. He thinks about pizza. He thinks about the way they sing when no one’s around. He thinks about the way they know him. 

He thinks about them, knees on the floor only in a—

He thinks of bashing his head into the tile wall until he explodes.

“Shut the fuck up,” he whispers to himself, rivulets of hot water trailing down his forehead and dripping off his lips. “Shut the fuck up.”

The soreness is still present in his body, but that never quite goes away. He does feel a bit better now that he doesn’t have sweaty, sticky skin, though. It gets even better when he puts on a clean white t-shirt and his favorite sweatpants. It’s a nice surprise from his past self who did his laundry for him. 

This amount of niceness is okay. This is what he’s used to—a shower and comfortable clothes when he’s home from work. That’s enough.

He steps out into the kitchen with a damp towel on his head. He finds them sitting by their one shitty window that opens, pizza box in front of them and joint lit. It casts an orange glow to mix with the golden light from the window. 

“Hey, pizza’s here!” They slap their hand on the greasy cardboard box. “Just got this joint started for us, too.”

“So you weren’t gonna smoke it all on your own?” He doesn’t mean to tease, but he does. He slips into the seat across them, arms resting on the table they placed by the window. 

“I couldn’t smoke this whole thing even if I wanted to,” they protest. “Besides, joints are made for sharing. Here—now you get to take it. Isn’t that nice?” With their elbow propped up on the pizza box, they hold up the joint to him. The lit end of it sizzles a bright orange, emitting a thin trail of smoke up to the ceiling. 

“That is very, very nice,” Carmy agrees, taking it carefully from their fingers. Their face spreads into that contagious grin of theirs, and he’s far from immune. Sometimes he smiles so much around them that his face hurts, rusty and unused. 

Sure, he can blame that on the weed, but if he’s being honest with himself (a rare occasion), that’s a complete lie. Obviously the weed lessens the tension, the stress that winds him up tight. It’s not just the weed that gets him to relax, though. 

It’s them. There’s something disarming about their presence, something that makes him loose-lipped around them. Even when he’s sober, he finds himself feeling comfortable. He’s not quite sure how that happened, or if that’s ever happened. He supposes that isn’t a bad thing. Just something he’s noticed. 

He wonders if they’ve noticed. 

“You like the new rolling papers?” They tuck their knees under their chin, propping their feet up on the chair. 

“Hm.” Carmy lowers the joint from his mouth to give it a good look. He rotates it around in his fingers. “Strawberry?”

“Yeah, it’s strawberry,” they confirm, poorly hiding the excitement in their demeanor. Not that they were trying to. “Can you taste it?” 

He pulls from the joint, the edges of the paper sizzling red with the weed. It’s an even burn this time. He rolls his tongue around in his mouth after he exhales a cloud of smoke. 

“Still no,” he decides after a beat, and they sigh. 

“I don’t know why I ever get my hopes up.”

“I do taste something else in this, though.” He takes another hit, stews on it. “Lavender?”

“Shoulda known you would’ve gotten it on your first tray. Yeah, it’s lavender. I found some lying around.”

“You made this one pretty nice,” he observes, eyes tracing the shape of the joint. “Between the lavender and the new papers, I mean.”

“Well, y’know.” The smile on their face is small and shy. “I don’t smoke joints often, so I wanted to make it nice, and I, uh…”

They’re paused for so long that Carmy interjects. 

“And?”

“And I—want that joint,” they finally say, outstretching their hand. Carmy has a strong feeling that they weren’t originally going to say that, but he hands over the joint nonetheless.

“Strain?” He asks curiously. He can feel the body high creeping up his shoulders, fluid and light.

“The strain that gets you high,” they reply with a grin.

“Oh, thank god,” Carmy sighs in relief, and the way that makes them laugh… It makes his chest tight. 

“To actually answer your question, though—I dunno.” He likes watching the smoke drift from the tip of the joint as they talk, thin gray wisps in the air. “I think it’s a hybrid? Not sure if it’s more one way or not, though…”

“As long as it’s not the weed that puts you to bed.”

“Um…well, if you smoke enough of it, it can.”

They sit together like this for a while, just sitting and taking turns with the joint. It’s an easy, fluid exchange, flowing between them like smoke. No matter how much they both try to blow it out the window, it always comes back in. The smell of weed is strong in the air, earthy and pungent.  

Although he would never describe himself as a talkative person, sitting stoned across from them makes the words come out. Sometimes, he thinks he likes himself better when he’s high—his mind isn’t running circles around itself, and the soreness of his body just floats away. He feels more like a human than a poor imitation of one like he usually does. 

This weed smells kinda good, he thinks, and when they laugh, nose scrunched up, he realizes he said that out loud. 

“That’s literally what I’ve been saying,” they agree, a bright grin lingering on their face. “That’s how you know you’re a fuckin’ stoner!” 

“Feels weird to call myself a stoner,” he muses. He plucks the joint from their outstretched hand. It definitely looks shorter from when they started a moment ago. “But I guess…”

“If you like the smell of weed, you’re too far gone,” they say with a grave expression. “It’s so fucking over for you.”

“Fuck,” he whispers, equally as serious, and then they’re both bursting out into laughter. He likes the sound of their laugh—it’s unabashed, fills up the space. 

“Dude, I’m high,” they whisper after they both calm down, like it’s some sort of secret, and Carmy can’t stop himself from laughing all over again. “Oh my god. Are you high?”

“I—I think I might fucking be,” he gets out between laughs, and that sparks them straight into another cackle of laughter. He’s not supposed to be able to make others laugh, he doesn’t even make himself laugh—but then he’ll say something, and they’re lit up with laughter. 

“We need to eat this pizza now, ” they yell, projecting over their combined noise. They flip the pizza box open, and it smacks Carmy right in the face. 

“Oh,” he reacts mildly.

“Shit, I’m so sorry—”

“It’s fine, it’s not like you punched me in the face,” he reasons, but their guilty expression persists. “It didn’t hurt, it’s just cardboard.”

“I’m sorry, I’m high,” they sigh apologetically. 

“I know,” he replies with a little smile. His eyes drift down to the pepperoni pizza sitting before them, glorious in its perverse amount of oil. “So, we’re gonna eat this, right?”

“Oh my god, yes we are,” they gasp, and the moment is forgotten. 

When he tears off a pizza slice, the cheese stretches in thin, gooey strings. They grab the slice adjacent to it to snap the strings in half, but they’re both leaned back in their chairs, pizzas in hand, and the cheese is still connected. 

“This doesn’t seem right,” Carmy mutters, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “We should’ve just cut it.”

“How could we have predicted this?” They pull their pizza further back, and the string still doesn’t break. “Wow. I’m honestly impressed. I don’t think it’s ever been this insane before.”

“I think we’d remember.” He’s not sure why he’s still talking and not just running his finger across the string to break it. 

“I think we would, too.” They snort, shaking their head. “This—this is some spaghetti type shit.”

“What? Spaghetti?” He’s genuinely perplexed.

“I—I mean like—that fucking disney movie. With the dogs.” They pause for a moment, mouth silently moving. “Fucking—lady and the, the truck—”

“Uh.” He has to hold back a laugh. “...The lady and the tramp?”

“ Holyshittheladyandthetramp ,” they blurt out in a rush, and the cheese string finally snaps in half. “…Well, I guess it’s not exactly like the lady and the tramp, then.” They take a large bite of their pizza, and it reminds Carmy exactly how hungry he is. 

“You mean lady and the truck,” he corrects, and he can’t stop himself from smiling. Especially not with how good this hot pizza is, delightfully salty and greasy in his mouth. 

“Shut up, I was trying,” they grunt through a mouthful of food. 

“How exactly is this like the lady and the tramp, again? Or, uh, not like it?” 

“Well, it was just like it, but then the string broke.” Somehow, they’re already halfway through their slice. “Could’ve been a beautiful spaghetti moment.”

“Spaghetti moment,” he echoes under his breath, holding back a laugh. “Remind me how that scene goes?”

They go quiet for a moment. It’s like he can see the gears turning in his head. If he’s being honest, he already remembers how that scene goes, but…he wants to hear them say it. He needs to hear them say it. 

“Uh, well, they’re…eating spaghetti. The titular lady and tramp.”  Their eyes are fidgety, flickering back and forth between their pizza and the window. “And they’re sharing the plate, the two of them. They’re eating together, and, um…” 

“...And?” 

They meet his eyes, mouth hanging open, and then they close it. 

“Um, I don’t remember, actually,” they say, shaking their head and blinking. He sees it for the blatant lie that it is, and yet. “Do, do you remember?”

As he stares back at them, unable to look away, he wonders. He wonders about what this really means. About if this really means anything at all, about if he’s going to find out if it does. 

“I don’t remember,” he answers quietly, cowardly, and neither of them say anything else.

Out of the two of them, they’ve always been better with recovering from awkward moments, so they do. They start talking about something else, and the world keeps turning. But in the back of his head, Carmy remains in that moment, unwilling to let it go. 

Why did you say that you didn’t remember? He wants to say. Why didn’t I say that I remembered how it went? Because I remember. They kiss—they fucking kiss. Is that what you wanted to hear? Is that what I wanted to hear?

But because he’s Carmy, he doesn’t say anything. He just eats.

He’s so hungry that the pizza disappears in minutes. It’s delicious, but he’s so high he’s not completely sure he can taste it. Somehow, it remains the best thing he’s ever eaten. 

The rest of the night is a blur. He remembers getting onto the couch at some point. They both decide on a random movie he doesn’t catch the name of. They finish off the joint on the couch together, sinking into its cushions. It burns hot in his throat as it reaches the end. 

And as it turns out, the weed he smoked is the one that puts him to bed. 

“...Ca…Car…” Someone’s calling him. “...Carmy, c’mon. You’re gonna complain about your neck tomorrow if you keep sleeping here.”

“Mhm,” he replies helpfully. He turns his head into the cushion. His body feels like an abstract blob, perfectly molded into the couch cushions.

“Okay, you made a good point. But. ” They laugh quietly, under their breath. “Movie’s been over for like 20 minutes now.”

“Mhm,” he repeats, nearly inaudible. He doesn’t wanna get up. Whenever he falls asleep, it always feels like he’s never gotten an hour of sleep in his life. There’s nothing he needs to think about, worry about. He’s warm and comfortable, and he doesn’t feel like letting that go just yet.

Everything goes silent again for a moment, save for the cars on the road. He begins to drift away again, slipping back into his dreamless sleep. 

But then there’s a hand on his shoulder, and it’s like a smoking brand on his skin. His eyes fly open and he jolts awake, jerking upright. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” they apologize, fretful. Between the dark of night and haze of sleep, they look pretty different. The blue light from the television is streaked across the blurry planes of their face.

“It’s fine,” he replies, drowsy. Speaking feels…heavy. Begrudgingly, he adjusts to sit up. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“Weed,” they say with a shrug. 

“How, how long was I—?” He cuts himself off with a yawn, wide with condensation in the corners of his eyes. 

“Only like, 30 minutes.” They yawn back. Typical infectious yawning. “End of the movie sucked anyway.”

“Oh.” Pause. “What was the ending?”

“Love interest died,” they state plainly. “He told her about how he felt, got rejected, and then she died in a car accident. Pretty tragic.”

“Huh.” Carmy makes a face. “That does suck.”

“Yeah, a bit.” They’re idly fiddling with the remote, scrolling through Netflix without reading anything. “I feel like the movie was trying to say something profound about the unpredictability of life or something, but the writing was shit.”

“I guess it’d be too perfect if they got together,” he muses.

“I guess,” they echo. They turn off the tv, and the room goes dark. The only light is from the yellow street lamp right outside their window, wonderful in its inconvenient placement. It illuminates the shape of the back and leaves their face in shadow. “I think I remember how that scene went,” they say suddenly. 

“Oh.” Carmy’s heart feels stuck in his throat. “And how does it go?”

“Well, they’re—both eating spaghetti. Like I said.” They’re not facing him, leaving their face shrouded in shadow. He’s not sure if he’s imagining the shake in their voice or not. It’s beyond him why there would be any shakiness at all. “They somehow get the same noodle, so they, uh, kiss.”

“They kiss,” he repeats for some unknown reason.

“Yeah.” They let out a quick laugh, but it doesn’t sound like they actually find this funny. He wishes he could see the look on their face. 

“I don’t think pasta works like that,” he hears himself murmur faintly. For some reason, he can’t help but think that was the wrong thing to say. But he’s already said it. Maybe it’s the same reason as to why his heart is beating so urgently. 

“No, I, I don’t think so either,” they mumble. He refuses to place the way they’re feeling. 

I can’t fucking do this.

The thought resounds like a gong, hit with a mallet right next to his ear. 

“It’s late, I gotta head to bed.” It feels like someone else is speaking for him, moving his body for him. He can’t stop them. When he stands up, he avoids their face.

What the fuck are you doing?

Another thought resounds. He doesn’t respond.

“Right, I—didn’t even notice the time.” He pretends he doesn’t hear the strain in their voice. No, he didn’t word that right—there is no strain in their voice. “G’night.”

"Night,” he murmurs back.

This is enough, he tells himself as he falls into bed. His sheets are tangled. This is enough , he repeats, and it’s not because he’s scared, afraid, anxious, or any other stupid synonym. It’s because he believes it, needs to believe it. 

He tells himself, this is enough , even though he wonders, what is supposed to be enough? He doesn’t listen. He stamps down the protests, the thoughts that are out of line. The high usually helps with that, but it’s worn off, now just leaving him in a weary, sleepy state of things. 

This is enough, he thinks, and he falls asleep looking at their shrouded face behind his eyelids.

[artificial-radiance]

i noticed that you put foils/voices for the Monster’s variations

are these foils the voices for the Princess? and do they correspond with her variations from the OG game? like Voice of the Dove is The Damsel and so on

(also i love your art! it really looks like it could be something from the game itself, i applaud you for it as well as the concept and im excited to see more of the routes and variations)

Aww thank you <33

To answer your questions, yes they are Voices for the Princess, and they're all based on her chapter 2 iterations. They're different from their canon counterparts but are fun for me to keep in mind as I work on things.

The list is as follows:

Voice of the Accused (Prisoner)

Voice of the Cutthroat (Adversary)

Voice of the Dove (Damsel)

Voice of the Drifter (Spectre)

Voice of the Exalted (Tower)

Voice of the Faithful (Witch)

Voice of the Resonant (Stranger)

Voice of the Runaway (Ch. 1 Princess, may be renamed)

Voice of the Sleeve (Razor)

Voice of the Solace (Nightmare)

Voice of the Trapper (Beast)

I don't have any visuals for them or the Princess as it stands, as they're the POV and function similarly to the voices in canon.

[moeitsu]

The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Summary: Welcome to Horseshoe Overlook

Ao3 Wattpad  Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.4 Ch.5 Ch.6 Ch.7 Ch.8 Ch.9 Ch.10

Tags: Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character, Widowed, Original Character, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Friends to Lovers, Child Loss, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Chubby Arthur Morgan, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

Ch 3 - The Suns Low Down The Sky

Arthur escorted Kate to Dutch’s tent first, where the other gang members looked on curiously. Jack leapt into his mother's arms, as she eyed the mystery woman who rode in with her son. Arthur explained the situation to Dutch, introducing Kate as a traveler heading west, planning to stay for only a few days.

“Nonsense!” Dutch laughed heartily. “Drifter, outcast, or outlaw, whatever you may be, Miss McCanon, you’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like. We only ask that you pitch in with meals and chores.” He smiled, taking a puff from his cigar.

Kate nodded gratefully. “That's very kind of you, Mr. Van der Linde,” she replied.

“Please, call me Dutch,” he insisted. Kate reciprocated the informalities.

Dutch continued, “Arthur, show our new friend here where she can settle her things. Then come find me afterward; I’d like to discuss these Pinkertons you’re so worked up about.” He spoke casually, as if discussing the weather. 

 Arthur led Kate to a small clearing next to the ladies' tents, where they whispered among themselves. Though Kate felt like an outcast among the group, she hoped to get to know them better, especially the other women. It had been a long time since she’s had the company of fellow girls. Even though she was still unsure about just how long she would remain here. 

“You get yourself settled,” Arthur said warmly, “I’m gonna go speak with Dutch. I’ll come find you for dinner.” He bid her farewell, Kate nodded and set to work unpacking her few belongings—a tent cloth, bedroll, and a small bag of clothes. She chose to travel light, since she had no wagon to pull. 

From the adjacent tent, two heads peeked out with nervous giggles. One woman had a head full of curls and a face full of freckles, while the other was dark-skinned and wore a vibrant yellow dress. They whispered amongst each other before addressing Kate.

“Hello,” Kate said, feeling a hint of sudden nervousness, it really had been awhile since she was around so much company. 

“Hi Miss,” said the curly-haired girl, “are you Arthur’s new mistress?” She asked with a giggle.

Kate’s eyes widened in surprise and her cheeks tinted red, she hadn't thought about what the situation looked like to the other members. A strange woman riding in with one of the men, of course they would think she was a prostitute. Yet she was a little flattered, she did not feel nearly as pretty enough to be considered as such. 

Kate used to be all “ladylike” back in the days when she was tending to her husband and daughter. But she's always been more on the rugged side, she stood about 5 foot 10 inches, and had wide shoulders and thick thighs like sturdy tree trunks. All the years on the open plains she's gained muscle in places she didn't even know she had. But the beginning of her journey west is what really hardened her, she shuddered at the memory. 

“No, no, I assure you it’s nothing like that,” she clarified. . 

“Oh, quit it, Mary-Beth,” the girl in yellow scolded, stepping out from the tent. “My name's Tilly. Nosey Nelly over here is Mary-Beth.”

Kate chuckled softly, relieved by Tilly's playful interruption. "Nice to meet you both," she said, offering a warm smile. "I'm Kate. And no, I'm not Arthur's mistress. Just passing through, like he said.” She restated, taking a good look at the two girls, she noticed they were incredibly young. Tilly couldn't be much older than 18, and Mary-Beth only looked a handful of years older. The faces were full of youth, and eyes still bright with hopes and dreams. She wondered how two beautiful young women ended up with a gang of outlaws. She prayed it was nothing nefarious. 

Mary-Beth blushed, realizing her bluntness. "Sorry about that," she mumbled sheepishly.

Tilly waved off the apology with a grin. "Don't mind her. She's a hopeless romantic always jumping to conclusions," she explained, shooting a teasing glance at her friend.

"It's alright," Kate assured them, continuing to unpack her belongings. "I'm just grateful for a place to rest for a few days."

"Well, you're welcome here," Tilly said warmly. "We might be a ragtag bunch, but we look out for each other." The girls smiled in unison. It was clear they were eager to make a new friend.

Kate nodded, feeling a sense of security and camaraderie with the girls already. "Thank you Tilly. I really appreciate it."

“Can we introduce you to the others?” Mary-Beth inquired. Kate put down the bed roll she was spreading out and wiped her hands. She took a look around the camp and saw people milling about doing all sorts of activities. Some were cooking, some cleaning, others sat by a fire while two played dominos at a nearby table. She couldn't see him, but she knew Arthur would be inside the large canvas tent with Dutch and Hosea discussing the encounter by the river. 

“That would be nice,” she answered with a nod. Mary-Beth lept at the opportunity and linked her arm with Kates, the gesture took her by surprise. 

“Oh, it's so nice to have another woman around here. C’mon, I’ll introduce you to the girls first,” Mary-Beth exclaimed, her excitement infectious.

Kate couldn't help but smile at her enthusiasm; this was slowly becoming exciting for her too. Together, the three of them strolled a short distance to a larger tent near a crackling fire. Jack sat on the ground, drawing shapes in the dirt with a stick, his eyes lighting up when they approached. Kate recognized the woman beside him as his mother from their earlier encounter. She wore a worn blue dress covered by a long plaid-brown trench coat, busy sewing Jack's sleepwear.

“Hello, Miss,” Kate greeted politely, acknowledging Abigail's tired smile. “I’ve had the pleasure of meeting your boy already. He's a wonderful kid.”

Abigail nodded gratefully, the weariness evident in her eyes. “Jack told me all about his adventures,” she paused her sewing to shake Kate's hand. “I’m Abigail.”

Kate returned the handshake warmly. “It's a pleasure, Abigail.”

As they moved on, Mary-Beth leaned close to Kate's ear, her voice hushed. “Abigail’s been under a lot of pressure lately,” she confided. “Her husband, well, I guess they're not technically married. Anyways, John hasn’t been the best father to Jack. She worries about her boy a lot.”

Kate's sympathy for Abigail deepened. Motherhood was challenging, even under the best circumstances, and she couldn't imagine the strain of raising a child in their risky situation. She wondered if this had anything to do with why Arthur took Jack fishing. Maybe he was trying to give his mother a break. She hoped to offer her support to Abigail when the opportunity arose.

Approaching the tree line, they encountered a blonde woman holding a rifle, evidently on guard duty. Kate noted the caution in her stance, understanding their wariness toward strangers.

“Well, who do we have here?” the woman greeted, her tone wary.

Mary-Beth took the lead in introducing Kate. “This is Kate, she’s our newest member!” she announced.

Karen eyed Kate suspiciously, her grip on the rifle tightening slightly. “Newest member, huh?” she said bluntly.

Kate raised her hands in a friendly gesture. “I’m just passin’ through, only staying for a night or two,” she explained. “I’m uh - a friend of Arthur’s.” She wasn't sure why the words came out so strange. 

“I’m Karen,” she replied tersely. “Sorry if we don't take kindly to strangers. It's been real hard these past couple weeks.” Mary-Beth nodded in agreement. “I best get back to my lookout, holler when dinners ready.” She added, turning around and heading back into the thicket of trees.

As they returned to camp, the aroma of meat stew filled the air, and the fire crackled brighter with the encroaching darkness. People began claiming their seats by the fire's warm glow. Kate scanned the camp but saw no sign of Arthur, she figured he must still be with Dutch. She hoped he was alright after his encounter with the Agents, though she understood his agitation. If he truly was an outlaw, then any government official would probably trigger his flight or fight. She wanted to ask him about it, and ask him what happened.

She longed to hear his side of the story, but she knew it wasn't her place to pry. If he chose to confide in her, she would listen eagerly. After all, sharing stories was what kept her journey alive, each encounter offering a new perspective and enriching her travels. In return, she kept their memory alive, as they lived on through her.

As Mary-Beth led her to a spot by the fire, a formidable older woman with a head full of gray hair strode over, her voice carrying the weight of authority.

“Mary-Beth, I swear to the Lord above if those clothes aren’t washed by tomorrow morning I will—” she halted mid-sentence, her gaze landing on Kate. “Oh, hello dear. Who might you be?” Straightening her dress and tucking a stray hair behind her ear, she composed herself before the stranger.

“Miss Grimshaw, this is Kate McCanon. She’s going to be staying for a few days,” Mary-Beth introduced, a hint of hesitation in her voice.

Kate realized that Miss Grimshaw must be the matriarch of the camp, responsible for keeping things in order. She offered a warm smile. “It's a pleasure, Miss Grimshaw,” she said, extending her hand for a shake. “I’m very grateful to be welcomed here. Whatever you need me to do will be done, be it cleaning, cooking, hunting—you name it. Anything I can do to repay the kindness.”

Miss Grimshaw seemed pleased by Kate’s graciousness. “Well, my oh my, if only the other girls had as much responsibility as you, young lady, then maybe we wouldn’t be living in this dump,” she chuckled. “Well, enjoy your evening, dear. The work can wait until tomorrow.”

Kate nodded her thanks, noting Mary-Beth's subtle eye-roll as Miss Grimshaw walked away. As the dinner bell rang, a heavyset man by the chuck wagon announced that dinner was ready. Mary-Beth informed Kate that he was Mr. Pearson, the camp cook.

The two of them lined up and filled their bowls, then settled by the fire. Kate found herself between Mary-Beth and Tilly, enjoying the warmth and the chatter of the camp. As the commotion continued, she spotted three men emerging from Dutch’s large tent. Among them was Arthur, making his way over to join them at the fire.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Arthur left Dutch’s tent feeling irritated. He laid out the entire situation to him and Hosea—the Pinkertons, Milton’s offer, everything. He stressed that they were being watched, that danger lurked closer than they might realize.

Dutch had questioned his decision to refuse the offer, which Arthur found absurd. Why would he betray his own for a deal with the devil? He was raised not to trust the government and this camp was the closest thing he had to a family, and he’d sooner face down the law than betray them.

The conversation echoed in his mind, “ What's our move, Dutch? ” Arthur had asked, desperation creeping into his voice. Dutch's response was predictably vague, “ We do nothing, son, ” he asserted, “ They want us scrambling, like headless chickens, but we will stand our ground. We just need a bit more cash, then we’ll set sail east. ” Hosea sighed in resignation—“ Have faith ,” Dutch added, as if it were a magic word.

Arthur had never once doubted Dutch or Hosea, they were the people who clothed him, fed him, and protected him from a very young age, but he was beginning to wonder when the robbing and running would end. They had already lost Mac, Davey, and young Jenny. This life was not a safe one, and everyday he wonders if it will be his last. 

He bid them farewell and exited the tent, he made his way towards the fire and spotted Kate eating dinner and integrating herself with the gang. He noticed her smile as he tipped his hat in greeting, and sat on a log opposite from her. 

“Looks like you've made yourself at home, Miss McCanon,” Arthur remarked with a friendly grin, not revealing any of the stress that weighed heavy on his shoulders.

“Kate,” she corrected him, casual and warm, “and yes, everyone's been lovely. I’m grateful for the company,” she replied, spooning up some stew.

“So, where is it you come from?” Lenny chimed in, initiating the conversation. 

“I was born up north, near Boston. I lived there for about 20 years before traveling southwest,” she answered truthfully. Arthur noted this must be why her accent was different from most people around these parts.

“Long way from home!” Javier exclaimed, joining the conversation, “I’ve always wanted to see the north, I hear it's beautiful,” he looked up, picturing the image in his head. 

Kate nodded and hummed an answer as she remembered her home, “it's very green and mountainous.” 

Lenny’s voice chimed in again, “what brought you out this way? If ya dont mind me asking.” He said politely.

Kate inhaled a breath and shook her head slightly, “it's quite a long story. Suffice to say, there’s nothing left for me up there. Ain't got no family, no land or property.” She said as her expression darkened briefly. 

“How come a pretty thing like you ain't married eh?” The Irish man, Sean, quipped from his seat across from her, his voice lubricated with ale. He was more than a little tipsy, already on his fourth beer of the night. Arthur tensed at his comment, Sean had a knack for stirring trouble with his loose tongue. To his surprise Kate laughed and met his banter with her own. 

“Well, you see Sean, I’m just waiting for a man who can match my charm. But they seem as rare as a sober Irishman in a pub.” She shot back with a playful wink. Arthur couldn't help but chuckle. 

Sean let out a whooping laugh and slapped his leg, “oh she’s a feisty Lass!” he hollered, “what’s a woman like you doing with a grumpy old bastard like Arthur? Maybe you’d like to take your chances with a handsome young gentleman such as myself.” Sean shimmied his body insinuating something nefarious. Kate only laughed and shook her head. 

Arthur couldn't help but join in, “I shoulda let you hang,” he said with a snicker, masking his annoyance, “and we met on a job a few weeks back. Ran into her again down by the river when I was fishin’ with the kid.” He explained, taking a swig of his drink, he didn't want Kate to think he had any ulterior motive based on Sean’s comment. 

They continued to chat together, but the conversation shifted from being about Kate to whatever absurd tale Uncle was telling. Arthur’s peace was interrupted for the third time that day by the sound of hooves approaching.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate leaned back against the log and placed her empty bowl beside her. Content after a warm hearty meal. She listened with content as the other members of the camp shared stories amongst each other. 

Her gaze lingered over to Arthur, who seemed lost in thought whilst looking deep in the fire. He wrung his hands together and Kate noticed he did not grab dinner for himself. Before she could offer to fill him a bowl they all turned to the sound of hooves. 

Three men were returning to camp, with a woman following behind them. She noticed, unlike the other ladies of the camp, the woman was wearing trousers, and carrying iron on her hip, she made a note to introduce herself later. Next to her, Tilly pointed out the new arrivals. The one with shaggy black hair was John, Jack’s father and Abigail’s not-so husband. He dismounted and immediately went to his tent, where Abigail was eating with Jack. The other two men were heavier, and rougher looking. Tilly said their names were Bill and Micah. The one called Bill helped himself to the stew, while the one she called Micah caught Dutch’s attention and they entered his tent together. That just left the woman, Tilly explained that she was a widow they rescued in the Grizzlies. O’Driscoll’s had killed her husband, and Micah accidently set her cabin aflame. She dismounted and pulled a white envelope from her satchel. 

Approaching Arthur she held out the paper, “for you.” She said handing him the letter, “from a woman, uh, Mary Linton, I think.” He nodded and took the envelope, opening its contents. Kate was suddenly curious about this Mary woman. 

The woman, Sadie, tipped her hat at Kate and Tilly before grabbing a bowl of stew and retreating back to her tent. A woman of few words, Kate recalled. 

She tried to watch the fire and go back to listening to the stories, but her gaze lingered on Arthur, whatever this woman said in her letter gave him a sorrowful expression. Abruptly he stood up, shoving the paper in his back pocket, and walked away. Kate was a little disappointed he didn't say goodnight, or give any acknowledgement. She had the idea to bring him some food later to cheer him up. 

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Over an hour had passed and Kate was confident she knew all the camp members now, after everyone shared tales and fun memories of one another. The only people missing were Charles, who Tilly informed her he often went out hunting, and Kieren, who hasn't really integrated himself with the others yet. It was getting late, and she needed to feed and tend to her horse before resting herself. She bid her farewell to everyone and made her way over to her beloved mare Lorena. Briefly stopping by her tent to grab an apple for her, and a peach for Arthur. She would have to pass his tent on her way, so she figured she would offer the food then, if he wasn't already asleep.

To her surprise he wasn't on his cot, perhaps he went for a ride she thought. She continued on to find her mare with the other gang's horses near the entrance to their camp. Lorena greeted her excitedly, it had only been a few hours since she last saw her, but her baby had always been clingy. 

“How ya doin’ girl,” she cooed, scratching her snout. She reached around and undid the saddle strapped to her back, “let's get this heavy thing off ya so you can rest properly.” She said pulling the saddle down. Lorena let out a happy huff in response. 

Kate reached into her satchel pulling out a small blade, she tenderly cut small pieces from the apple and fed them to her horse. While she fed her she sang a soft tune, almost like a lullaby, to ease her mares nerves and settle her in for the night. 

This house, she’s holding secrets.

I got my change behind the bed, 

In a coffee can I can throw my nickels in.

Just in case I have to leave. 

She sliced another piece of the apple and Lorena lapped it from her hand, nudging her snout into Kate’s hair, making her laugh. She continued on with her song as the quiet of the night sang its own gentle tune. 

I will go if you ask me to,

I will stay if you dare.

And I go, I’m goin’ shameless.

Let my hunger take me there. 

Lorena let out a soft, breathy whinny, her body growing visibly relaxed. Kate watched the other horses as she sang, most of them paid her no mind, lazily grazing on the little tufts of grass that the overlook had to offer them. She noticed Arthur’s mare, Belle, standing near a tree about a yard away. She watched them wearily, probably interested in the apple Kate was feeding. She was a beautiful white Arabian, and a stark contrast to her own black beauty, as Arthur had called her. 

She paused her tune and clicked her tongue, inviting his horse to join her. Lorena stomped a hoof in protest but Kate ignored. She wanted to feed his beautiful horse, and get to know her. 

“Nice to see you again, pretty girl,” she said when Belle came around the tree she was hiding near. She cut another slice of the apple and Belle sniffed her palm before gently taking the piece from her. 

While feeding the two horses and gently running her fingers through their manes, she finished her song. 

I will go if you ask me to.

I will stay if you dare.

And if I go, I’m goin’ crazy.

Let my darlin’ take me there. 

Kate doesn't remember how she discovered it, but since the day she’s had Lorena her voice always had an effect on her horse. Maybe it was because she was the first to show her mare kindness, being rescued as a young filly taken from her mother too soon. Kate had always been a bit of a singer, her father taught her to play guitar, and her mother would often sing lullabies to her siblings when they were little. She picked it up somewhere along the way in life, it was a comfort for her. One of the last things she has of her family was their love for music, and she always carried that with her. 

“That was real pretty,” a rugged voice said from the ground, a few feet away from where Kate stood. She yelped and jumped back, in the moonlight she could just barely make out Arthur’s figure resting against the tree that Belle had been standing by. 

“Arthur, you scared the shit out of me! I’m surprised Lorena didn’t take off again!” She scolded. Grabbing her mare’s reins as if she were about to bolt. 

He chuckled and stood up, brushing his jeans, “well Lorena already knew I was here,” he said in a hushed voice, almost teasing. 

Kate blushed and realized he was right, the horses knew he was there, she was the one who didn't look down. “Sorry,” she admitted, “but you really did scare the daylight out of me,” she laughed, feeling less embarrassed now. “I um, noticed you didn't have dinner with us tonight,” she said changing the subject. 

Arthur sighed and scratched the back of his neck, “uh yeah, just wasn't hungry is all.” He said bluntly. 

“Are you alright?” Kate asked flat-out, Arthur blinked in surprise at her question, “the letter you received earlier, I noticed it made you upset.” She explained. 

Arthur let out a breath, “oh that, it’s…complicated,” he admitted.

“I see. I won’t pry if you don’t want to talk about it,” she said, reaching into her satchel and pulling out the fresh peach she had brought him. “I brought you a snack, in case you were hungry. I was gonna bring it to your tent but you weren’t there,” she smiled handing him the treat. 

Arthur’s heart leapt at the gesture. It had been a long time since someone paid attention to him like this. Sure everyone at the camp always asks how he is or how his day went, what he’s up to and what not. Aside from his short talks with Tilly and Mary-Beth. The rest of the gang never seemed to notice when he doesn't eat, or when he’s not at camp. When he was in a sour mood they avoided him like the plague, and when he was upset Dutch would just say, “chin up, boy.” He was the right hand man of the gang leader, but he always felt invisible. Like he was nothing more than a big dumb strong arm.  

“That really for me?” He said, unable to hide the smile in his voice, “peaches ain’t even in season, where'd you get this?” 

“A man from Georgia came through Emerald ranch the other day, he was selling a bunch of fruit so I bought some peaches,” she explained. She went back to cutting slices of her apple and feeding them to Lorena. 

Arthur held the peach in his hands as if he were admiring the plushy soft flesh, “thank you,” he said sincerely. 

“Don't mention it,” she replied warmly. Arthur held the peach and watched Kate feed her horse while he stroked his mare with his free hand. 

“I meant what I said earlier, ‘fore I scared you,” he said quietly, “the song, well, your voice, is real pretty,” he complimented again. 

Kate laughed quietly, “thank you Arthur, It's something I've always found comfort in.” 

“I heard you singin’ for her when we was back at Emerald ranch,” he continued, “you must have a special bond with that horse.” He looked at Lorena who was breathing quietly and closing her eyes as Kate scratched under her jaw. 

“Lorena and I have a complicated history,” she began, “she was just a filly when I got her, scared and alone, and I was, well I was pretty much the same,” she added quietly, not wanting to reveal too much emotion in her tone, “I guess her and I needed each other more than we realized.” 

Arthur sensed her discomfort and began telling her about his own mare, “well that's more than I can say about Belle,” he started with a half laugh to ease the tension, “She found me in the Grizzlies about a month ago, I was stuck between a rock and a hard place when,” he paused a moment and looked somber as he reflected on the memory, “when my old horse Bodasia didn't make it through the snow storm, I thought I was going to die too.” He patted Belle affectionately. “That's when she found me, I could barely make out between her white coat and the snow. But she wasn't scared of me, came right up to me as if she was sayin’ follow me, I’ll get you out of here .” 

Kate watched as Arthur nuzzled his horse lovingly, it always warmed her heart to see people have such deep bonds with their horses. They were incredible animals, and very in tune with their owners' own emotions. For Belle to trust Arthur from the beginning, and stand by his side since, he must be a very special man. 

“That's beautiful, she chose you Arthur. That bond is stronger than anything you could have bought from a stable or caught in the wild.” She said somberly. 

Arthur nodded in agreement, the two tended to their horses in a comfortable silence. The sound of the night’s chorus around them. 

After a moment, Arthur spoke up again, “the letter was from my old flame, Mary,” he began, his voice tinted with quiet sadness. Kate realized he was comfortable enough to open up to her about it, she dared not interrupt. “She's….she's askin’ for my help.” 

“What kind of help?” Kate asked softly. 

Arthur sighed and shook his head, “She's in a tough spot,” he explained, his gaze distant as he recounted Mary's plea for assistance. "Her family's facing trouble, and she's desperate for someone to turn to."

"Sounds like she trusts you," Kate remarked, offering him a sympathetic look.

Arthur nodded, his expression conflicted. "We had our moments," he admitted, a hint of nostalgia in his voice. "But things didn't end well between us."

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she spoke.

He sighed heavily, his gaze drifting to the ground. "Yeah, well, sometimes things just don't work out the way we hope," he replied, his voice tinged with regret. 

Kate could sense the weight of his words, the burden of past regrets bearing down on him. She reached out a hand, placing it gently on his arm in a gesture of comfort. "You can't blame yourself for everything, Arthur," she said softly. "People change, circumstances change. It's just a part of life."

For a moment, they sat in silence, lost in their own thoughts as the night enveloped them in its embrace. After a while, Arthur spoke up again, his tone more subdued. "I don't know what to do, Kate," he admitted, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "Part of me wants to help Mary, but another part...well, another part just wants to leave the past behind and move on."

Kate nodded sympathetically, understanding the internal struggle he was facing. "It's not an easy decision to make," she acknowledged. "But whatever you choose, just make sure it's what's best for you."

Arthur let out a weary sigh, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Yeah, easier said than done," he muttered, his brow furrowed in contemplation.

"You'll figure it out, Arthur," she reassured him, her voice filled with conviction. "If life didn't give us second chances, then we would all be alone. We rely on each other, lean on each other, to make it through the tough times. Helping others isn't a weakness, it's a testament to our humanity. Even if they've hurt us in the past.”

Arthur offered her a grateful smile, "Thanks, Kate," he said softly, his voice tinged with gratitude. "I appreciate that more than you know."

With a nod of understanding, Kate squeezed his arm reassuringly before returning her attention to Lorena. Together, they sat in companionable silence, the sound of the forest as their backdrop. After a moment, Arthur retrieved the peach from his satchel, its juicy aroma filling the air as he bit into its sweet flesh. Lost in thought, his mind wandered to the woman who had unexpectedly entered his life and stirred emotions he thought long buried.

[kohanayaki]

.:Survive the Tide:. (Eddie Munson x Reader) Ch 1

After discovering a portal to another dimension, infiltrating an underground secret Russian facility, and fighting literal monsters to save the world not once but twice, you'd think the bulk of your problems would be behind you. Enter: Eddie Munson. You thought you were done with long haired, leather jacket wearing men after dating Billy Hargrove, but Eddie seemed different. He was sweet, he was creative, he was honestly kind of a dork, and now he's convicted of murder. Needless to say, harboring a fugitive isn't exactly how you pictured your spring break going.

LINKS:   Part 1    Part 2    Part 3   Part 4   Part 5

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Ch 1 .:Resurface:.

“The suspect we're currently in pursuit of is Eddie Munson. All Hawkins residents are advised to. . .”

No.

No, no, no.

The world seemed to close in around you; you felt your stare at the TV screen shift in and out of focus, the sound of your blood roaring in your ears drowning out anything else the deputy had to say. You refused to believe that Eddie could do something like this. Eddie, who drove you home when your 'friends' ditched you at a party. Eddie, who lent you his cassette collection and beamed like the sun when he found out you liked the same music. Eddie, who insisted on slowly leading a spider out of his trailer instead of crushing it despite being absolutely terrified. He couldn't have killed Chrissy. 

But the officer was there on the screen, holding up a cropped yearbook photo of him in his Hellfire Club t-shirt.

And they said the body was nearly unidentifiable.

After Starcourt you tried your damnedest to return to normalcy, and for a time you thought you had. There were some days that almost felt like your life before you knew what really lied beneath Hawkins' skin. Then there were days like this, where it felt like the weight of the world was returned to your shoulders, a crushing sense of doom pressing down on your chest. You thought this year would be peaceful. Relatively, at least. But so much had changed in so little time. . .

~Six months ago~

The school cafeteria at Hawkins High was less like the shitty buffet it was meant to be, and more like a gladiator arena. Students flocked together in protective groups, quickly sweeping the grounds and claiming their territory, but never daring to get close to the center table. No, that was reserved for the court— the cheerleaders and the basketball team. You affiliated yourself with neither, so how was it that you came to be sitting there? Simple: Chrissy Cunningham.

The two of you had known each other since kindergarten, practically growing up at each others houses. Although you drifted apart as you got older, especially as she started dating Jason and you became friends with Steve's group, you could tell that she'd been having a hard time lately. With what, you wouldn't push to know, but you could tell she was grateful to have someone by her side that she could trust, and you were happy to be that someone after you saw how the rest of the cheer team treated her.

And so, for the last week or so you'd taken up residence at the center table to make sure she wasn't getting shit from anyone. You'd expected to get at least some kind of backlash from the cheer team, but they hardly paid you any attention. That was one of the perks of being a social drifter— you weren't part of the popular group, but you weren't targeted by them either.

The basketball players, however, were a different beast.

You groaned as you spotted Jason Carver making his way down the hallway with the majority of the varsity team. People parted like the red sea for him while he smiled and waved to the other students like he was the goddamn mayor.

His eyes lit up as he spotted Chrissy, striding over and practically pushing you out of your seat as he wedged himself between you to kiss her.

“How are you, baby?”

“I'm-”

“Great! Party at my place this Saturday,” he cut her off, that smile still plastered on his face as he handed her a neon orange flier, “It's to celebrate our win earlier this week, wear something pretty for me.”

“Oh, right,” Chrissy said, managing a nervous smile.

You, on the other hand, felt like slapping him. Chrissy didn't like parties because of how anxious they made her, something she's told him multiple times. If Jason noticed her uncomfortably fidgeting with the cuffs of her jacket, he showed no sign of being concerned about it. He just gave her another unnecessarily intimate kiss for a school lunch room before walking off to grab his food. You glared at the back of his head until he reached the end of the line, turning to Chrissy.

“Remind me why you're dating that asshole again?” you said quietly. Jason never necessarily did anything bad to you; he was always just sort of in the background when you hung out with Chrissy, but you couldn't stand the way he treated people.

“Y/n,” Chrissy sighed, “I know how he can get sometimes, but Jason’s your friend too.”

“No, you’re my friend and he’s your boyfriend, so I’m legally obligated to tolerate him,” you supplied, “not the same thing. Sitting at this table doesn't make me his friend. I'm here for you, Chris.”

“I know,” she said sheepishly, “thank you. . . I'm sure you'd rather be somewhere else.”

“What, and let you suffer here alone?” you grinned, “not a chance.”

Right on queue Jason came back with his food tray, shouldering passing students out of the way as he did. Just as he was about to sit down, what looked like a blur of black few past him, knocking him off balance and sending a few items on his tray toppling over. As the blur slowed to a stop and turned around, you were met with a student that was both familiar and unfamiliar.

His hair was the first thing you noticed, dark brown tresses teased to the gods and falling in loose waves around his face. A chain hung off his belt, clanking against the studs whenever he moved. He wore a ripped denim jacket with a multitude of pins and patches of bands you recognized, and a shit-eating grin on his face. 

You felt like you knew him from somewhere.

“Sorry, man,” he said to Jason, his expression telling you that while he really hadn't meant to do it, he certainly wasn't sorry about it.  

“Watch where you're fuckin' going, freak,” Jason snarled. He slammed his tray down, making Chrissy jump as he got in his face. The other man didn't back down, his grin only spreading as Jason turned red from the neck up.

“You stay the fuck away from here, you got it, Munson?” Jason glared.

Munson. That's where you knew him. You recognized him from the Hellfire Club yearbook picture Dustin carried around in his folder. This must be Eddie, the guy the kids basically idolized. Even though Jason was threatening him, Eddie looked thoroughly unbothered. The look in his eyes almost dared Jason to hit him; you could tell they've done this same song and dance before.

“Last I checked, everyone's allowed to eat food in the place the school makes us eat food in,” Eddie said, gesturing around to the room with his arms as he turned to leave. Jason lunged forward, grabbing him by the collar of his jacket.

“That's it-”

“Carver, would you take the one-sided dick measuring contest somewhere else, please?”

The whole table seemed to freeze at your words, their focus moving to you.

“What?” Jason said, his jaw taught and his grip still tight on Eddie's jacket.

“Give it a fucking rest,” you reiterated, “you're starting shit just to start it, and I'm trying to eat in peace for once.”

“He needs to learn some fucking respect-”

“It's a pudding cup, Carver. Pretty sure you'll make it through this.”

Eddie couldn't help but chuckle. Even a couple boys from the basketball team snickered at your words, though they were shut up quickly by Jason's stare snapping to them. Jason let out a harsh breath as he loosened his grip on Eddie, his cross-hairs slowly shifting to you.

Now it was the whole cafeteria whose eyes were on you two. You stared back at Jason, unyielding. Although you were the one sitting down, there was no question that you were playing on even ground. Unlike Jason, you had friends in nearly every clique at Hawkins High, so while most of the cheerleaders and basketball players were firmly on Jason's side, you knew there were plenty of others waiting for him to be put in his place.

“Maybe you should mind your damn business, (L/n),” he said, fighting to keep his voice even.

“I will when you stop treating everyone around you like shit,” you fired back, ice in your tone, “that includes your girlfriend.”

A chorus of rising murmurs spread through the space— some shocked, others anticipatory.

This sure was an arena, and the audience couldn't wait to see who slaughtered who.

Suddenly the shrill sound of the bell rang out through the cafeteria, and you almost laughed at the timing. The other students began to disperse, scattering off to their other classes. Eventually Jason was pulled away by another one of the basketball guys, and you packed up your things for your next class. Eddie saw the glimmer of victory in your eyes as you did.

He'd noticed you right away, standing out like a sore thumb in your David Bowie t-shirt and denim jacket among the sea of green and gold varsity uniforms. You confused him, but not in a bad way. You'd always stayed out of the way whenever Jason went on one of his stunts, what made you say something this time? It couldn't have been because of him, Eddie was 100% sure you didn't know he existed before today.

His pulse leaped into his throat as you turned around to meet his gaze, that gleam in your eyes not having left. You gave him a small smile before slinging your bag over your shoulder and disappearing into the wave of exiting students.

All right, so maybe you knew he existed now.

__________________________________________________

You sighed as you strode quickly down the hallway before school started next day. Although your eyes were trained on the open book in front of you, you could practically feel the eyes boring into you from all angles; and although your headphones drowned out the noise, you could tell they were whispering about you. Your stunt in the cafeteria had people talking, and honestly you found it stupid that they were making it such a big deal in the first place. Jason's never had anyone talk back to him, and for what? The fear of a little social backlash? To be fair, Freshman year you would have done anything to avoid getting on the popular crowd's bad side, but after surviving the horrors of the Upside Down, you knew at the very least you could handle Jason Carver's entitled-white-boy wrath. Near death experiences had a way of giving you a little perspective.

With a good twenty minutes before your first class started, you decided to take the time for yourself away from the prying eyes and shit-talking mouths for a little while. You stopped underneath one of the trees by the edge of the schoolyard, leaning against the trunk and relishing the shade for a moment. You slipped your backpack off and set it on the ground, about to sit down when you suddenly felt a tap on your shoulder. You jolted, looking to your side only to find no one there. You whipped your head around, but there was no one behind you either. That's when you saw a hand clad in silver rings come from above you and tap you on the shoulder again.

You let out a small yelp and staggered back, the movement making your headphones slide down to your shoulders. Heat rose to your cheeks as your music played outloud, and you quickly paused your walkman. A chuckle reached your ears, and you looked up to see Eddie lounging comfortably between two branches in the tree above you, his legs swinging freely beneath him.

“You trying to kill me, Munson?” you huffed, your heart pounding.

“Sorry about that, princess,” he said, that impish smile ever present on his face, “didn't mean to scare my savior, especially now that I know she listens to Ozzy. That's Secret Loser off his new album, right? Definitely didn't take you for the type.”

“Well what did you take me for?” you said, your arms crossing defensively despite the grin that tugged at your lips.

Eddie tilted his head, pretending to think about it.

“Hmm. . . somewhere at the intersection of preppy and weird art kid, so Kate Bush I guess?”

“Well I like her music too,” you said, “Shockingly, human beings can be multifaceted.”

“Well don't blame me for being surprised when most of the people here have about as much depth as a blow up pool,” Eddie jabbed.

“You include yourself in that?” you quirked a brow.

“Duh, look how I'm dressed.”

He was joking, but he wasn't totally wrong. He was wearing his Hellfire club t-shirt, the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms and exposing the tattoos you didn't realize he had. His hands were covered in thick silver rings, matching the chains hanging from his belt and his wrists. His black jeans were torn at the knees, and hanging off the branch next to where he sat was his denim vest and leather jacket with a picture of Dio's latest album cover printed across the back. Maybe it was the way he carried himself, or the fact that he genuinely didn't seem to care what other people thought of him, but you'd never realized how attractive he actually was.

“Could have just taken a picture for you,” Eddie said, snapping you out of your train of thought. You flushed as you realized how long you must have been blatantly staring at him. “Didn't know you were gonna size me up.”

“Just doing what you asked me to,” you said, sounding a lot more confident than you felt; a tactic that worked, if the blooming color in his cheeks was anything to go by.

“Every person has layers,” you finished your point, trying to get your heart rate under control.

“Not Jason Carver.”

“I said every person.”

Eddie laughed at that, the sound so warm and resonant you could almost feel it in your own chest. So much for your heart rate.

“Speaking of, never got to thank you for yesterday,” he said.

“Well, it was more about my not liking Carver than my concern and care for you, but I'll let you believe that,” you said playfully.

“Cold,” Eddie chuckled, swinging his legs over the branch and dropping to the ground, “Still, it takes guts standing up to the new king of Hawkins High,”

“With Jason it's more of a dictatorship, but thanks.”

“Well said,” he grinned, “starting an uprising against the dickish forces of the basketball team. Never would’ve seen it coming from (Y/n) (L/n), right hand of Steve Harrington.”

“First of all, never call me Steve's right hand again,” you scoffed.

Eddie was unable to hold back the string of surprised laughter that escaped his lips, not expecting the innuendo from you.

“And second, I only started hanging out with him after he stopped being an ass,” you finished.

“Right, got it,” Eddie said, tapping the side of his head, “. . . was I absent that day?”

You shot him a sharp look and he smiled, raising his hands in mock surrender.

“He's sweet,” you defended your friend.

“In all my time at this school I've never heard the words 'Steve Harrington' and 'sweet' in the same sentence,” he said, “and I've been here for-”

“Ten years, I know.”

“Ha, ha,” Eddie deadpanned.

You laughed, your smile seemingly lighting you up from the inside, and Eddie found himself smiling along with you. He surprised himself with how natural your back and forth felt to him. You were usually hanging around Steve and Nancy or Billy, and more recently Robin— people whose social circles didn't really overlap with his own unless they were really trashed at a party. Of course he knew who you were, it was impossible not to know everyone in a small school like this, but this was the first time you'd ever had a real conversation; one that Eddie was enjoying more than he'd like to admit.

“Y'know, that's not the first time you've stood up for me,” he said after a short while.

“It's not?” you asked, raising a brow.

Eddie drew in a long breath, crossing his arms and shaking his head in mock disappointment.

“Ouch,” he smirked, “Think back, (L/n). Dive into that memory palace. Back to about 6th grade, middle school talent show. You sang a Journey song, and I. . .”

“Played guitar, holy shit!” you laughed, the moment now vividly pictured in your head.

Eddie beamed, his index finger ringing an imaginary bell above his head and his smile impossibly infectious.

“Ding ding ding! Well, you seem to remember my performance on a generally positive note, so I'll overlook you forgetting.”

“Can you blame me? You were bald back then.”

“Buzzed, thank you very much.”

“Bald in comparison,” you snorted, reaching up to push a few of the unruly strands out of his face. He swatted your hand away playfully, trying to ignore the way his stomach flipped at the feeling of your fingers running through his hair.

“But you do remember?” he covered quickly, “Jimmy Hathaway made fun of me after the show-”

“And I tripped him into the wet pavement outside,” you finished, heat rising to your face again as you recalled your temper as a child, even shorter than it was now.

“Exactly. You know, I bet the imprint from his fall is still on that sidewalk to this day,” Eddie mused, “a great tribute to your heroic deed.”

“Jimmy's parents sure didn't see it that way,” you said with that sly glimmer back in your eyes that made Eddie unable to look away, “something about me being in correspondence with the devil.”

“There any truth to that?”

“I don't know, haven't seen him in a while.”

Eddie laughed breathlessly, staring at you with something akin to amazement in his eyes and wondering why he hadn't ambushed you from a tree sooner.

“Too far?” you coughed out awkwardly.

“You kidding?” Eddie blinked as he came back to reality, “You're talking to the school freak here. To the general student body, no one's more 'in correspondence with the devil' than me.”

“What, because you're the grand warlock of your club or something?”

“Dungeon Master, actually,” Eddie corrected with a flourish.

“Kinky.”

You grinned as Eddie's face flushed immediately.

“That's not what it-”

“I know,” you chuckled, “I just wanted to mess with you.”

Eddie huffed indignantly, but did little to fight the upward quirk of his lips.

“So you actually know about D&D?”

“I practically babysat the boys when we were younger,” you told him, “I was there when they were still designing their characters and figuring out what campaign even was. Besides, who do you think picks them up from Hellfire? I'm not gonna trust any of those twerps with a car.”

“You're something else, (L/n),” he said.

“So you thought I'd be boring?” you joked.

“Nah, just thought you'd be meaner,” Eddie admitted with a smile, “especially after watching you rip Carver a new one.”

“Mean in a pretentious kind of way?”

“Mean in a pretty, popular girl kind of way.”

“I'm not that popular,” you said, avoiding the fact that he basically just called you pretty like the plague for your own sake, “I've only been sitting with those jerks because I'm friends with Chrissy.”

“Yeah, but people actually like you,” he said, meandering around the trunk of the tree, “That's gotta score you more points than sitting at some stupid table. You're at the top of the leaderboard compared to me.”

“You don't seem to care about it that much,” you said.

“Neither do you,” he pointed out.

“Fair enough.”

You turned to look him in the eyes and Eddie could have sworn his heart stopped for a second. It's not like he's never noticed how beautiful you were— it was blatantly obvious to anyone that saw you— but he considered you so far out of his league that he never even entertained the thought for more than a second. Honestly, he was shocked that you even gave him the time of day. You, who were friends with people like Steve Harrington, Nancy Wheeler, and Chrissy Cunningham. Not people like the freak of Hawkins High who blasted Metallica from his beat-up van and ran a D&D club.

Your eyes were what kept him held fast. They almost seemed to glow; full of life and intelligence and mischief. He wondered how in the hell you were able to be so bright after last year. He'd heard you'd been inside Starcourt Mall when the explosions went off, and he knew although you and Billy Hargrove had a falling out the semester before he died, you cared for him in some way. But somehow that light inside you still seemed intact, always ready with a quick comeback or a witty  joke, and he had no idea how you did it.

Eddie realized that the whole time his brain had been scrambling, you'd still just been looking at him. When he came back down to earth you seemed to notice, a small chuckle rising in your chest. Your gaze held his so gently, and there was something about the contact that made him feel oddly at ease. As he racked his brain for what it was, he realized that you didn't look at him like everyone else did: like you were trying to figure him out. You were just taking him as he was.

You shifted your weight slightly, your teeth catching your bottom lip out of nervous habit, a movement Eddie used every ounce of his willpower not to look down at. Then, just as you opened your mouth to say something, the morning bell rang, the sound considerably less welcome than it was yesterday in the cafeteria.

You wanted to slam your head into the trunk of the tree. Of course.

“Well this was-”

“I should probably-”

You both laughed softly as your words overlapped.

“I'll, uh. . . see you around,” Eddie said, grabbing his jacket from the tree.

You smiled, slinging your bag over your shoulder and picking up your abandoned book.

“Is that a promise?” you teased.

“Swear it on my grandmother's grave,” Eddie said, raising his left hand with his right over his heart, “She's still alive, but you get the point. Planning ahead.”

You laughed for what felt like the hundredth time that morning, a sound Eddie was determined to be the cause of again.

“I'll hold you to that, Dungeon Master.”

Read Chapter 2 Here !

Taglist: open

[minervadashwood]

Scars and Stitches, Ch. 10: Home

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Series Masterlist | Masterlist

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Summary: Daryl finds a surprise in the woods, then another at camp. Warnings: nothing notable. Note: This chapter has a major canon divergence. This is also one of my favorite chapters so, so I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.

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"Beloved. Heart of mine. I know you are weary. Forgive me. I cannot let you go." ― Christine Feehan, Dark Lycan

Daryl missed you.  Day after day he was out looking for Sophia, motivated by Carol’s tears and the fact that the little girl was going through what he had many years ago.  That should have held all his focus.

But it didn’t.  He’d gotten used to being with you most of the day, having little chats, sharing meals, riding Merle’s bike, or whiling away the evening in comfortable silence.  But now he barely saw you.  It wasn’t the same way he’d missed Merle (both times), instead it was like part of him was absent, back on that farm while he searched in the woods.  Daryl had cared for others romantically before —usually anyone (man or woman) with a little kindness and a cute smile—but he’d never acted on those feelings.  It seemed pretty pointless. He was a no-good drifter, not worth anyone’s time or attention. It also hadn’t helped that Merle would bully Daryl any time he might show the slightest sign of softness or tenderness. Daryl perfected the art of burying any romantic feelings down deep, never to be acknowledged or acted upon.

When it came to sex, Daryl was also hesitant.  Aside from that time Merle hired a sex worker to “make him a man,” Daryl had never been physically intimate with anyone.  Whether it was his natural shyness or the impersonal nature of his first time, Daryl just wasn’t interested in fucking someone he didn’t genuinely care about.  And he didn’t let himself care about anyone because that made life ultimately more painful. It was easier to shut off whatever he was feeling and find other ways to occupy his time.

However, turning off his feelings was harder and harder these days. Merle was gone, and every time Daryl showed someone kindness, especially you, he was met with warmth instead of shame.  Then, at the end of a hard day you would hug him and trust him and understand him even when he couldn’t speak.  When that happened, he lowered his defenses to let the thought of you—and the thought of having you—inside.

As time went on, the more he wanted from you, and not just easy conversations and soothing silences.  Not a day, sometimes not even an hour, went by when he didn’t think about kissing you.  And those thoughts always turned into something more. He imagined you naked as he trailed his fingers over every dip and curve, memorizing parts of you that you would only let him see, only let him touch. He imagined relearning your body with his lips, teeth, and tongue; imagined you moaning and writhing beneath him as he made you his, in every way imaginable. 

Still, when he realized these thoughts had spiraled out of control, he would force the fantasies deep down, until they sat like a lead weight in his belly. He was not good enough for anyone, and especially not you.  It was a practiced refrain, and he’d spent his life perfecting it.

*

While searching for Sophia, Daryl always worked on his own, the way he preferred it.  Every day he left at dawn and came back at night.  He only talked to Rick enough to review the search grid, get his coordinates for the next day, and grab a bite to eat, before collapsing in his bed.

On the fourth day, even he was feeling a bit hopeless, but then he stumbled upon what appeared to be a deserted hunting camp. It was the sort of place where men would gather on weekends to hunt in the morning and then get high or drink themselves to a stupor at night.  The kind of place where him and Merle whiled away many hours when Merle was selling drugs during hunting season.

After checking the perimeter of the small building, Daryl looked in each of the windows.  The place was empty as far as he could tell, so he went in.  Crossbow loaded and out, he made his way quietly through each room.  He found empty beer cans littering every surface, two dead bodies, and one hunting rifle.  Then he started checking closets and cabinets. 

In the kitchen he opened the door to a broom closet and saw a dirty, frightened little girl with Carol’s eyes staring up at him.  Daryl could scarcely believe it.  He reached to take Sophia’s hand, but the girl flinched away from him. 

He put away his crossbow and squat down.  “’member me?  I’m Daryl.  I’ll take you back to your mom.”

Sophia clutched her doll and glanced around.  “Where is everyone else?  Where’s my mom? Where’s Rick?”

Daryl for a fleeting moment wondered if he looked too scary for Sophia to trust him.   He took a knee.  “We found this farm with real nice people.  Your mom’s there, so is Rick, Miss Morgan, Carl, everybody.”

Sophia relaxed a little, and said, “Do you promise to keep me safe?”

“I promise, but you’ll have to stick close an’ do what I say, alright?”  He held out his hand again.

Sophia nodded and placed her hand in his.  They walked a few steps before Sophia swayed on her feet.  Daryl sat her down on the kitchen counter and took a water and protein bar from his pack.  He’d learned from your trip to rescue Merle and had packed provisions that wouldn’t gross out a little girl.

Once Sophia drank half the bottle and finished the protein bar, they set out again.

==

You were helping Carol with the laundry when Andrea appeared, breathless and smiling.

“Daryl found her!” she announced.

Instantly, both you and Carol dropped everything and followed Andrea.  Sophia and Daryl were still two small spots in the distance, but that didn’t stop Carol from going into a full-blown sprint to them.  You stayed near the RV, with Andrea and Dale, and watched the happy reunion from there.  Carol cried and so did Sophia, and in between hugging her daughter, Carol was hugging Daryl.  He stood there like a mannequin, dirt covered and obviously unsure of himself.  Eventually, Carol took Sophia’s hand, then Daryl’s, and led all three of them to the RV.  To your amazement, Sophia let go of Carol’s hand and ran to hug you.  You’d barely interacted with the girl except to read her bedtime stories.

“I’m so proud of you, Sophia,” you told her. “Keeping yourself safe and trusting Daryl to bring you home.”

Sophia let go of you and smiled at you with tired eyes.  For a moment you thought of Duane and the last time you hugged him, of leaving him and Morgan, the only thing close to family you’d had in this world.

Carol said, “C’mon, Sophia, Mommy’s going to get you cleaned up, put you in some new clothes, and fix you a good meal.”  Sophia waved to you and headed to the camp with her mom.

Dale came down from the lookout spot, and Andrea took his place.  He patted Daryl on the back and said, “Well done, son.  You’ve earned a rest.  You can’t know what this means to everyone.  We’re lucky to have you.”

Daryl stared at the ground.  “Kid did good out there. Knew she’d be alright.”

Dale looked at you, “Make sure he gets a good rest. He’s earned it.”

“And then some,” you agreed.

Daryl pulled his gaze away from the ground and said, “Goin’ back out to fetch the others.  No point in ‘em bein’ out there longer than they hafta be.”

“But Daryl,” you said, reaching a hand to his elbow. 

He didn’t flinch, but you saw him tense up at the gesture.  You removed your hand immediately.

“’m alright.  Best get everyone in one place again.”

You nodded, knowing he wouldn’t rest if there was something he’d set his mind on doing.

==

That night, when Daryl made his way over to his tent, you were already zipped up in your own space. He could see your silhouette as you read a book with light from a lantern.

He was hoping for one of your amazing hugs but decided not to trouble you. So, he went to his own tent.  He froze on the spot when he saw Merle’s air mattress in there, all made up with a sleeping bag laid open and a couple of blankets spread on top of it, like a maid had provided him turn down service.  This wasn’t right.  You needed the mattress more than he did.

Daryl left his tent and stood just outside yours.

“Ya decent?” he asked.

*

“Huh? Oh. Yep,” you answered Daryl, startled from your reading. You were already dressed in a loose tank top and soft cotton shorts, your go-to pajamas lately. You were grateful the tank was a dark color because you’d also shed your bra right after dinner. Underwires weren’t made to be worn at night.

“I’m comin’ in,” he said.

You dog-eared the page you’d been reading and watched as Daryl opened the door to your tent.

He looked down at you for a moment, then said, “C’mere.”

You furrowed your brow.  “Something wrong?” He nodded at the tent door, no further explanation given. You got to your feet, confused, but also knowing Daryl never did anything without purpose.

He followed you out of your tent, zipping it up behind him. You turned to see him carrying your book and the battery-powered lantern in one hand.  With his other hand, he grabbed your wrist and led you into his tent.

“What the hell, Daryl?” you said, once you were inside.

“Yer sleepin’ there.” Not waiting for your reaction, he put the book on the mattress and set the lantern on an upside-down crate that was next to the bed.

“I don’t need that mattress anymore,” you explained.  “I’m finished with the transfusions. Besides, you’ve been running yourself ragged looking for Sophia then coming home to look after me.  You deserve a good sleep more than anyone else.”

“I ain’t lettin’ you sleep on the ground when you don’t have to.”

You were torn between guilt and pleasure at the way he took care of you, but you would not let him do it at his own expense. “Daryl, I have no problem following your lead when we’re out there, but when we’re home, you don’t need to fuss over me.  You are sleeping on that mattress, and that’s final.”

Daryl turned and zipped his tent closed. Blocking the doorway, he kicked off his boots, took off his belt, and removed his knife holster from it. Then he stripped off his flannel shirt and dingy tank top, tossing them off to the side. You allowed yourself the swiftest of glances at his bare chest, but then forced yourself to stare at the tent wall. Daryl, moving away from the tent door, placed his knife and holster beside the lantern.

 The coast was clear. You said, “I’ll just go back to my—"

Before you could finish that thought, Daryl stalked toward you like a feral beast and scooped you up bridal style. With a yelp, you wrapped your arms around his neck. Without a word, he carried you to the bed and carefully laid you on the center of the mattress. Then, not giving you any chance to move away, he flopped down beside you, flung his arm around your middle, effectively holding you in place. With you on your back and Daryl on his side, his hard body met your soft one, so that your bare arm pressed into the planes of his chest and stomach. You flushed from head to toe. Whatever aesthetic attraction you’d had for him was quickly progressing into something else, something you’d rarely ever felt. You no longer simply wanted to be close to him, but you wanted to touch him, be touched by him.

Daryl chuckled in your ear.  “That shut you up.”

No biting retort came to mind as he held you, and you wished you could find some practical reason to leave this bed immediately. You drew a blank.

After a moment you said, “I know I’m heavy. You could have hurt your back. You don’t take enough care of yourself…” you rambled on, lecturing him like a mother hen, trying to hide the racing of your heart and the newly realized desire worming its way through you.

Daryl loosened his arm from around your middle and put his hand on the side of your face. “You ain’t nothin’ I cain’t handle.”

Your belly was suddenly full of butterflies and your heart was in your throat.  Lord help you, he was sexy and sweet and charming. His words, his voice, his touch, it all trapped you in a silent fullness until your heart, mind, and body only wanted more of Daryl Dixon

Yes, he had indeed shut you up.

*

Daryl, with all he had, restrained himself from slamming his mouth on yours, putting himself between your legs, and claiming you there and then.  He hadn’t expected anything like this happening; he’d just wanted you safe and comfortable. But now, heaven and earth could not move him, neither closer nor farther. He was getting hard, just by having you near and the look in your eyes as you watched him silently. He angled his hips away but kept his upper body close to yours.

Sure, you were heavier than the average person, but it was no extra burden to him, not when you were lush and soft and letting him hold you. He should be grateful enough that you’d let him this close, let him sleep next to you in his truck, in the RV.  He would sleep beside you any time you allowed it.

“You are so fucking soft,” he murmured, more to himself than you, but of course you heard him. Your ear was right next to his mouth.  Come to think of it, your neck and earlobe seemed to be begging for his lips and tongue. No, he told himself.

“I-I-I’m sorry. I’ve always been this way,” you stammered, and it only made him want you more.

He slid his hand from your face to squeeze your plump shoulder.  “It wasn’t a complaint.”

Fuck, what was wrong with him.  Controlling his body was one thing, but apparently controlling his words was a different matter. Here he was, blurting out hidden truths like he’d had five shots of whiskey and no common sense.  Aside from Merle, you were the closest person in the world to him, and he may not even see his brother again.  He needed to be careful not to scare you off or cross any lines that might ruin your friendship.

He removed his hand and found your book on the bed next to him.  He handed it to you and said, “Now hush up.”  He rolled over, both to hide his erection and keep himself from looking at your sexy body and thinking all the things he’d like to do to it.

You scooted away from him, to the other side of the bed, and he, again, had to resist the urge to drag you back to him.

“Ya good over there?” He said over his shoulder.

“Y-yep. Uh…just going to uh…finish this chapter on CIA interrogation methods.”

Daryl huffed, “Yer already good ‘nough at makin’ people talk to you.”

“It’s a book you gave me, so you only have yourself to blame, Daryl Dixon.”

He snorted, clamping down on his urge to draw you into another conversation just to hear your voice. “Jus’ tell me when to turn off the light.”

“Mmhmm,” you murmured.

*

You were thoroughly distracted from your reading, only turning pages as a matter of ceremony. The man was practically naked next to you, all hard muscle and coiled strength.  Heaven help you, but you wanted Daryl Dixon unlike you’d wanted any man in your life.  Sex was never something you cared much about, such a distant thought you’d never had any.  Hell, if he didn’t have you rethinking that lifelong pattern. But he was your friend, the best one you had.  Obviously, if Daryl felt some sort of way about you, he wouldn’t be turning away and pretending you weren’t laying right next to him, your body aflame with want just because he said he liked your softness.

You gave really nice hugs. That’s all he meant.

You turned another page, the words but a blur to your churning mind.  This sleeping arrangement was no different than sleeping next to each other in the RV or his truck. You shouldn’t overthink this. Besides, the air was hot—as usual—and it only made sense for Daryl to sleep without a shirt on. You might even have done it if you were him.  So, no big deal.

Yep, no big deal at all.

You rolled over to face Daryl but kept your distance as you handed him your book.  “I’m finished for the night.”

He took the book and turned off the lantern, and the darkness settled around you.

You started counting to one hundred while breathing slowly to calm yourself.

You felt Daryl also roll over, now facing you, and your eyes started adjusting to the darkness. You could just make out the angles of his face and the shape of him lying next to you.

“Been meaning to talk to you about somethin’,” he rumbled, voice low.

“What’s that?” you whispered.

“Back on the highway…that was rough.”

You realized you had never really talked about what happened, about T-Dog or the walker that almost ate you. You said, “Yeah, it was something we’d never seen before.”

There was a moment of quiet until Daryl said, “Don’t mean the group, I was talkin’ about me.  It was rough on me.”

Daryl had done everything in his power to protect both you and T-Dog. “You saved T-Dog’s life. And mine.”

“Nah,” he said.  “I left you alone under that jeep, and when that walker came…” he trailed off in an inaudible rasp. You heard him take a few deep breaths.  Then in a broken voice he whispered, “Thought I was gonna lose ya.”

Your heart swelled and words were trapped in your throat.  Had he been as scared of losing you as you had been of losing him?  Daryl had never been this vulnerable before, and you almost felt yourself splitting open, inviting him in.

“You didn’t,” you told him. With your hand you carded your fingers through his hair, then you traced your way from his temple, to his cheekbone, along his jaw and chin, memorizing by touch the face you knew so very well.  Then, seizing the bit of courage you had, you placed your hand on his bare chest, over his heart.  A moment later, you felt the roughness of his calloused fingers skimming along your hairline, cupping your cheek, and gently rubbing his thumb on your cheekbone. He held you there in the darkness, the only sounds were the distant nightly calls of summer insects and both of you breathing softly.

Your sexual desire was but a whisper compared to the more insistent need to feel close to Daryl the person, not his body. This was frighteningly intimate, and it had you wishing for things you’d rarely wanted.  What you were beginning to feel for Daryl was different than friendship or even kinship.   At first you thought it was mutual loneliness and daily terror that drew you together.  While your friendship may have started that way, it had gradually changed. Now you wanted him. Not just the protection or convenient companionship, but him: his smiles, his thoughtful words, his touch, his scent, his time.

You had no idea how to navigate this, or even if Daryl felt the same, but as he held you so tenderly, you let yourself imagine he did.

Daryl’s hand slowly slipped away, then he placed his hand over the one you’d left on his chest.  He threaded his fingers through yours and rested your hands on the bed between you.

He whispered, “Ya good?”

“I’m good,” you told him.  You watched the silhouette of his eyelashes flutter closed, felt his body relax, and heard his breathing slow.  You watched him for a while, eventually giving in to your fatigue and falling asleep, his hand still holding yours.

======

AN: In case it wasn't clear, Daryl is drunk on sleep deprivation, hence is lapse in self control.

Please feel free to like, reply, reblog; and thank you for reading!

Next Chapter

[hancocksspouse]

Ch. 11

—

It was the green fog rolling around ahead of them that tipped them off before they were even close enough for the Geiger counter to read it. A sickness began to coil around in Doll’s stomach the same as the radioactive air ahead of them and she had to stop and gather herself before they got any closer. At first, she thought it was the rads making her feel sick but realized it couldn’t be, recalling the lack of sound from her counter.

She knew this feeling. It wasn’t a good one.

“You gonna be okay, sister?” Hancock asked, still holding her helmet firmly under his arm as he promised he would, looking up at her. She swallowed, her throat clenching tightly.

“Have you...ever been here? In the Glowing Sea?” She asked, staring ahead of them. Hancock looked in the same direction and frowned.

“Personally, nah. Never had a reason to. But I heard about it from all kindsa people. Scavvers, settlers, drifters. Even came across a child of Atom that told me about it”, he said, lighting a cigarette.

“Ground zero”, she murmured quietly. He nodded in response.

“Yea”.

A silence floated between them for a moment, neither one moving from their spot and Hancock knew why.

The commonwealth had always been like this for him. He grew up in the aftermath of the war, knowing nothing but the wastelands as they were now. Shacks built of scrap metal and rickety boards and dusty, dingy mattresses were a norm for him. Bugs the size of full grown dogs and super mutants was just another day in the ‘wealth as far as he was concerned and everyone carried a gun on them, if not more and a few molotovs.

But she was pre-war. 200 years on ice with only the memories of her life before. She woke up to find everything as she remembered gone. It had only been a few months for her and despite their constant running around, she never saw the extent of the destruction from the bomb site itself. She only saw the fallout afterwards and she was about to step foot into the crater that wiped out her home state as she knew it.

“Listen, Doll”, he said, dropping the butt of his cigarette and stomping it out before turning fully towards her, brow furrowed. “Before we go in there, I want you to know that...nothin’ you’re about to see in there is gonna be particularly...nice. Not a whole lotta people go in there on purpose but regardless of whether it’s the rads or somethin’ else, no one comes outta there the same.”

Her jaw clenched as she felt every muscle in her body tense enough to make her physically incapable of responding, but she didn’t need to.

“However, no matter how this goes, what you see, if this Virgil guy is even in here, or whatever the hell else happens, I got your back, sunshine. I promise”, he said, a small smile on his thin lips. It almost reassured her enough to distract from the sinking, overwhelming dread that had settled into her heart as she nodded back, trying her best to smile. Hancock held up her helmet to her and she took it from him and latched it into place, taking a shaky breath as her eyes adjusted to the crosshairs now in her line of sight and her stats in the lower corner.

“Thanks, Hancock”, she finally choked out before gathering her nerves and walking slowly through the veil of green, rifle in hand. He chuckled as he followed with his shotgun.

“Not a problem, sunshine”.

-

The quick change of scenery between where they stood now and where they were not even 5 ft ago was jarring to her. Everything was dead. From the very ground itself to the husks of trees scattered throughout. Her pace had slowed a bit as she took in the destruction surrounding her, trying to ignore how hard her throat was clenching and how difficult it was getting to breathe.

As much as she hated confined spaces, she was now thankful for the helmet covering her face so Hancock couldn’t see the way her jaw lightly quivered as she took in everything she was seeing. The decimated bridge, the pools of radiation and the feral ghouls that stood in it.

“Are they even aware of what happened?” She asked out loud. “Do they even know they’re here? Or that they were normal people once?”

Hancock’s brow rose in worry as he looked from her to the ferals in the distance, sighing.

“I can’t say they do. But maybe they’re better off for it”, he said. “So, what do you wanna do? Go around ‘em or...?” She lowered her weapon slowly.

“Let’s just...keep a low profile and try to avoid getting their attention. We aren’t here for them”, she gently said, continuing their pace. Hancock swung his shotgun onto his back and followed along behind her.

“Heh...you’re too kind, sunshine”, he chuckled. The shoulders of her armor slightly rose in a shrug.

“I won’t attack anything that isn’t trying to hurt me first. Feral or otherwise”.

The rad count began to bounce rapidly and she stopped for a moment, looking at her pip boy. Locations were showing on her map of the area. Not many, given where they were, but a few. Enough for her to consider finding them to see if they could find any leftover supplies or at least a resting spot.

“Things goin’ wild. Shouldn’t be too hard to find where we’re goin’ but we gotta make sure that suit holds”, Hancock said, walking a few steps ahead of Doll. “There’s a buncha nasty stuff out here could make a dent in that”.

The twists and turns currently taking place in her stomach were nothing to ease her and the farther they went, the worse it got. Gangly, skeletal bodies shuffled through puddles of glowing radiation, unaware of who they were, what they were, or why it even happened and all she could see in the deteriorating bodies were victims of a war that nobody won. The walk continued. It had to. Her feelings told her to grieve, to stop and cry and mourn. Her logic told her to keep going for now until she was at least safe to do so.

When she finally comes back to herself, she notices how Hancock has stopped ahead and seems to just look down into the crater below him. It gives off a brighter green and she frowns, knowing it can’t be anything good if he’s stopped there.

“Hancock...?” She asks and when she joins his side and looks down, she sees what he sees. A small group below of people that are willingly living in the radiation. Their hair is patchy and falling out, frames becoming thin and gaunt. Some are on their knees, facing the pools of radiation and praying to it. “Are they...?”

“The Children of Atom”, he nods, frowning. “I don’t really want us goin’ down there but they may know where your scientist is lying low out here”.

She doesn’t look at them the same way she looks at the ferals. The way she looks at them is of resignation to the fact that they chose this. That they’re willingly wasting away in worship to the same thing that took her life away. Their reverence reminds her of the same people that at one point would demonize and harass her for things out of her control, but she reminds herself that these aren’t the same people. They’re worse because they’re armed.

“Don’t have much of a choice”, she says, slowly making her way down. “Stay here-”

“Nope”, he interrupts, matching her pace. “Especially not here”. A small smile comes over her and she nods as they approach one of the worshippers.

It’s obvious how wary she is upon seeing Doll and Hancock approach, but she meets them calmly.

“You approach Atom’s holy ground. Why? State your purpose or be divided in his sight”, she states. She makes it clear she’s the leader of this group and Doll steels her nerves.

“I’m looking for someone named Virgil”. The woman raises a brow for a moment.

“Virgil? Yes...we know this Virgil”, she responds. “What do you want with him?”

“I just need some information from him”, Doll says. Her tone sounds mildly hopeful and Hancock can hear it, remaining silent by her side. A suspicious look comes over the woman’s face.

“He has sought refuge with Atom. I would know more before I tell you where he is. What do you want with him?”

“I need his help reaching the Institute”, Doll says. She’s desperate now and mentally kicks herself for making it so clear.

“I have heard of this Institute. They hide themselves, trying to avoid the power of Atom. A futile effort”. The woman shakes her head in a menacing manner, only making clear how their ‘faith’ is rooted in cult mentality. “In truth, this Virgil has caused some concern. Some believe his presence is an affront to Atom. Though he came to trade with us on a few occasions, we have had little other contact with him. It was quite clear he wanted to be left alone”.

Doll swallows the forming lump in her throat, scared of their lead growing cold and their journey being for nothing, but the woman continues to speak.

“You can find him southwest of the crater, living in a cave. I would approach cautiously, were I you. I feel he does not want visitors”.

The sigh that escapes Doll is louder than she thought but she simply shakes her head.

“Thank you. We’ll leave you be now”, she says, checking her compass and immediately heading southwest, eyes peeled for a cave. Hancock glances around at the other worshippers that had since been shuffling around them but keeps pace with Doll as they continue on their search, having learned what they needed. 

“Well, now you’ve met some of the Children of Atom. Whatcha think?” Hancock asks. Had it not been for her helmet, he would see the way she throws her brows upward.

“I think they’re a cult that doesn’t realize all they’re doing is worshiping science but if that’s what lets them sleep at night then that’s their business”, she says. Her tone makes Hancock chuckle a bit at hearing the slight relaxation in her voice.

Their path begins to take them up a rocky hill and they both draw their guns and slow their steps.

“Can’t be too far from a cave now”, he says. A low rumble reaches their ears and they freeze upon hearing thundering footsteps and falling rock from the hill ahead. Horns peek out from a pile of rock and a deathclaw roars, seeing them below.

“Fuck”, Doll mumbles, taking aim. The gauntlets of her armor are too large to reach into her bag for explosives and they both slowly back up from the monster. “Hancock, we’re gonna need grenades, molotovs, something to slow it down and weaken it”.

“I got it”, he says, pulling a grenade from his bag and biting the pin before throwing it. The sudden explosion makes it stagger and slow down but it lunges towards them anyway. Both continue firing at it until it gets close enough that a shot from Hancock’s shotgun fires off while it’s mouth is open, hitting the soft spot in the roof of its mouth and blowing its brains out. The behemoth crumbles to the ground and both take a big breath of relief, reloading their guns.

“Bet that’ll be a good story to share when we roll back through GoodNeighbour”, she chuckles. Hancock nods with a smirk.

“Oh, believe me. That one’s gettin’ told more than once”. He looks up at where it was perched and points. “Wouldja look at that? I believe that’s exactly where we need to be, wouldn’t ya say?” Doll looks up and sees a cave entrance a few feet from where the deathclaw stood.

“I do believe it is”, she says, keeping her nerves under control as she makes her way towards it. Hancock catches up to her and stops her for a moment, confusing her.

“Lemme scout ahead for this one. If he’s hostile and hurts me, I’ll be fine but if he puts a dent in your armor, you’re toast and we’ll be stranded out here”, he says. She frowns but nods, allowing him to enter the cave first as she follows.

The cans hanging from the ceiling let them know he’s not one for company and so do the turrets but oddly enough, they don’t fire in their direction. A few steps further and Hancock’s brows furrowed as he turns to Doll.

“There’s no radiation in here”. He looks confused but Doll realizes he’s telling the truth when her Geiger counter makes no noises. She hesitates as she reaches up to unlatch her helmet but does it anyway, trusting Hancock and when she unlatches and removes it, she’s surprised to find it true.

“That’s...but how?” She asks but he can only shrug while she exits her power armor with a sigh. They hear footsteps further down and slowly follow the sound as a towering green form comes into view. Doll stops suddenly, making Hancock walk into her on accident. Her arm quickly shoots out and stops him from falling, pulling him against her before jerking her chin towards the figure.

The gargantuan form made it clear they were a super mutant but they’re dressed in what looked almost like a lab coat, stitched together piece meal to accommodate their body. The room itself is neatly arranged and even includes a terminal and a lab that looks well used.

“I...I think that’s Virgil”, Doll says as he looks their way, seeing the ghoul and wanderer in his doorway. He turns to them, chin up, small glasses balanced on his nose.

“Hold it!” he says, making them back up slightly. “Take it nice and slow, no sudden moves. I know you’re from The Institute, so where’s Kellogg? Huh? Trying to sneak up on me while you distract me? It’s not going to work! I’m not stupid, I knew they’d send him after me!” 

Doll raises her hands slowly, her guns still holstered as she takes a breath. 

“Take it easy. Kellogg’s dead”, she says. The look on his face does not relax, maintaining the air of suspicion and distrust. 

“Dead?...He’s...dead? Don’t you lie to me!”

She closes her eyes for a moment and looks back up at him. 

“I’m not lying. I killed him myself”, she calmly states. Virgil’s shoulders slowly begin to relax. 

“Did you? Kellogg was ruthless...There’s a reason The Institute used him to do their dirty work for so many years. I knew they’d send him after me; tried to prepare for it. But I still wasn’t sure I’d make it...” 

Virgil’s gaze and mind go elsewhere for a moment but he quickly recollects himself and looks up at the two wanderers that are now standing in his cave, boldly claiming to have killed The Institute’s lap dog. 

“And so you. You killed him, eh?” he asks. “Then what do you want with me?” 

A number of thoughts begin to race through her head all at once at the sudden question and for a second, she’s afraid she’ll take too long to answer him, but her racing thoughts soon grab a question from the air and force it from her mouth. 

“Why did you leave The Institute? I know you came from there”, she says. The question makes Hancock almost raise a brow at the boldness of it but he can’t help but agree that it’s still a good one. It wasn’t often they came across someone that escaped from The Institute that wasn’t a synth escapee, but instead, a scientist. An employee. One of their own. 

Doll, however, didn’t see it so much as bold but invasive. However, ever since hearing of his escape, she had to know what it was that had suddenly changed his mind about being there.

“You know about the escape? But how?” he asks her, but quickly shakes his head. “No, it doesn’t matter. I’m not going back...I can’t go back. Look at me!” 

It’s clear he’s getting frustrated and he turns his back to them, walking to the other side of his cave as Doll and Hancock slowly follow behind him. 

“Why are you even here? What do you want?”

“Relax”, Doll says. “I just need to know how to get in there”. 

They can almost hear the bones in his neck pop by how quickly he suddenly turns his head towards them. 

“Wait, what? Are you serious?” He turns back to them and she does not miss the pseudo judgmental look that comes over his face. “You want to get IN to The Institute? Are you insane?”

“Sometimes”, Hancock mutters quietly to himself, staying on guard. He doesn’t yet trust that things will remain peaceful but he will not deny how crazy they sound when they tell people what they’re setting out to do. Doll glances back at him, a brow raised and he puts his hands up before she turns back to Virgil, who continues to tell her just how impossible their mission is. 

“Never mind how nearly impossible that is, even if you were to succeed it’d almost certainly end in your immediate death”, he says, trying to make sense of what Doll has just disclosed to him. “What reason could you possibly have for taking that kind of risk?”

At that question, she can feel her throat tighten up but she clears it and sighs. She’s already revealed their intentions to him, she may as well tell him the why.

“I’m trying to find my son...The Institute kidnapped him”

Virgil’s face visually softens and he quickly understands.

“Oh. Oh no. I had no idea. I’m sorry”, he says, his attitude suddenly far more sympathetic to them. He lets out a deep sigh and awkwardly looks away.

“Yeah, the Institute has taken people from the Commonwealth in the past”

And with that, she knows they’re on the right track.

———

Damn, this update took a long ass time but in my defense, lotta shit has happened since I started this one. I do love this chapter however because i remember playing this part of the game and just wandering the glowing sea and finding all of the factories and just having so many questions with so many grim answers.

But hopefully, the wait was worth it!

Enjoy and as always, all interactions are welcome. Just be polite 🖤

-Hancock’s Spouse 🖤

[minnarr]

drifter on the wind, the soil waits below (ch 1/?)

Rating: T

Warnings: So far none

Relationships: Original Female Character & Deng Kuan & Gao Xiaolian, Original Female Character & Mo Weixu, Deng Kuan & Gao Xiaolian, Original Female Character/Zhang Chengling

Something is going on in Yueyang. Four years ago, Yun Shuying’s husband stuck his nose into his teachers’ relationship, and everything turned out just fine. Now, it looks like Deng Kuan and Gao Xiaolian aren’t going to get married after all, and Yun Shuying thinks it’s her turn to meddle. But as she gets embroiled in her friends’ lives, she learns that the things they want aren’t so simple—and what she wants may be changing as well.

read chapter on AO3

under the cut: timelines

It’s been four years, and the kids are mostly in their twenties. Didn’t expect to write a Word of Honor fic so concerned with marriage and (more marginally) babies, but we’re looking at a generation that is coming into its own and flourishing, so that’s just part of it! 

Speaking of timeline, here’s a look at the points that are relevant to this fic right now:

4 years before trembling (-4) - the end of Word of Honor. This runs under the assumption that the events of the show took about a year, from the spring ZCL was 14 to the spring he was 15.

0 - Spring-Autumn: the events of trembling. Autumn: the events of the tree may fall, but the leaf remembers. Winter: Yun Shuying and Mo Weixu spend their first winter at Four Seasons Manor.

+1 - Spring: the events of a spring wind comes. Autumn: Chengling and Shuying get married.

+2 - Summer: Bi Xingming and You Chunjian get married. 

+3 - Sometime during this year, Bi Yongning is born.

+4 - Spring: drifter on the wind begins.   

Everyone’s current ages:

Yun Shuying: 25 Mo Weixu (and Wenzhou): 37 Gao Xiaolian: 27 Deng Kuan: 31 Feng Yan: 22 Zhang Chengling: 23 Bi Xingming: 28 You Chunjian: 24

I know four years seems like a long timeskip to make, but I wanted them to have time to settle into their new status quo after getting married. They’ve really only had two full years of the pattern they agreed to when they got engaged: winters at Four Seasons Manor, and letters and maybe visits in between. That’s not a long time, even at that age. It seemed like a nice compromise between that and how long Gao Xiaolian and Deng Kuan can reasonably drag things out without committing to a marriage. (Frankly: they are probably far past that point, but lucky in that Yueyang doesn’t have as much power left to fight over, and the people who stuck with them are the loyal ones).

[summercourtship]

Thinking about a biker Bruce/batman…

Like canonically Batman usually prefers using his motorcycle in the Matt Reeves movies… I don’t think that he would use it as Bruce Wayne… but that would be so hot, like could you see him with putting the helmet on… asking us if we want a ride… helping us get in…

Save me biker Bruce Wayne… save me biker Bruce Wayne…

I'm into it!!!!!! But also, when he's the "Drifter" it's not exactly Batman, either. I feel like it's probably only when he really has to be Bruce Wayne(TM) that he uses the fancy cars... So tbh this ask did give me an idea for Ch. 14, thank u.

Also, when I get to it in my editing, I'm definitely planning on changing the scene in Chapter Eight where the Reader rides in the Batmobile to riding on the bike. It just offers up more opportunities for intimacy. Like while she's coming down from the fear toxin and the only thing grounding her into reality is her grip on him... yeah that's the good stuff.

[cardinalgoldenbrow]

Staying the Spirals: The Duviri Experience, Ch. 37

Plates, cups, and silverware clinked as a child's fist slammed down on the table. "WHY is my breakfast not served?!" 

Drifter woke, bleary-eyed and stiff from sleeping on a palace couch, into the glare of an Anger Spiral and a king in the grip of a tantrum. 

Read More:

[triarch]

For anyone looking for more great Eris/Drifter interactions, please look at ch 3 of the Between Stolen Stars lorebook.

Remember to check out the Ishtar Collective for it.

[elitehunter]

Hangman Adam Page: I'm A Drifter (And I Know That Doesn’t Do Me Any Good) - Chapter 2

Pairing: Hangman Adam Page x OFC

When he pictured himself being so close to the World Heavyweight Championship again, he never imagined it would be against his former tag partner. Poised an inch away from his dream and feeling miles away from his former friends, Hangman Adam Page considers taking his shot to get something else he's been been wanting. If only he can make his move. Is what he wants just a kiss away or is he too late? Is it actually what he wants at all?

Rating: E (for later chapters) Word Count: ~5,988 Warnings: alcohol consumption, sexual content (later chapters)

READ CHAPTER 2 ON AO3

(ch. 1 | ch. 2 | ch. 3)

[tablefourtyone]

Of all the strong moments in Honkai, Kiana's breakout into Void Drifter in ch 11 EX is still one of the strongest, second only to Everlasting Flames at # 1.

Kiana's transformation into Void Drifter could not have been possible with typical hero platitudes like saving the world or fighting for justice.

It took Himeko's death AND a hallucination of Himeko's ghost cutting glass and marching to the ballad of Amazing Grace

for Kiana to use her grief, her past to present traumas, and her fear of hurting even more people as HoV, to gain the self-control and will necessary for using HoV's Void powers.

It was perfectly encapsulated by her emotional breakdown to Fu Hua afterwards, crying "If only I had control over it sooner", wc is still the most heartwrenching line in this game. Really shows Kiana's growth in the main story.

[artificial-radiance]

oh i love the Path Through the Woods au omg!!! can you tell us about the voices? what are they like and how they are foils to the monsters and such

i cant wait to see all of the other monsters :DD

is the a princess version of the narrator too or is the story different?

(note: this ask was received earlier in March, and I have been working on answering it since -- ty for your patience <3)

For that last question, I imagine the Narrator being the same horrible old crow, though my writing style is certainly different from how he's portrayed (I love describing things way too much) so writing him has been a small bit of a struggle - I need to practice portraying him. As of finishing the list below, I've gotten more confident writing him as I've played him for friends. The story is very different, and he has taken matters into his own hands differently - wanting you to walk into your death through believing him.

For your first question, I'll keep that all under a read more! But for a generalized idea, the Voices here are based on the Shifting Mound's descriptions of the Vessels and how they were described as hearts.

Over the course of writing this, there have been a few renames. They'll be noted <3

While not a voice, "you"/the player are called the Runaway. In tandem with the Voice of the Stray, she is the chapter 1 Princess. What she can arm herself with is different per chapter, and there's implications her appearance changes as well.

The Voice of the Stray is your inverse - if you are armed, she is more passive, and if you are unarmed, she is colder. This is in reference to how the Princess in Ch 1 changes personality based on if you enter the basement with the blade or not.

She was previously called the Voice of the Princess, then the Voice of the Captive, and then the Voice of the Runaway before getting to this point.

The Voice of the Accused is based on the Prisoner. She lays out what she thinks directly and pointedly. She doesn't say more than she needs to, prefering to watch and think things through quietly.

The Voice of the Cutthroat is based on the Adversary. She thinks in directly actions and has the will needed to make you do things.

She was originally called the Voice of the Rival. I thought this was too on the nose and looked to change it, taking Cutthroat from the Voice of the Trapper.

The Voice of the Dove is based on the Damsel. She thinks the Warden means the best for them, and is entirely willing to trust him and do what he says. While she won't suggest violence herself, she can deliver with unflinching cheeriness.

The Voice of the Exalted is based on the Tower. She sees herself as powerful and in charge of the situation. She's calculating where Cutthroat is impatient, and belittles those she doesn't like.

She was originally named the Voice of the Divine, then Voice of the Mystic. The former was too on the nose for me, and the second a little out of place for her personality.

The Voice of the Faithful is based on the Witch. She isn't trusting of others, having faith in herself rather than others. She isn't shy of suggesting trickery and betrayal if the circumstance could benefit from it.

She was originally named the Voice of the Tested before changing it because it didn't feel or sound right.

The Voice of the Haunted is based on the Spectre. She's relaxed for the most part, and one of the more pleasant voices to be around. She's willing to trust anyone that extends a hand to help.

She was originally named the Voice of the Dreamer, and then the Voice of the Drifter.

The Voice of the Hoax is based on the Razor. She likes to lie and oppose most decisions made, though when she's called out on it she's quick to deny most accusations. She likes to have good fun at the expense of others.

She was originally named the Voice of the Snitch, then the Voice of the Sleeve. Her named was hanged because while "Sleeve" was unique, I didn't fully enjoy it.

The Voice of the Solace is based on the Nightmare. She's playful, but impatient, entirely willing to throw tantrums and be cruel when she doesn't get what she wants. She has a strong will to enforce on the body and the Construct.

She was originally named the Voice of the Gentle before I decided it wasn't fitting for her (though you could argue the Solace isn't either - it's more for irony I suppose).

The Voice of the Splintered is based on the Stranger. She's naive, and her mood is unpredictable. She can be dismissive, vitriolic, or fully passive based on whatever stimuli she's given.

She was originally named the Voice of the Resonant, but I didn't fully vibe with it, hence the late change.

The Voice of the Trapper is based on the Beast. [edit] She is pretty decent planner and can read other creatures like a book. She knows what she's doing so long as it involves the element of surprise.

She was originally named the Voice of the Cutthroat, which was later given to the current Cutthroat. I held off from naming her the Hunter/Huntress since it was too on the nose.

[sweet-faerie]

Character PSA

I will be making this because my good friend has encouraged me to start putting my foot down! This doesn't affect any of my threads but I'd appreciate if the people I write with please read this: Fu Xia is electively mute. She mainly talks with telepathy at all times but there will be times she physically talks. I will differentiate these when the time comes!

How it works/appears in verses: -In PE/ER, Xia is not mute, typically quiet due to depression. -In her Celestial time as Jingshen she is still talking when Jingwei was still the red/white phoenix. -During the time of the Empyrea, when she was sent away is when her mutism began. -During St. Freya, Fu Xia was talking normally, only telepathically to people who knew the real her aka Bronya and Fu Hua. No one knew of her telepathic abilities/preference outside of these two because she didn't want anyone knowing about them. As well, Fu Xia does have a severe ED. Her body does not require any form of self-care to remain healthy and alive. As such, she does not eat anything, maybe only small-small snack sized portions out of respect and how she just can't bring herself to do so. Do not try to force her to eat, this an actual disorder and will take legitimate time to help, she would be barely alive without her powers. Fu Xia also has sleep problems! she hasn't slept in thousands of years due to night terrors, she can not fall asleep easily and if she does, she will still have nightmares until her Post Ch. 25/35 arcs. KYOMI: Kyomi and Nix will be spoken of separately! No more of the Kyomi/Nix. They are the same person but this is different points of her life! Kyomi is the default verse where she is in the SoQ trying to save her world. Nix is her post-default where she is in her FD/"spirit" form where her world is destroyed and she's now just a drifter in the SoQ.

[abidethetempest]

Rise and Fall Ch 1 Retrospective

I've been wanting to do little behind the scenes style posts for my fics for EVER, and now i finally have a platform to do it >:D prepare to be subjected to my ramblings!!!! (link to the fic btw)

long ass post below the cut:

General Notes:

chapter 1 of any fic for me is both very fun and very nervewracking. writing the start of a project that I've been brainstorming for a long time can go one of two ways: i have All The Ideas right away and it comes out in one session, or i spend 600 years agonizing abt my ~vision~ and making sure everything is perfect. this fic was decidely the second. part of this is because im a big dumb idiot and planned everything except the opening for literal years. it took me probably 3 months just to get thru the intro stuff and feel like it was good enough to move on, let alone post.

Stuff I Cut:

unfortunately, there is actually a lot more i wish i could have included, but didn't for the sake of pacing. i wanted this section to include more of Risen's time alone on the road, her isolation from post-collapse society, and her deeply held guilt abt her role and self-percieved failures as a Lightbearer. i'd love to write some one-shots or little scenes about it! I wish we got to see more of what it would be like for a Lightbearer in the dark age that didnt want to be a Warlord, since timeline-wise we don't really see the emergence of the modern Guardian archetype until the Iron Lords or the early Titan orders. We hear abt it some from Drifter, but he is understandably reticent to speak on his past so we don't get much. Risen as a character feels very strongly about her purpose as the "Traveler's warrior", something that will be touched on next chapter, but she struggles to reconcile who she wants to be with the reality around her. The aftermath of this gets explored as time goes on, but i do want to revisit her very early days of life as a new light someday.

The Sanctuary:

the mission that Risen and Ghost are on at the beginning of this fic is,,,,, entirely made up by me, it's not from canon or remotely related to anything in the lore (as far as i know, at least). They're chasing rumors, driven by Risen's desperation for someplace to find a family and a purpose, and by Ghost's desire to keep Risen away from danger. I just needed a reason for them to be on the move.

The Town:

The town scene is... *sigh*. I struggled with it a lot. In part because it, AGAIN, was not something i had ever planned for until i actually sat down to write. I needed a scene to show Risen's desire to be a protector of others conflicting with her current modus operandi. I still feel like it's too on the nose when she talks to Ghost at the inn but sometimes you just gotta spell it out i think. Her reaction after running came out as I wanted, though. While running away to fight another day might be the logical choice, Risen definitely is the type to carry her guilt with her forever even if it was the "right decision". Risen:

I LOVE Ghost as a character. I want more Ghosts that are flawed, angry, hurt. More Ghosts who are afraid maybe none of the fighting and death is worth it. More Ghosts who go thru just as much development as their Guardians, please. I find it interesting that, as the first contact a Guardian has and their constant companion, a Ghost has a big influence over their Guardian's early development, and I want to see it explored more how they could push their Guardian down one path or another.

Warlords:

In case anyone is wondering, the Warlords in this fic are entirely OCs. The destiny timeline already gives me hives, I am NOT abt to try and find some canon characters to use in this fic when I can just.... make them myself. Warlords are such cool concepts! I want more lore about them (and the Dark Age in general).

I think thats all I have for now! Thanks for reading (assuming anyone is reading these lol)