#we'll see if I get to everything else first

[idkyetxoxo]

Seven | Eclipsed | Shadow and Flame

Pairing - Azriel x reader

Word count - 3.1k

Warnings - Parental abuse, angst, sexual content (mild)

<- prev || series masterlist || next ->

The decision to run wasn't something I made lightly.

But after crying into Eris's chest, after sobbing until my ribs ached and my breath came in shallow hiccups, I knew there was no other choice. 

Not anymore. Not with a life growing inside me. Not after last night.

Beron hadn't even been angry with me. Not specifically. One of my brothers had disobeyed him. A courtier had misspoken. The details didn't matter.  

What mattered was that I had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and in his eyes, I'd always been an easy target.

His fists had found me quickly. Cold. Controlled. Not once. Not twice. And then his hands—his hands had wrapped around my throat like iron bands, squeezing, squeezing—

It was Eris who'd pulled him off. Who'd thrown his body between mine and our father's rage. I remembered the heat in his voice, the flash of fire in his hands, the barely contained threat.

I also remembered the silence that followed. 

The tension that thickened the halls. The bruise blooming across my neck like a collar. The way my lip throbbed and cracked when I tried to speak.

This morning, I had dressed in haste, tunic and trousers that didn't cling to the evidence of what I carried. I covered my neck with a scarf. Packed only what I could carry. 

Every movement had felt surreal, like I was watching someone else's hands fold clothes, someone else's body move through my room.

Eris was already waiting outside my door. He didn't speak at first. Just looked at me.

His jaw clenched at the sight of my face—what Beron had done to it. And still, he didn't ask if I was sure. He knew the answer. Knew this was the only path left to me.

"We'll keep it quiet," he said. His voice was low but steady. "Your window of time is short. The guard shift changes in less than an hour. I've already cleared the western corridor. No one will see you."

My throat ached with gratitude I couldn't voice.

"You'll go through Winter first," he continued, adjusting the strap on my satchel, ever the older brother even now. "Kain will be expecting you. He doesn't know the full story—only that you're in danger, and I trust him. He'll give you shelter."

I nodded slowly. "And from there... Day."

"Helion owes me," Eris said simply. "He won't turn you away."

I swallowed thickly. "And if he does?"

He hesitated. "Then you find Lucien. He'll protect you." That name, the last resort. A comfort and a warning.

I took a slow breath. My heart felt like it was splintering, like each beat carried a goodbye I hadn't said yet.

Then, the dam inside me cracked again. "I'm sorry."

His brow furrowed. "What are you apologising for now?"

"For putting you in this position. For making you lie. For leaving like this. For—" My voice broke. "For everything."

Eris stepped forward, gathering me into his arms again. But this time, I didn't cry. I couldn't afford to. I just pressed my face into his shoulder and held on.

"You didn't put me here," he said, his voice rough. "He did. And if you stayed, it would only get worse. You know that."

I nodded into the fabric of his coat.

Eris pulled back, placing a hand on either side of my face, his thumbs brushing the edges of my bruises with such gentleness I almost cried again.

"You are not a burden. You are not weak. And you are not alone."

I blinked hard. "Promise me you'll come. When it's safe."

A flicker of warmth crossed his features, the rare kind that reminded me of the boy he used to be before this court turned him cold. "I will. I swear it. I'll find you."

The goodbye was brief because if it lasted longer, I wouldn't be able to leave.

I stepped out into the corridor and didn't look back.

The Autumn border loomed ahead before midday, where crimson and gold bled into the pale, icy blues of Winter. The line between them shimmered like a living thing, a rift between worlds. 

On one side, tyranny, fire, blood. On the other, a frigid unknown, but freedom.

The wind howled as I crossed. I had barely made it past the border. My boots crunched in the snow-dusted moss of Winter's forest, breath hitching in my chest, the cold biting through my clothes and skin and bone but I didn't stop. Couldn't stop.

And then the shadows came. Like a breath of wind. Like a warning.

They spilt in around me, dark tendrils curling over tree trunks, brushing against my ankles like they recognised me, owned me. I barely had time to spin around before he was there.

Azriel. He winnowed in as if summoned by my heartbeat. Cloaked in wings and midnight, expression carved from stone.

My heart dropped into my stomach.

"Are you insane?" I snapped, clutching the strap of my satchel like it might anchor me. My magic instinctively checking the glamour around my belly. My panic came too fast, too sharp. "What are you doing here? How did you find me?"

His shadows flitted and curled around his shoulders, more alive than I'd ever seen them, like they were relieved. Like they'd missed me.

Of course they had. Damned spymaster.

He didn't answer my questions. He just stared. "You're leaving," he said flatly. A statement. Not a question.

"Yes, Azriel," I said through gritted teeth. "I am. Is that a problem for you?"

"No," he said, too calmly. "Not at all."

I narrowed my eyes. "Then why are you here?"

His jaw clenched. His siphons pulsed faintly, his wings twitching like he wanted to shield me from something invisible.

"You were gone," he said, voice low. "And no one knew where. Eris lied for you. I nearly tore apart the entire Autumn Court before I followed the scent trail across the border. What the hell are you thinking?"

"You have no idea what I've been dealing with—"

"Then tell me!" he barked. "Tell me why you ran! Tell me why you've been hiding. Tell me what Beron did. I know he did something."

My voice cracked. "You don't understand—"

"Then help me understand!" His shadows lashed out violently behind him. "Because right now, it looks a lot like you were just done with me. Like I wasn't even worth a goodbye."

My breath came out in a shudder. The words hit deeper than they should have. Deeper than I could handle.

"I left," I whispered, "because I had to. Because if I didn't—he would have killed me."

Azriel stilled. "I don't care what Beron did," he said after a long beat. "We could have handled it together. You don't get to vanish and act like I don't have a right to fight for you."

"I wasn't just protecting myself!" I shouted, voice sharp with panic, pain, truth. 

"I was protecting your baby."

The words tore out of me like they had claws.

Azriel froze. His expression didn't change, just drained. Like all the breath had been pulled from his lungs. All the colour from the world. He didn't move. Didn't speak.

And I took his silence like a knife to the gut.

I laughed, but it was hollow and choked. "Of course. Of course you'd think it isn't yours."

His head jerked up. "That's not—"

"It is yours, Azriel!" I shouted, a sob clawing at my throat. "Do you think I would run like this, alone, terrified, if it wasn't? Do you think I would carry this—hide this—if it wasn't yours?"

"That's not what I—" He moved forward, reaching for me, voice raw now. "That's not what I thought."

I flinched.

"I thought I'd lost you," he breathed. "I thought... I wasn't enough. That maybe you'd decided I wasn't worth telling."

My anger shattered.

"I don't want this—us, if you don't want it," I said, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. "Don't feel pressured because of the baby. I can do this on my own."

His eyes flashed, wings twitching slightly. "No," he said, the word low, hoarse. "You don't get it."

He stepped closer, voice breaking as he continued, "I've always wanted you. More. I've always wanted more, but I was willing to take what you gave—anything, everything, because I'd rather have you in some way than lose you altogether."

My breath caught.

"Even without the baby," he said, eyes blazing now, "I'd still want you. Gods, it's why I'm here. Why I've been so insistent. So damn persistent. You think I wouldn't be here if this wasn't real to me? You think this is just about obligation?" He let out a ragged breath. "I chose you. Long before I ever knew this child existed."

And then he stepped forward again, slow, reverent, and laid his palm gently—gently over my stomach. His breath caught. "You're pregnant."

I nodded, barely holding it together. "Yes."

His hand trembled. "With my child."

"Yes," I said again, voice cracking.

And something in Azriel broke.

He dropped to his knees before me, arms wrapping around my waist, forehead pressed to the barely-there swell beneath my tunic now revealed because I dropped the glamour. 

His wings curled protectively around us both, and his shadows sank into the earth like they were rooting us together.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, voice thick. "You were never alone. Not for one damned second. I would've burned the courts for you. For you both."

I buried my hands in his hair as I finally let the tears fall.

"I was so scared," I choked. "I didn't know how to tell you. I didn't know if you'd want it. Or me."

He looked up at me, eyes shining. "Want you? Want you? You're everything. You always have been everything. And this baby—this baby is mine. I will never let anything touch you. Either of you."

And the way he said it, fierce, certain, terrifyingly tender, broke something in me that had been held too tightly for too long.

"I love you," I whispered, voice shaking.

He stood, pulled me into his arms, and kissed me like I was oxygen after drowning.

"I love you," he said. "And I will never let you run again."

Azriel didn't speak again as he winnowed us out of the Winter borderlands, but the way his arms held me, like I might vanish again, said enough.

Velaris met us with the hush of starlight and sea air. The House of Wind stood dark and waiting, perched in the cliffs like it always had, like it had never stopped.

He landed softly on the balcony of his room and didn't let go of me until we were inside, shadows flitting ahead.

For a long while, we said nothing. I stood in the familiar quiet, unsure what to do with my hands, my breath, the storm still warring inside my chest.

Azriel watched me from near the fireplace. Not expectant. Not pressing. Just watching, like he was memorising the fact that I was there, really there.

We ended up in his bed, not by some grand plan but by instinct. His room was still exactly as I remembered, cool shadows and still air, the scent of cedar and clean linen clinging to everything. Him.

We lay there side by side, the silence humming between us like a living thing.

"I missed you," he said after a while, his voice low, rough with emotion.

I turned to face him, our foreheads nearly touching. "I missed you too."

He let out a breath, his thumb tracing along my jaw. "How's it been so far?" he asked, gently, but I knew what he meant.

I gave a shaky laugh. "Terrible."

His brows furrowed instantly. "Terrible how?"

I sighed. "I'm nauseous almost constantly, I'm always exhausted... and, Cauldron save me, I've been so horny all the damn time."

Azriel actually recoiled slightly, blinking. "Oh."

A beat of silence. Then I smirked. "Don't worry, my healer says it's normal. Hormones and all that."

He blinked again, and then he laughed. A real, soft chuckle that rumbled in his chest and made his shadows stir around the bed like they were sighing with relief.

"I... might be able to help with that," he said, his voice suddenly deeper, rougher, warmer.

I raised a brow. "You volunteering, Spymaster?"

He leaned in, lips ghosting over mine. "Only if it's what you want."

"It is," I whispered. "I never stopped wanting you."

That was all it took.

Azriel kissed me like I was air and he hadn't breathed in months. There was no rush, no hunger behind it just softness. Reverence. A kind of aching sweetness that pulled tears to my eyes as his fingers threaded through my hair.

He kissed me until the world went quiet, until there was only the warmth of his body, the safety of his arms, the steady rhythm of our hearts finally syncing again.

His hands moved with care, relearning my body like a song half-forgotten. 

When he undressed me, he paused at every new curve, every sign of change, as if memorising this new version of me—of us.

When he touched the gentle swell of my bare stomach, his expression broke wide open. Wonder, fear, love, all of it flickered in his eyes before he leaned down and pressed a kiss there, slow and trembling.

I ran my fingers through his hair, tears slipping silently down my cheeks.

Azriel looked up at me then, cupping my face with both hands. "I love you," he said, fierce and gentle at once. "And I already love them, too."

I kissed him, pulling him down with me, and when he finally slid into me, it was like coming home.

There was no frenzy, no urgency. Only skin and breath and quiet moans between kisses. He moved with care, slow and deep, as if every stroke was a prayer of apology, of promise, of love.

I clung to him, wrapping my legs around his hips, letting the weight of him ground me in this moment. In him.

We made love like we were rediscovering what it meant to be whole.

When we reached the edge, it wasn't with fireworks, but with a sigh, a soft moan, a whisper of his name against my lips as I shattered around him and he followed, groaning into my shoulder as he buried himself deep and still.

Afterward, he didn't let go. He stayed wrapped around me, one hand gently splayed over my thigh, the other tangling with mine.

In the stillness of our shared breath, I realised I wasn't scared anymore.

I was loved. I was safe. We both were.

I felt it like the brush of butterfly wings inside me, a flutter so sudden, so gentle, I sat up with a sharp inhale, one hand flying instinctively to my belly.

Azriel rose with me immediately, tension crackling through his frame, shadows stirring like alarmed birds.

"What is it?" he asked, eyes scanning me for pain.

But then he saw my face. I was smiling. Wide and real.

"Feel," I whispered, grabbing his hand and placing it over the spot just beneath my navel. "Right there."

His hand stilled. A moment passed. Then, another kick. Stronger this time, certain.

Azriel froze. His lips parted, the breath catching in his throat like he'd been struck, like the world had dropped out from under him in the most beautiful way.

"That was—" he blinked, and then a laugh burst from him, raw and amazed. "That's—gods, that's our baby."

I nodded, giggling despite the sudden tears pricking my eyes. He moved instinctively, shifting so both hands cradled the gentle swell of my belly, reverent, like he was afraid touching too hard would wake him from a dream.

"I can't believe it," he murmured. "Three months, and now... it's real. It's really happening."

"It's been real for a while," I said softly, laying back down. He followed me, turning onto his side to face me, one of his wings draping protectively behind my back like a shelter. "But feeling that... it changes everything, doesn't it?"

He nodded slowly, eyes locked on my face. His fingers traced the line of my temple with aching tenderness.

"What else do you know?" he asked, barely louder than a breath.

I reached up, wrapping my fingers around his wrist, pressing a kiss into his palm. My heart beat faster. Not from joy but from the weight of what I knew I had to say.

"There's something I need to tell you," I whispered.

His expression sobered immediately. Concern etched into every line of his beautiful face. His shadows tightened, gathering closer, as if they sensed the shift before the words had even left my mouth.

"The baby..." I began, voice trembling. "The baby has wings."

At first, he smiled. That quiet, proud, stunned smile he wore so rarely, like the sun rising behind his storm. 

But the moment he looked back at me and saw I wasn't smiling, his expression collapsed.

"My body..." I said carefully, repeating the words that had been haunting me for weeks, "isn't built to accommodate that kind of development. Not without complications. Criva, my healer—she explained it plainly. There are risks. Serious ones."

Azriel went still, like a statue carved from night.

And then, hoarsely, "Are you... are you telling me you might die delivering our baby?"

My throat closed. I tried to speak and failed. So I just nodded.

Tears welled in his eyes, unshed but shining, and his shadows became a storm, thick and whirling and frantic as they wrapped around his shoulders like a second skin. 

His hand trembled as he reached up and brushed my cheek.

"I—I can't lose you," he choked. "Not now. Not after everything. Not when I just got you back."

I swallowed hard, blinking through my own tears. 

"It's okay, Az," I said, and somehow managed to sound calm. "Really. If it comes to that... if I don't make it, you'll still have them. And that's enough for me. It has to be."

"No," he said, voice breaking. "That's not enough for me. I want you. I want both of you. I will not let this end with you dying just to bring life into this world."

He shifted closer, cupping the back of my head, foreheads touching now. 

His voice cracked like thunder when he whispered, "We'll find another way. I'll tear apart every library in Prythian, I'll go to Madja, to Helion, to anyone—I don't care. There has to be a way."

"You're not going to lose me without a fight," I murmured, kissing the corner of his mouth, salty from his tears. "But you need to understand... this is why I ran. This is why I didn't want to tell you. Because it's terrifying. Because it's real. And I couldn't bear to see you break."

"I won't break," he said fiercely, both hands now framing my face. "I'll bend, I'll burn, I'll bleed—but I won't break. Not as long as you're with me."

I closed my eyes and let the sound of him, his heartbeat, his breath, his voice, wrap around the ache inside me. 

For a moment, there was only that. Only him. Only us.

And in that stillness, I let myself hope.

A/n - FINALLY THE TRUTH! It didn't come out exactly the way I originally imagined, but after tweaking it endlessly, this is the best I could do.

We go from heavy angst, straight into some spice and then into soft fluff... real whiplash energy, I know x

The ending is sad I'm aware. They just found their way back to each other, only to be hit with the full weight of how dangerous this pregnancy really is :(

Also I have a concert on monday (lana del rey… i know 😝) and the next part is meant to be on tuesday for this but I might have to wait to post cause i wanna tweak it a bit but i won’t have time cause of the concert, don’t kill me please ty 😭

Thank you for reading <33

Shadow and Flame tag list - @coffeebooksrain18 @jaybbygrl @slut4acotar @justtryingtosurvive02 @mortqlprojections @sheblogs @moonlitlavenders @windblownwinston @queenoffeysand @tothestarsandwhateverend @saamanthaag3 @metaphysicaldoom @natalijassav @bookishbishhh @yourenothingbutnottome @holb32 @etsukomoonbeam @fxckmiup @i-am-infinite @megwan @cuethedepession @rinalsworld @whoreforfictionalmen18 @asahinasstuff @lilah-asteria @smol-grandpa @shinyghosteclipse @rachelnicolee @shellsarepretty @jugodeshadowsinger @landofpetrichor @sunnyspycat @pit-and-the-pen @obscure-beauty

[mysteryshoptls]

Idia Shroud Chat Lines

The King of the Underworld's System.

Idia: A-Apparently, the King of the Underworld made a system that'll automatically keep track of the number of dead souls. Idia: Doesn't that feel super advanced for that mythic era? Idia: That's why I def think it's best to have a forward-thinking mind to clue into the newest stuff. Idia: Th-That's why I bet it'd be more efficient to have an AI be a Housewarden, 'stead of a human... Idia: I can set up a perfect program for it and everything... You sure I can't?

An Admired Idol

Idia: I-Ignihyde's dorm emblem...? It's portraying a Cerberus. Idia: I see it popping up in a ton of games as the last boss, but actually, it first appeared in the Underworld. Idia: Try not to forget that. Idia: The King of the Underworld definitely had a massive cheat code active with an OP pet like that. Idia: He's way too cool. An admired idol of all middle schoolers everywhere! Idia: ...Eh, they don't admire him...? Idia: How dare they not understand his appeal... Idia: Aaand this is why I don't get what goes on in a normie's head...

Good at Dealing with Women

Idia: I heard the King of the Underworld was good at dealing with women... Idia: Some still talk about how he'd coax the goddesses into giving him info he wanted. Idia: Plus, he even had a beautiful lady working for him, too. Almost like a normie! Idia: I mean, like whenever I'm playing a dating sim... Idia: I usually can figure out how the algorithm works and just do a speedrun clear. Idia: [sigh] ...Saying that out loud just made me feel lame.

A Little Too Generous? (New!)

Idia: There's a story about how the King of the Underworld encouraged a hardworking young man to take a nice break from it all... Idia: He'll let others rest while continuing to do all the hard work himself, isn't that a little too generous? Idia: Although, speaking of breaks, there's a ton of guys in my dorm who'll skip class a bunch. Idia: But it's not like they're just skiving off just 'cause they can. They're all just super focused on their own interests. Idia: You know how it is, you get into the groove of some kind of research or task and you just don't want to drop everything... Idia: So it's OK by me if classes get skipped. That's why our dorm embodies the spirit of diligence, 'cause we do whatever needs done.

The Underworld was a Gloomy Place

Ortho: Nii-san, wanna go to an amusement park on our next day off? Ortho: I bet it'd be more fun than just sitting in a dark room all day! Idia: Ortho... The Underworld was a gloomy place with no sun, and definitely no amusement parks. Idia: But even then, the King of the Underworld never forgot his sense of humor or his ability to laugh. Idia: It's all about what's in your mind. Idia: So, just because I'm holed up in my dark and cramped room it doesn't mean my life is boring. Ortho: If you say so... Then, we'll go to an amusement park when you're feeling up to it more... Idia: .........If you're okay with a VR amusement park, I can program something up over the weekend. Ortho: C'mon, that just defeats the purpose～!

Consume Content of my Faves (New!)

Idia: Yaaawn... I couldn't stop re-watching Premo vids on a loop last night and ended up staying awake too late. Idia: Ortho told me to go to sleep earlier, but I can't life means nothing if I can't consume content of my faves. Idia: But lately, whenever Premo says they have some kind of "big announcement," I can feel my heart leap up my throat in anxiety... Azul: I see. It would make sense that any sort of "big announcement" nowadays could mean the group is breaki... Idia: Azul-shi, don't say anything else! If it's spoken aloud, it could really happen! Idia: Like you know how they say the Thorn Fairy's curse on the spinning wheel was so strong... Idia: That the curse cheat code could be activated just by touching it? Idia: Just like that spinning wheel, there are some topics you should just never ever ever touch! Azul: How cumbersome... Yes, it does seem that I've touched on something that should not have been disturbed, in more ways than one.

Guess the Truth just Slipped Out, LOL (New!)

Azul: Idia-san, you may currently be winning, but I doubt you can still afford to be looking away from the board and reading the game box. Idia: Oh no, oh my, how could I? Boredom was just creeping in 'cause of how long you're making me wait. Idia: Looks to me like you're stuck and I'm p. sure a comeback's near impossible, so why don'tcha just suck it up and give in? Azul: Impossible? The outcome is still unknown. I shall never surrender. Idia: They say that a beautiful girl with skin as white as snow once wished upon a well. Idia: How 'bout you go and wish upon the courtyard well, begging it to let you win against me? Idia: Maybe then, by some miracle, you'll be able to pull a win out of nowhere! Idia: Whoops, shouldn't've called you winning a miracle, huh! Guess the truth just slipped out, LOL. Azul: Once you start talking, you just won't stop, do you...? Azul: Please go back to staring at the box and silencing yourself forever.

Requested by @monavitty

[0asterous0]

You should tell Tumblr more about the nightmare blunt rotation au /silly

Scott inviting Joel, Grian, Scar, Tango and Gem to his house to smoke some weed and the group literally fucking killing him <3

Don't want to say much because I plan to write this, but Martyn (Scott's boyfriend) breaking down in the court right before the group is declared not guilty and the case closes as an "accident"!!!!!

Spoilers <3

The noise in the courthouse is overwhelming. Gem, Joel, Scar, Grian, and Tango were gathered right outside their courtroom, which will decide their fate from now on. Tango is walking back and forth, his breathing shallow, as Grain stands at the window, looking outside at all the reporters gathered for the hearing. Others are sitting on the benches, the clock ticking near them, as they wait for the court to start.

"You think we'll win this?" Grian asks, his voice cracking under the constant pressure.

It's been a month since Scott's death, since the investigation started. It was all finally coming to an end. There was nothing on the crime scene. Four of them breathed in too much smoke, confirming that they had been in the burning basement for a long time. This added another point to that defence, their story that they had woken up with flames already taking over Scott's room in the basement. Tango was seen in the main room camera before the fire, sleeping there, which was why he was the last one to notice the fire. It all made sense.

They were just stupid new adults, trying something new, which ended up in a tragedy.

Tragedy. That's what it was.

"Yes," Gem says, sounding somewhat confident despite the tremble of her body. "We are good. Everything's gonna be fine.."

Grian turns back to her to comment, but he suddenly flinches, taking a step back. As the others follow his gaze, they find Martyn approaching them.

Martyn... He avoided them since the tragedy. The first and the last time at least one of them had heard him was back in the police station, the night of the fire. When he learned about the fire, he went to Scott's house, and the neighbours, not knowing the details, told him that everyone had been taken back to the police for questioning about the fire.

Martyn came to the station thinking that Scott was there. The others were still in different rooms, being questioned, when Scar, sitting outside on the bench, heard Martyn's screaming.

None of them has seen him after that.

They were never ready to see Martyn after what happened, especially not now, getting ready for the court, and seeing Martyn in all black. His bandana was missing from his forehead, instead holding his hair up in a ponytail, just like Scott used to do for him. His eyes were red and puffy; he probably cried right before coming here. Ignoring the redness, they could see the dark circles surrounding his eyes, indicating that he hadn't rested for a while.

They were not ready for this. There's no way someone can be ready for this.

The silence envelops them as Martyn finally stops, standing in front of the group, his empty eyes darting from one to another. With every eye contact, the tension grows, all of them looking away, before Martyn can look at someone else. They are avoiding him, just like Martyn was avoiding them, and he knows why.

"Tell me," he croaks, his hands trembling. "Tell me what happened. What actually happened."

They all stay silent, and the longer the silence lasts, the worse Martyn's tremor, as his face falls. They can all see how Martyn is fighting the tears, keeping down the sobs, calming down his breathing. It's not working as Martyn wants, it's visible, it's devastating, but none of them comment on it. They all know why he's like this. They all understand. That's what they expected from him, and that's what they get, as their hearts grow heavier, their own tears fighting to escape.

"TELL ME!" Martyn screams, his voice breaking in a choked sob, as the tears finally fall from his eyes. "Please.." he adds much more quietly, not even bothering to brush his tears away. "I-I need to know.. I need to know what happened.. I need to know how he- how he-"

"His candles.." Scar whispers, breaking the silence from the group. They all wince, turning back to him, and Scar bites down on his lip, staring back at Martyn. It's uncomfortable, having Martyn looking at him like this. It's wrong. It's heartbreaking. "His candle started the fire when we were sle-"

"Stop," Martyn says, seizing. Tango and Grian take a step back, while others shrink in their seats. Martyn's hands are clenched tight, and they can see the veins ready to pop from all the anger that he's holding in. "He had those candles since he was seven. He- he found comfort in them, and he knew- he knew how to be careful with them around. It never..."

"I'm sorry, Martyn," Grian whispers, his own hands shaking, as he wraps them around himself. "We- We were high, and I- We just forgot.. Maybe- Maybe someone accidentally knocked it over, but we don't- we don't know, Martyn. We just woke up to the fire, I'm sorry." He lets his own tears fall. "I'm sorry.. I'm so sorry, Martyn. We are s-sorry."

One by one, the crying spreads to the others, as Grian turns into a mess, apologizing over and over again. They all felt that apology, they all meant it, but could never say it out loud, not to Martyn, not knowing what actually happened back there.

Martyn's angry expression slowly drops, as he also chokes out another sob, breaking down worse than all of them together. No wonder Martyn and Scott were childhood best friends, and have been dating for three years now.

"I was supposed to come to you..." Martyn whispered through his tears, his shoulders slumped forward, his legs hardly keeping him standing. "His mom- His mom always disliked me.. I was.. I was supposed to come later, after she l-left for the night shift.. I was- But I stayed.. I stayed back at Cleo's with the others, and.."

Martyn hides his face behind his hands as another sob escapes him. They watch as his legs slowly give out, and he softly drops to the ground on his knees.

"What now? What- What do I do now?"

None of them answers. They don't know how. They sit there, listening to Martyn's choked crying, as they wait for the doors to the courthouse to open, urging them all inside.

But no matter how this ends... they have lost no matter what.

[salamispots]

gift/commission for a relative, 15"x20"

[toudan]

in my absence i have been busy with uni and also i've been playing a lot of animal crossing cus i bought it recently and now i can't put my switch down for 5 minutes without wanting to pick it back up again

[note-boom]

Something something a child and her immortal, all powerful eldritch being who only cares about her and listens to no one else

[treezxu]

shoutout to cassel and lila for SUCKING!!!!! I HATE THEM!!!!!!!!!

[autumnrory]

woooo my niece took 5 of my 13 lego sets, one of which was one of the three larger ones, so that's one huge box out of the way and i'm just glad she wanted them because like they ARE twenty years old and they look fine ofc but sometimes kids aren't gonna want stuff that isn't new and shiny ya know, but she did seem to want everything which would've been fine with me but i knew there was no way they would take all that with them, and at least i still have stuff of my own to sell, plus should get at least a cut of my brother's stuff for doing the inventory and putting together that stuff that wasn't already done

[deepfriedseagullfeet]

also just added over 150 videos of 10 different youtube horror args and series to watch and review eventually cause i have GOT to catch up on spooky shit. heres all i got in there

[marrow-bone]

Except now we also have to contend with 'AI' (Machine learning) aggregates that make it even harder to find the Thing you need, because most the search results now are cloaked info-barfers that are just ouroboros-ing information tidbits that have a 50/50 or so chance of being even kinda right, so who knows if the Thing that you've been presented with even is the Thing.

This is especially frustrating when dealing with incredibly niche medical/surgical/biological information for what should be obvious reasons. You'll get a result, sure, but you'll need to spend an extra hour or so to make sure you don't end up in the hospital just because a formerly useful resource is now run by bots.

People are definitely going to die because of this.

"every possible kind of content can be found on the internet" yeah sure except for the One fucking thing I'm looking for. why does no one want to talk about the One Singular thing I'm looking for. but yeah other than that everything is on here.

[derinthescarletpescatarian]

wait, Derin how did your leaving make the hospital shut down?

I used to work as a live-in nanny for a pediatrician.

Now, the thing about hospitals in my country is that they are massively understaffed and massively underfunded. This is especially true outside the major cities. The staff are worked to the bone and receive little to no help in things like finding accommodation or childcare, making working in rural areas a very uninviting prospect; staff come out here, get lumped with the work of three people (because there's nobody else to do it), burn out under the workload and leave, meaning that those remaining have even more work because that person is gone. It's unsustainable and the medical staff are doing their best to sustain it, because people die if they don't, so to the higher-ups it looks like everything's getting done and therefore everything is fine.

My friend (and boss) worked one week on, one week off, swapping out with another pediatrician. This was necessary because it would not be physically possible for one person to handle the workload for longer periods of time. The one single pediatrician had to hold up the entire pediatrics ward, which was not only the only public hospital pediatrics ward in our town, but also the one that served all the towns around us for a few hours' drive in all directions. I regularly saw her go to work sick, aching, tired, or with a debilitating 'I can barely make words or see' level migraine, because if she took a day off, twenty children didn't get healthcare that day, and some of these kids' appointments were scheduled weeks in advance. She'd work long hours in the day and then be called in a couple of times overnight for an hour or two at a time (she was on-call at night too, because somebody had to be), and then go in the next day. Sometimes she would be forced to take a day off because she physically could not stay awake for longer than a few minutes at a time, meaning she couldn't drive to work.

Cue my niece's second birthday coming up in Melbourne. I'd been working for her for about 3 years, and she (and the hospital) had plenty of advance warning that I (and therefore she) needed one (1) Friday off. That's fine, we'll find someone to work that Friday, the hospital said. Right up until the last week where they're like "oh, we can't find a replacement; you can come in, can't you?"

No, she tells them; I don't have anyone to watch my kid that day.

Oh, surely you can hire a babysitter for this one day, they say. Think of the children! We really really need you to work that day. I know we said it'd be fine but we need you now, there's no one else to do it.

There are no other babysitters, she told them. Unless you can find one?

That's not our responsibility, they said.

But I'm not changing my plans, she's got plans by now as well, the hospital knew about this one day weeks in advance, and with absolutely no reserve staff they're forced to reschedule all pediatrics appointments for that Friday. Not a huge deal, it happens on the 'physically too overworked to get out of bed' days too. I go to Melbourne, she goes back to her home in Adelaide for her recovery week, all should be on track.

My niece gives me Covid.

This was way back in the first wave of the pandemic, and there were no Covid vaccines yet. The rules were isolate, mask up, hope. I had Covid in the house, and it would've been madness for my friend and her toddler to come back into the Covid house instead of staying in Adelaide. There was absolutely no way that a pediatrician could live with someone in quarantine due to Covid and go to work in the hospital with sick children every day. And no support existed for finding another babysitter, or temporary accommodation, so the hospital was down a pediatrician.

The other pediatrician wasn't available to do a three-week stint. They were also trapped in Adelaide on their well-earned week off.

Meaning that the only major pediatrics ward within a several-hour radius had no pediatricians. They had to shut down and send all urgent cases to Adelaide for the week. To the complete absence of surprise of any of the doctors or nurses; of course this would happen, this was bound to happen, it presumably keeps happening. But probably to the surprise of the higher-ups. After all, the hospital was doing fine, right? Of course all the staff were complaining of overwork and a lack of resources in every meeting, but they could always be fobbed off with the promise of more help sometime in the future; the work was mostly getting done, so the issue couldn't be too urgent.

It's not like some nanny who doesn't even work for the hospital could go out of town for a weekend for the first time in three years, and get the only public pediatrics ward in the area shut down for a week.

[phantomrose96]

Okay I have a story.

So my birthday is this Sunday (May 26th). My mom ordered some presents for me but one of them (an Etsy purchase) was seemingly stuck in transit and might not make it on time. I tell my mom all good, no worries. She gets in contact with the seller. After a long delay in response they get back with "Right we'll fix it!" It ships, tracking label and everything, good to go! ETA May 22nd (yesterday.)

During the work day I check the tracking and it says it's been delivered in/at mailbox! I double check with my mom "hey, is it mailbox size?" because if not, I don't want it sitting at the front door where anyone walking by could snag it.

She says "it's definitely NOT mailbox size." Okay. I text my neighbors in the building "Anyone seen a package delivered? It's a birthday gift from my mom and I wanna make sure it gets inside!" Success! Floor 2 David (not to be confused with Floor 1 David) had brought it inside. Inform my mom. All good!

I stop by home briefly around 4pm, because yesterday was hot-hot and I just installed my window A/C that morning in the living room, and according to my cat cam my stupid cat hasn't spent a single second in the climate controlled living room and is, instead, voluntarily baking herself elsewhere so I'm like "great" and hop on my bike to go home (10 minute ride) to check on her.

I get in the building door. Patches is crying from the top floor because she heard me. I maneuver my bike in the front hall. The ugliest fucking 6-foot-tall cat tree(?)/totem(?)/statue(?) I've seen in my entire life is just. Standing there.

My first thought is "What the fuck is that." My second thought is "Oh fuck that is for me." I look around at the floor in case there's perhaps anything else that might, in fact, be the gift.

No. Me and Cat Pole.

It's taller than me. I turn it around to face me and its face is painted and this is, in fact, uglier than it looked from the back.

Um.

Patches is crying. So I just haul it up to my level. MAYBE it was supposed to come with twine that I wrap around it (and hide its face from the world) for Patches to scratch. Maybe this is a prank. Maybe this is an inside joke, because when my mom moved into her current house the neighborhood gifted her some ugly-as-hell totem that apparently, by tradition, each newest-comer to the neighborhood is required to have and display in their window so maybe this is a very good riff on that.

Patches rubs against it. She's not afraid of this horrid facsimile of her kind.

Great.

Meanwhile SHE'S fine and the condo is a little toasty but totally liveable so I'm like "Good, cool, you're not baking. You're having a good time. Enjoy your new sister, I guess, I'll see you later."

I go back to work because this is a problem for later me.

After work, after my run, after whatever, I get home and it's like 8:00pm and Patches is so happy to see me and the totem pole is still just. There.

I text my friends like "so a bday gift is here from my mom and it's the Biggest Ugliest cat pole I've seen in my life. Is this a bit? Did my mom go 'that's so ugly haha! send!' Maybe she genuinely found it cute. How do I navigate this." My friend Sarah has the good advice to maybe text my mom neutrally like "Got the cat pole!" and feel the waters whether my mom is like "Isn't it ugly? 😂" or "Hope Patches likes it! 🥰"

My mom goes to bed early so I don't do any of that yet. Problem for tomorrow me.

This morning, Patches wakes me up for breakfast. I get her situated and I'm staring at the fucking Cat Pole again. I wonder if my Mom's been wondering all night what I thought of it.

I take a picture. I text her.

Okay.

I get on call with my mom. I ask for clarity that the ungodly horrid thing is NOT my birthday gift and is in fact a mix-up from the seller who sent me this instead of my actual gift. She's wheezing between words. She thinks I'm being too charitable for the amount of Absolute Fucking Ugly this is. I have to gently talk her out of using the word "monstrosity" while messaging the seller asking what the hell happened here.

I tell her I need to apologize for harming her dignity with Floor 2 David, who thinks this fucking thing is my mom's idea of a great birthday gift for her to-be-28-year-old daughter.

My heart goes out to the poor soul who did actually order this cat totem and is lacking it on this lovely day.

[pencil-n-pen]

I WANT AN INNOCENT LOVE

.☘︎ ݁˖

──────────────────────

alexandria! rick grimes x fawn! fem! reader

masterlist | kofi

summary: you’re a new addition to alexandria. Rick’s just looking out for his group. That’s the only reason he finds himself drawn to you. Nothing else.

cw: LEGAL age gap (it is big, i imagine reader in her early 20s) canon typical depictions of violence, Rick is kinda mean to reader at first, Rick kind of struggles with the age gap a little, dom! Rick, slight possessive rick

tags/tropes: shy and skittish reader, she’s not used to dealing with people but she’s not helpless, honestly she’s just a sweet and soft person who became what everyone becomes in the apocalypse, hurt/comfort, insecurity, touch-starved reader a bit, YEARNING, no saviors or whisperers just Rick and everyone living happily in alexandria. Daryl is also here and he’s kind of like ur uncle bc i love daryl and i say so

a/n: i have nothing to say other than this is so insanely self indulgent it’s not even funny. nobody asked for this but writing it has kept me sane while i’m couch ridden. everything is terrible rn but rick grimes <3333

songs i listened to while writing: We'll Never Have Sex by Leith Ross, Work Song by Hozier (Rick's theme song) you were mine by Esha Tewari, Do I Wanna Know- Hozier's Cover, Somethin' Stupid by Nancy & Frank Cinatra, Lover, You Should've Come Over by Jeff Buckley (i'm so not normal about that entire album) Under Your Spell by Snow Strippers, Little Bit by Lykke Li (the original not the remix)

title taken from Under Your Spell by Snow Strippers

──────────────────────

₊ ⊹❀

You were just a little thing when you showed up at the gates.

All wide-eyed and skittish at the tree-line, clothes hanging awkwardly off your frame. Scuffed and dirty, when Rick goes up to the tower to scout you out.

You don’t quite come close enough for anyone to get any kind of information on you. Name, age, where you’ve been, what you’re doing at the gates.

These are all questions Rick, as leader, needs answers to.

If he could just convince you to get close enough.

Under different circumstances, he’d just let you do whatever it is you’re planning on doing, but the lurking is starting to make people uneasy. And he figured he ought to do something to ease their concerns. Easiest way is to either get you inside the walls or find answers to those questions.

You’re real good at staying out of reach, though. And you never stay in one place for long. By the time two weeks have gone by, you’ve made it around the entire length of the walls. Just to end up right where you started: the gates.

It’s just past the crack of dawn- dew is still lingering on the plants and grass and the sun’s rays have yet to actually provide warmth. Rick is up, making his rounds and checking in when one of the guards on rotation lets him know that you’re at the gates. Only time you’ve ever been that close.

So they’re opened, and you amble in— light-footed and unsure. Honestly, you remind him a bit of Daryl with your obvious hesitance to be in the company of other people and clear inclination towards nature. But where Daryl is hard edges and reclusiveness, you’re… softer.

A small group of people —curious onlookers, mostly— forms behind Rick as he saunters towards you, and he watches the moment you see the reality of your decision and begin to regret it.

He comes to a stop a few feet away from you, letting the silence hang in the air for a bit.

He finally takes you in with his own two eyes, without the aid of the binoculars, and he examines. Catalogs the nervous twitch of your hands and scuffs and scrapes he can see on the visible scraps of skin. Eyes the way you worry your lip between your teeth and can’t decide if you’re going to keep staring at him or look away- your mind clearly torn between vigilance and submission.

“You finish your tour of Alexandria?” He asks dryly.

You blink up at him, eyes wide. “Are you the leader of this safe-zone?”

He nods. “Sure am.”

You begin fiddling with your fingers absentmindedly. The small motion draws his attention back to your hands, where me notices bandaids practically covering the entire surface of your skin. He files the information away in his head for later.

“Are you currently accepting new members?”

He can’t help but crack a smile at your question. The way you phrase it and your nervous demeanor remind him so much of the times before the dead started walking— you look like a college student looking for a job, not somebody trying to find refuge here, after the end of the world.

“Depends,” He rests his hands on his hips, and he notes the way your eyes dart to the gun at his side before back up to him, “You got any skills to offer? You alone? Or do you got a group waitin’ for you?”

Your lip is raw from where you release it from your teeth.

“I’m really good at mending. I’m a proficient hunter. I can hold my own in a fight. And I’m alone.”

At the admittance of your lack of company, you shift back a few steps, a subtle re-distribution of weight.

Ain’t been socialized a whole bunch, Rick thinks to himself. He’s willing to bet you either don’t have a lot of positive experiences with large groups of people or you just plain ain’t been around em’ much.

He hums. “You killed anybody?”

“Walkers or live?”

“Either.”

You shift your shoulders. He’s starting to wonder just how many nervous actions you have.

“I don’t think anybody lives alone who hasn’t killed walkers.”

“And the living?”

You don’t move, but your eyes look to the ground, not at him.

Shame. Fear.

“Twice.”

“How come?”

“They wanted my supplies. Wanted me dead. I decided I didn’t want to die.”

He looks you over again. You really are a cute little thing. He thinks, absentmindedly in the back of his head, that something like you shouldn’t have bloody, bandaid covered hands. Shouldn’t have a kill count.

But he dismisses the thought. The end of the world leaves no room for those unwilling to do what’s necessary.

He dips his head. “We’ll get you settled in,” He jerks his head to the some of the guys behind him. “They’ll get you sorted out. Get along, now.”

You slink past him, distance carefully measured as you go.

Your eyes don’t quite leave him, though. There’s a moment- either you pause or his mind slows. Maybe a bit of both. But the air stills, and your gaze locks on him for the first time since he saw you, nestled in that tree line. The memory is clear and vivid- the sun shining through the trees, dappling you in shades of amber and grey. And then he’s here, and you’re looking up at him, eyelashes fluttering, and the sun has risen just enough that it casts a similar glow, the only difference now he can see up close just how the light catches on your face, just how he knows your features would look so different, so much softer if you were cleaned, if someone minded the cuts and scrapes.

And then you step away, and he snaps out of his reverie. He blinks a few times at your retreating form, shakes his head, and then busy’s himself with other work. There’s always something to be done.

But no matter how hard he tries, he can’t get the image of you gazing up at him, bathed in the early morning sun out of his mind.

—

A few days pass, and Rick sees little of you. He’s almost positive it’s on purpose. The few times he does see you, you look scared. And then, generally, you manage to make some sort of fleet-footed escape. The repeated spotting and fleeing reminds him of the time he accompanied Daryl on a hunt and startled a doe.

He can’t quite figure out why you’re afraid of him, though. He remembers being fairly decent to you when you arrived, and tried coaxing you towards the gates politely before you’d shown up on your own.

The sight of your scared expression ends up stuck fast in his head, usually super-imposed over the image of you on that morning at the gates. Two different versions of you, neither making any sort of sense.

He decides that it’s probably best that he stick away, if he scares you. You’ll settle, your ruffled feathers’ll smooth.

And he’ll stop thinking about you.

—

Neither do you settle or does he stop thinking about you.

He watches you from a distance, careful. You just… don’t relax. Ever. You creep away from every possible opportunity to connect with others like it might grow jaws and bite- you shrink back or freeze. Like you think if you play dead, if you don’t move, they’ll leave you alone.

He’s wondering what you hoped to accomplish by seeking refuge in Alexandria if this is how you act. You’re going to have a bad go of things if this is your plan. Or maybe you plain haven’t even thought that far.

He snags Daryl’s arm as he passes by.

“Wha—“

“The new girl,” Is all Rick says, still watching you remarkably avoid everyone who passes you. “She’s real skittish.”

Daryl follows his eyeline, finding you easy enough.

“Mm. She ain’t settlin’?”

“No.”

Daryl just hums again. “Well, she ain’t got nobody, does she?”

“So?”

The hunter shrugs. “Can’t relax. Ain’t got nobody to watch her back, take a watch. She’ll settle. Might take her a bit of time.”

Rick huffs. “She’s afraid of me.”

“No she ain’t,” Daryl snorts, “And since when does Rick Grimes care whether other people like him well enough?”

Rick doesn’t respond, just keeps watching you.

Daryl follows Rick’s gaze, then breathes out a low sigh.

“She is a pretty little thing, ain’t she?”

“That is not what this is about.”

Daryl levels him with a look. “Sure it’s not.“

“She’s half my age. I could damn well be her father.”

“But ya ain’t.”

“That isn’t the point.”

“Then what is the point, Rick?” Daryl sighs again, crossing his arms. “Either do something about it or move on. You got too many people dependin’ on ya for you to be eyeing up flighty young girls.”

Rick rolls his shoulders. “You make me out to be such a creep.”

The other man claps him on the shoulder. “Then stop acting like one.”

He attempts to take Daryl’s advice to heart. It’s an annoying truth that Daryl always knows exactly what Rick needs to hear. Not necessarily what he wants to hear, but what needs to be said.

And he is being creepy. He shakes his head as he walks away. Watching you, thinking about you. He can’t. That’s— you’re too young to be thinking any kind of thing like that.

No matter how there’s this half second, before you look scared, where you almost look relieved. No matter how he wants to personally take care of the bumps and scrapes on your face, wants to take off the bandaids and examine what’s beneath them.

Daryl was right. He needs to focus. Carl, Judith, everyone- they need him.

You’ll be fine. He’ll be fine.

—

You’ve gone missing.

Rick has been doing his best to heed Daryl’s advice— he stopped looking for you in the crowds, stopped trying to figure you out, stopped watching you from afar. He even made a fairly decent attempt to stop thinking about you. Not that the effort proves especially fruitful, but he tried, damnit.

All of those efforts go straight out the window when Daryl tells him that no one’s seen you since yesterday.

It takes him two seconds to grab his gun and follow Daryl out the door.

He barely remembers to tell Carl where he’s going, which scares him, because he doesn’t quite understand what’s been so invasive to his mind and day-to-day activities about you. Your eyes, the soft curve of your cheek, how you might feel in his hands.

They cloud his judgment. Make him do stupid reckless things like search Alexandria high and low for any sign of you.

He doesn’t find any. He searches the place you’re staying— nothing. Only sign of life is the unmade bed and bandaid wrappers in the trashcan by the bed.

He sighs deep and low as he stands over your bed. “Think she had enough? High-tailed it?”

Daryl leans against the doorway. “Nah. She likes it here well enough. She ain’t stupid enough to leave a good thing like this.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’ve spoken to her?”

Daryl shrugs. “Few times. She don’t like talkin’ too much, but I think she figures her and I similar.”

“She wrong?”

He scratches his beard. “A little. She fears situations and people the way a prey animal does. S’ why she’s a runner.”

Rick mulls Daryl’s words over as they scan the rest of the place but, of course, find nothing. There are no signs that you, specifically, live here. Nothing personal. Just the unmade bed and the bandaid wrappers in the trashcan.

The pair of them turn the entirety of Alexandria over in a matter of hours. He’s just about to call it quits, either wait for you to come back or send out a search in the morning when Daryl comes back over, telling him you’re at the gates.

As in, outside of them.

Opposite of how things went when you first showed up at the gates, people clear a path as he stalks towards you. They give the pair of you a nice, wide bubble. Even Daryl stays a few feet behind him.

The first thing he notices is that you’re covered in blood. From the way you’re holding yourself, most of it isn’t your own. There’s a backpack slung over your shoulder, but it’s not your usual one.

You won’t meet his eyes.

He stops an arms length away from you. “Where the hell were you?”

You shift backwards, away from him ever so slightly. “Scavenging.”

“Mhm, interestin’,” He says, rubbing his jaw, “Because the last scavenging party was yesterday. And you came back with everybody, so I’ll ask again. Where were you.”

Your eyes flick up from the ground for a moment, eying the people that have gathered to stare. He watches you mentally count them all, then attempt to put more distance between yourself and everybody else. Emphasis on attempt, because the second you take a step back, you stumble, wincing before righting yourself and going right back to scanning the crowd.

He works his jaw, anger and annoyance simmering just under the surface of his skin. He’s not going to get anything out of you here.

He grabs your wrist and turns, set in the direction of the medics.

He drags you along behind him, ignoring the little huffs or sharp intakes of pain when you walk a little too hard or too fast on your bad ankle.

You trip a few times as you go, and when you almost take Rick down with you, he sighs, pausing and turning.

The expression you give him is full of fear. He realizes, in the moment, that you might not remember where the medics are, so as far as you know, he’s angry at you and dragging you to a secluded area.

Guilt strikes him hard and fast, right in his chest.

Damn.

It’s too early to feel guilty about the random girl he allowed into Alexandria. Frightened eyes and shy nature aside.

He shakes his head once. “We’re going to see a doctor. Here, put your arm around me.”

He has to lower himself a little for you to drape your arm across the back of his neck. Your fingertips brush his shoulder, and he can feel the way you’re shaking.

It’s slow going from then on, with Rick acting as your crutches.

“Where were you? And don’t bullshit me.”

“Scavenging.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes,” You nudge the backpack still strapped to your back. “I was… looking for something. I can’t look for it with the others.”

“What the hell is it that you can’t look for it with the others?”

“A body.”

Your response hangs in the air, thick and heavy.

“…Family or friend?”

“Friend. Haven’t found her yet.”

Something clicks into place in his mental file about you. He feels like he just gained a new piece of the puzzle.

He readjusts your weight over his shoulder, tucking you a little closer and steadfastly pretending he doesn’t hear the little gasp you let out at the contact. Whether it was from pain or surprise, he can’t let himself think about it.

“Don’t go out by yourself. If you need to look, take Daryl with you.”

You sag a bit into him. “Okay.”

He glances down at you from the corner of his eye. You’re… pliant. You’d agreed quickly, and showed absolutely no fight or unwillingness when he, admittedly, manhandled you. You’d followed dutifully behind him and then simply allowed him to position your arms the way he wanted them.

There’s another little parasite that burrows into his brain right there. Right as he’s got you in his grip.

He slows to a stop, a little question forming in his head. He slips the arm that had been wrapped around your waist away, instead curls his fingers across your chin and jaw. He tilts your head up, looks down at your face, searching it for… something.

He meets no resistance. You only stare up at him, doe eyes blinking. He tilts your head to the left, then to right, and still, nothing.

Huh.

He lets go, and you shudder, a full body shiver. And he thinks, in this moment, that he could do whatever he wanted, and you might let him. He could break you, like this.

It’s a very dangerous thing, he decides. Because he doesn’t want to break you. He doesn’t want to hurt you. He wants to peel back the bandaids and see what’s under them. He wants to scrub the dirt from your face and give you soft clothes —his clothes— not those tattered rags that hang off your body.

You might let him do whatever he wants, but you’re the one who holds this power over him. You’re the one who made him sick— filled his head and clouded his judgement and made him the kind of man he never used to be.

But he can’t say any of that. Can’t even act on it. Not with someone young enough to be his daughter. He has a daughter for Christ’s sake. And a son.

So he just wraps his arm back around your waist and helps you to the medics.

—

“Rick,” Daryl says one afternoon, leaned on the post on the porch, “You’re drivin’ me crazy, here.”

“I’m not sure how I’m supposed to help with that.”

“The fawn.”

He raises an eyebrow. “The fawn?”

“You know. That nervous little thing you keep pretendin’ you don’t want in your bed.”

“Daryl.”

The man just keeps fiddling with his crossbow. “What?”

“I can’t just— she’s half my age.”

“So you’ve said.”

“I got kids to think about, and—“

“Carl don’t give a shit and Judith is ten. Only thing she’s concerned about is sneakin’ sweets.”

He entertains the notion in his head, thinks about what pursuing you might be like.

Something occurs to him.

“She ever get close to you?”

“No,” Daryl huffs, always knowing exactly what Rick means, “Keeps about an arm’s distance away. No matter what. She’s been inchin’ closer recently, but not by much.”

His hand on your face, moving it this way and that without any resistance at all, your body pliant in his grip—

“Hm,” Is all Rick says, crossing his arms.

“Why fawn?”

Daryl shrugs. “Looks like one. Kinda acts like one, around you.”

“No she doesn’t.”

Daryl levels him with a look. “Yes, she does. And based on the way you’ve been actin’, you like it.”

He opens his mouth to refute the point because no, he doesn’t like it, he just constantly thinks about how far he could take it, what you would let him do, if he could make you his.

And then he thinks ‘oh.’ Maybe he does like it.

He drops his hands to his hips. “What exactly am I supposed to do, then?”

“I don’t know. Ain’t my area of expertise.”

“You’re the one who knows her better, said I was drivin’ you crazy.”

“So? I don’t know jack shit about romance, Rick.”

“Well, you keep calling her a fawn. How different can it be?”

Very different, his mind supplies. You know that.

Now it’s Daryl’s turn to sigh. “Don’t overwhelm her. She’s a nervous little thing, but she likes you. Once she figures out you ain’t gonna hurt her, she’ll latch on.”

“That’s specific. You deal with fawns a lot?”

He snorts. “No. I’m fuckin’ guessin’ here.”

The two men fall into silence, Daryl fiddling or cleaning his bow— Rick ain’t paying that much attention to him.

He’s thinking about you. You, you, you. Your eyes and your face and your hands and the figure you carefully keep hidden under layers of clothing, even under the hot Virginia sun.

Fawn, he thinks to himself.

Fitting.

—

He doesn’t make a plan or something stupid like that. He just thinks. And then he decides.

“You’re really coming with us?” Glenn asks, pack slung over his shoulder.

“Yep,” Rick says, holstering his gun, “Goin’ stir crazy in there. Just needa get out for a bit.”

You’re quiet as you get your things in order, but the group doesn’t bat an eye. They’re used to your silence, it seems.

You can’t seem to tear your eyes away from him, though. You look away every time you think he’s looking at you, but he’s good at looking at you out of the corner of his eye, so he sees it.

Throughout the run, you hover near him, never quite going out of range of his field of vision. He’s impressed by how quietly and efficiently you work- you spot things even he wouldn’t have. All the while watching for walkers, and of course, subtly eyeing Rick.

Despite being the leader, he heads up the back and watches for stragglers. He didn’t really come out cause he was stir-crazy, anyway.

He came out for you. He wanted to watch you work, wanted to do it with you.

To your credit, you work well with the others. You’re a woman of few words with them, but you help where you can and stay civil. Even if you don’t quite get close to any of them.

Except Rick.

As they’re scavenging an abandoned house, a few walkers shuffle out from the trees. Not enough to be a problem— the group outnumbers them easy. But you’re all busy getting supplies and he’s trying to keep an eye out, so he takes them out, one by one.

It really isn’t a huge thing for him, couple walkers ain’t really a big deal, but you notice.

Your eyes are trained on him, clothes now dirty with blood and gore.

He tilts his head, then makes his way over to you.

“You, um,” You say as he gets closer, voice a little hoarse, “Are you alright?”

He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m fine. It’ll take more than a few walkers to take me out.”

You blink. “Oh.”

He snorts a little laugh. “You ain’t too good at this whole conversation thing, huh?”

You flush, looking away. “Sorry. I’m just not… used to having them.”

You look up at him, earnest. “But I’ve been practicing!”

Oh, lord have mercy over his poor soul. You’ve done a full 180– turned from being afraid of him to very obviously wanting his approval.

“That’s good, that’s good. Who you been practicin’ with?”

“Daryl.”

“Now, that ain’t no good.”

You frown, shifting in place. “It’s not?”

“Well, it’s good that you’re tryin’,” He amends, “But Daryl ain’t good for conversation practicin’. He’s a little too much like you. Much too inclined to just sit in silence.”

“Oh.”

You pause, taking your lip between your teeth and mulling something over in your head.

“Would you, um.” You look up at him, clearly nervous.

And he can’t help himself really, from leaning down into your space a bit, a low “Hmm?” humming from his chest.

Your reaction is instant. This close, he can see the exact moment a flush crawls across your face, to even the tips of your ears.

And he’d suspected, you know, based on your behavior with him. But this— cold hard evidence that he makes you nervous. That you want him on you.

It’s cute. Real cute.

You steel yourself against your own nervousness, and he wants to coo at you.

“Would you practice with me?”

He leans back against the post, slides his hands into his pockets. “Course. Ain’t much to it.”

You smile. It’s small, a quiet sort of thing, but it’s there. He made you smile.

You gesture to the house behind you. “I’m. Gonna go back to scavenging. Um. Thanks.”

You turn on your heel, fleeing back into the house. He watches you go, something settling right into place in his chest.

You stick a little closer to him for the rest of the run.

—

After that day, you begin seeking him out. You don’t approach him right away, preferring to to trail behind him for a little bit before finally making a move.

The move being a quiet: “Hi, Rick.”

Today’s no different, other than it being a little later when you do find him. He’s taking a little stroll around, as is his usual. It… settles him, to see everything alright with his own two eyes.

Settles him even more when he hears the quiet patter of your footsteps behind him.

He chuckles. “Afternoon, darlin’.”

Your foot steps speed up, fall into step somewhat beside him. “Hi, Rick.”

“Hi,” He says, smile tugging at his lips. “How was your day?”

You clasp your hands behind your back as you walk. “Good. Weren’t many walkers on today’s run. I got something for Judith.”

“Oh? Let’s see it, then.”

You take something out of your pocket and hold it out to him.

It’s a pocket knife. One of those multi-tool ones.

And it’s pink.

“I know it’s a cliche, the girls knife being pink, and she is only ten, but I saw it and I thought of her, and—“

“It’s perfect,” He interrupts before you can start spiraling. “She’s gonna love it.”

You deflate almost instantly. “Oh, good. I wasn’t sure.”

You walk for a few minutes before remembering the point of you coming up to him.

“Um. How was your day?”

He huffs a little, too fond to be upset. “Fairly decent. Ain’t got too much going on now.”

“That’s… good?”

He shrugs. “Just a little borin’. How’s that ankle of yours?”

This is usually how your conversations go. A few easy, back and forth questions. Easing you into talking to people, keeping conversations going. You’ve slowly gotten more confident. You talk a little longer, voice sounds a little more expressive.

“Fine.” You say, a little too quickly.

He narrows his eyes. “Really? No pain at all?”

It’s the looking away that sells it. You never look at him when you’re lying. Can’t stand to.

“No. It’s fine.”

He kicks his foot out a little, the toe of his boot just barely catching your ankle.

It’s a little more effective than he wanted. You let out a little yelp of pain and stumble forward, ankle almost immediately buckling.

He darts forward, catching you under the stomach with one arm.

You hang there a little, arms dangling.

“Fine, huh?” He hefts you up, so you’re back to standing upright, though now, visibly favoring your ankle. “So what’d the doctor tell you when I dropped you off?”

“Rest, ice, compression, and elevation.”

“And which of those four have you been ignorin’?”

“…”

“Hey,” He says, tapping the side of your jaw with two fingers. “Don’t lie to me.”

“All of them,” You wince, “I just didn’t want to be useless. I can walk on it fine. You haven’t even noticed until now!”

Your voice goes a little high at the end, a little desperate.

He thinks about how animals that are lower on the food rung don’t show pain. A deer will break a leg and keep walking until it drops, till it slows too much and something picks it off.

But you ain’t an animal, and nothing’s gonna pick you off.

“That’s true,” He says, “But that don’t make it right. You’re just prolonging the healing process.”

You look down. “…You were mad. I didn’t want to make you more upset by being useless.”

Ah. So that’s what it’s all about.

His approval, once again.

“I’d rather have you useless for a week than useless forever because you didn’t rest properly,” He ignores the hypocrisy of it, the fact that he’s ignored medical advice more times than he can count.

“I really am fine, mostly,” You say meekly, “It’s stopped hurting when I walk. It’s just a little unstable.”

“I still want you taking it easy for a little, you hear me?”

You nod.

“Nah,” He moves, standing in front of you, more than a little in your personal space, “I wanna hear you say it. Use your words.”

It’s a little test of sorts. To see how you’ll respond. What you’ll say. If you’ll listen.

You swallow, eyelashes fluttering. “I hear you. I understand.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Take it easy.”

“That’s right,” You’ve been nice and obedient, so he figures you deserve a little reward. “Good girl.”

He hears your sharp intake of breath, watches your eyes get a little glassy.

Aw, that’s all you wanted. Just wanted to be someone’s good girl.

His good girl.

He nods towards your place. “Get along, now. Do I have to walk you to your door?”

“No,” you shake your head. “I’ll go. I will. Uh— bye.”

He watches you scamper away, gait a little uneven, hands clenched at your sides.

I can get used to this.

—

It becomes a little thing, after that.

When you’re not busy with your own responsibilities, you’re usually with him. Either right beside him, or trailing a few feet behind. Your company is quiet and calm, like waves from a lake lapping gently at the shore.

You also begin to settle in with the rest of the group. You’re still more inclined to be near Rick or, if he’s not available, Daryl, but once you become comfortable talking with people, Maggie and Glenn are quickly added to your slowly growing roster of safe people.

Judith has loved you ever since she found out that you’re the one who gave her the most beloved pink pocket knife, and enjoys babbling and talking your ear off about nothing the way that ten year olds do.

Carl grows to appreciate your presence too, finding solace in the fact that you don’t feel the need to fill silence with conversation.

You still act different when Rick is around, though. Especially when it’s just the two of you.

With everybody else, you’re subtly but very strictly independent- despite growing close with the group, you still maintain a slight distance with most of them, and prefer doing things yourself, by yourself. Old habits die hard, he supposes.

But when you’re alone, just Rick and you, those hard edges soften, and your little personal bubble pops. He’s steadily growing obsessed with the change.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it. Having such a cute little thing follow him around, hanging off his words. Most days, it’s all he can do not to throw you over his shoulder and carry you to bed.

And then one day, he does. Kind of.

It must be the middle of the night, but the second he hears the knock at his door, he’s wide awake.

He hushes both Carl and Judith back to bed, then creeps to the front door with his hand on his gun. He has never, in his entire life, been awoken in the middle of the night to good news.

When he opens the door he sees you. And Daryl, but he’s really focused on you. You’ve got tears streaming down your face, you’re wearing a strange combination of sleep clothes and the clothes he’s seen you wear to do runs. Your boots are on, but not tied.

“Wha—“

“Caught her sneaking towards the gates, all shaken up. Figured it’d be wiser to take her here then back to her place.”

Daryl pats your head once. “Don’t do anythin’ stupid.”

Then Daryl’s gone, and you’re standing on Rick’s porch, still crying.

“Alright, come here now.”

He barely manages to get the door closed before you fall into him, face pressed to his chest and hands grasping the front of his shirt.

He hesitates for just a moment before wrapping his arms around you.

“Shh, shh. You’re alright, you’re alright now.”

He presses one hand to the nape of your neck, keeping you tucked close as you crack, just a little bit, nearly silent tears staining his shirt and tremors wracking your body.

Eventually, he guides you over to the couch, situates himself before helping you into a more comfortable position. He wraps your arms around his neck, your legs draped across his lap and the couch.

He keeps one hand pressed to your neck, the other rubbing slow circles on your back.

He presses his cheek to the crown of your head, breathing in deep and slow, a curl of satisfaction rising in his chest when you unconsciously mimic his breathing, silent sobs slowing, tremors fading.

Once you’ve calmed down enough, he speaks.

“What’s got you so worked up, huh? What happened sweetheart?”

The pet name slips out of his mouth unbidden, but honestly, he wouldn’t take it back.

“Nightmare,” You sniffle. “Daryl was gone and it was my fault and you hated me.”

“Well, none of that happened now, did it?”

You shake your head.

“No, that’s right. Daryl’s just fine, and I ain’t upset with you. You’re alright.”

You take in a few shaky, shuddering breaths.

He shifts, readjusting and tucking you closer to him. “Now, how come you didn’t come to me? Daryl said you were headin’ to the gates.”

You go a little rigid. “Didn’t think I was allowed. Didn’t want to wake you up for something stupid.”

“Oh, none of that now,” He nudges you away a little, taking your face in his hands. He needs eye-contact while he says this, “You need something, you come to me. I don’t care what it is, I don’t care what time it is. You come to me, you understand?”

You nod, lip wobbling a bit. “I understand.”

He thumbs your cheekbone. “Good. Now come on. Let’s get you back to bed.”

In the morning, the kids are a little surprised to see your rumpled form at the kitchen table, but both recover fairly quickly. Judith especially, who rejoices at the prospect of someone other than Carl or her father whom she can hold hostage with inane, ten year old questions.

But you never quite shake that haunted look in your eyes. Like there was something else— something more in that nightmare, something that dug its little claws in and stuck fast.

It’s all he can do but pray it doesn’t last.

—

It becomes an unspoken thing that wherever Rick is, you’re nearby. Kind of like a little puppy, following him about and hoping for a treat.

He indulges you, because he can’t really help himself in the face of those eyes.

He also knows it’s the easiest way to get you to smile, which he’s been trying to bring about more, since the nightmare. You’ve shaken that haunted expression for the most part, but every now and then, it’ll come back, if just for a few moments.

You’ve been absent most of the day today, off on a run, and he wishes it didn’t get under his skin so much to not have his favorite girl right there behind him.

You’re his stress relief, and you don’t even know it. Don’t even do anything really, just kind of linger about with your adorable little face and occasionally help with your cute little hands. He’s hopelessly obsessed.

You’re smiling when you get back, bee-lining straight for him.

“Well, well,” He says, resting his hands on his hips, “What do we have here?”

“I got you something,” You say, practically vibrating with excitement, slinging your backpack off and rifling through it.

“Oh, something for me? Can’t wait to see it.”

You pull an honest to god polaroid camera out of your bag.

“You said once that you wished you had pictures of your kids to carry with you, and I found this, and it still works, and it still has film in it. I checked.”

You thrust it out to him, and he extracts it carefully from your hands, holding it with an almost reverence.

A camera. A working film camera.

You shuffle in place, and he realizes he’s been staring at it in silence for more than a few minutes. “…Do you like it?”

“I love it,” He says honestly, voice just a little scratchy, because he doesn’t understand how someone can survive the zombie apocalypse, and still end up so damn kind, and so damn sweet. “I’m so touched, sweetheart.”

You beam up at him. If you had a tail, you’d be wagging it. He’s never understood cuteness aggression until this very moment. He just can’t. He wants to squeeze you as hard as he can or just punch a wall or some stupid shit.

God, he’s pushing forty, he needs to get this under control.

“I was really excited when I found it. Tara took a picture of me to test it.”

You pull out a little polaroid picture, film developed, and he takes that with reverence too. In the picture, you’re smiling, that same soft, little smile you do when you’re really happy about something and don’t know how to express it. Your hands show two peace signs, a knife clutched in one.

That’s my girl, he thinks.

“Might just have to keep this,” He says, dumb smile on his face.

“Really?”

“Really. You know, it’s good luck to keep a picture of a pretty girl with you.”

“Pretty?” You squeak, flushing. It’s so easy to make you flustered. He loves it.

“Mhm,” He says, tucking the photo into one of the compartments on his belt, keeping it safe. “Real pretty, I’d say.”

“Oh.” You say, more than a little breathless. “Um.”

Oh, your poor little brain.

“You need a minute?” He snorts.

“Maybe?”

He chuckles, patting the top of your head. “Oh, you’ll be fine. Better get used to it.”

“You’re pretty too,” You blurt, then your eyes widen comically. “No, wait, I meant—“

He laughs, a real, actual laugh. “Me, a grown ass man- pretty. That’s a good one.”

You bury your face in your hands, a tiny little whine escaping your throat.

“Aw, come on, now. Don’t be embarrassed. I’m very flattered you think I’m pretty.”

“S’ not what I meant.” You mumble.

“No?” He says, prying your hands off your face. “What’d you mean, then?”

You look away, unable to meet his eyes.

“You’re… handsome.” You whisper the last part, barely loud enough for him to hear.

“Aw, what’d I do to deserve a young thing like you thinking an old man like me is handsome?”

You mumble something again, a little too quiet for him to hear.

“…afe.”

He leans down. “What was that, now?”

“You’re safe.”

Oh.

That’s… not the answer he was expecting.

But he likes it.

Rick is a leader. A protector.

And you need him.

“I make you feel safe?” He hums, resisting the urge to step closer to you because you’re very much out in the open and he knows how you feel about wide open spaces, especially when there’s people in them. He’s torturing you enough as it is. “That why you linger around me, huh?”

Feeling bolder at his interest, you nod.

“You make me feel like… something special. Protected.”

Yes.

He’s always known that he needs to be needed. That he’s the kind of man who requires being a leader, taking care of what’s his, protecting.

To have verbal confirmation that he’s made you feel safe, protected, it’s.

Well it’s a lot more than he can unpack in front of the gates.

“Pretty little thing like you needs protectin’.”

You frown.

“Not because you’re incapable,” He amends, hands raised, “But because I rather like doing it.”

You lean closer, and he follows, heat rising—

“Please, save us all the pain of havin’ to watch, Rick.”

He grins, nose brushing yours, then steps back.

“Maybe stop creepin’ around, Daryl.” He calls to the other man, who just shrugs, ambling on by.

But Daryl does have a point. He doesn’t want an audience. You’re not that kind of girl.

Instead, he reaches down, snakes an arm around your waist and leads you away from the open space, towards his house instead.

“Come on, sweetheart. Think you’d rather be somewhere quiet for what I’m about to do.”

The heat radiating from your body and the shiver he feels under his palm is all the confirmation he needs.

His little fawn, finally his.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

[differenteagletragedy]

In which Simon Riley meets a distressed single mom at the park and is immediately LOCKED IN.

Here's Part Two and Part Three and Part Four and Part Five and Part Six and Part Seven and Part Eight and Part Nine :)

Simon likes going for walks.

It's an easy way to eat up time when he's on leave -- every minute he's walking is another minute he doesn't have to sit staring at the walls in his cold, dull apartment. And this way, he gets to see all sorts of things, trees and flowers, beautiful buildings and people that he passes by so quickly that he can almost convince himself they're beautiful too.

He doesn't think highly enough of himself to believe that he can truly have any of these things. That's why his apartment is bare bones, sparsely furnished with only the necessities, nothing even close to a frill in sight. But on his walks, he can catch little glimpses. He's been telling himself for so long that this is enough that most of the time, he believes it.

Then he met you. And now, suddenly none of it matters -- what he believes he deserves, what he thinks he can get by with, none of it. Because for the first time in a long time, maybe ever, he's filled with such an exquisite, excruciating rush of want that it drowns out everything else, floods all the ugly little nooks and crannies in his mind and his heart until all that's left is you.

It happened at the park. Not the big one he walks by sometimes in the nicer part of town, with its brand new shiny jungle gym and the constant crowd of children and parents and nannies and noise -- no, it was at the small little rundown one closer to home. The one that's almost always vacant, which is probably one of the reasons why he noticed you there.

Another, much more notable reason would be the way you were nearly screeching, your voice filled with panic and fear as you stood by one of the tall slides.

Simon heard you from a distance, and when he was close enough to see you, it was easy enough to figure out why. You were standing there, your belly big and swollen with child, looking up at a little boy with your complexion and hair color as he stood by the railing of the steps leading up to the slide.

"Get down right this instant," he heard you hiss when he snuck even closer. "Charlie, i swear to God, this isn't funny, get down."

The boy, with a playful, terrorizing little smile Simon could make out from a distance, shook his head, replying, "You come get me."

And there was the problem. You couldn't get up the narrow little staircase of that part of the playground with your pregnant belly, and the boy wouldn't come down on his own. Simon surveyed the park once more, but he already knew there was no one else there. You were alone, no husband to step in and take care of things.

At this point, he was strolling along the sidewalk beside the park, trying to decide if he wanted to help or not. On one hand, you seemed a little desperate, but on the other, he didn't want to frighten you even more. He knows how imposing he can be, and at least in these kinds of situations, he's mindful of it.

Then he hears it: a frustrated, choked little sob from you. That made up his mind.

"All right?" he asked carefully, slowly approaching you.

You jumped at the sound of his voice, your hand instinctively going to cradle your bump, then glanced back up at the boy.

"We're fine," you told Simon. "We're just waiting on my husband to come back, then we'll call it a day."

It was a weak lie -- he'd already clocked that you weren't wearing a wedding ring, nor did you have a tan line there, but even if he didn't go on that, you were just not a good liar. He might have laughed at your attempt to brush him off, but then little boy put his hands on the railing and leaned over it to greet him, and your nervous gasp brought him back to the situation at hand.

"Charlie, stop," you barked, an authoritative mom voice if he'd ever heard one. But Charlie, it seemed, was a headstrong little thing, and he simply laughed and began jumping, apparently not noticing or caring that his reckless behavior was causing you so much stress.

"Could get him down for you, if you like."

He didn't know why he said that. Why he even thought to offer. But you looked up at him, really looked at him with those wide, teary eyes, and he knew he'd do that and so much more, if only you'd let him.

"I can't ... it's ok, you don't have to do that," you replied, still hesitant to accept the help from the big, bulking stranger.

"'Course I don't have to," he answered simply. "Just trying to help."

You glance between him and the boy once more, and you even give Charlie one more chance to listen and come down on his own, but he just shrieked with laughter, pleased to be the center of attention, so you just sighed and gave Simon a nod.

He easily climbs up the tall metal structure, squeezing his wide body up the narrow steps to where the boy stood. Then he stopped.

He's not a people person by any stretch of the imagination, so of course he's not a kid person either. He's never interacted with them much, so as stilted and closed-off as he is with most adults, he's even more clueless with children.

He didn't know if he should pick him up and carry him down to you, maybe push him to the slide to get down that way. He also considered that maybe he shouldn't even touch him at all, but that left talking to the kid, which didn't sound great either.

Luckily for Simon, Charlie was chatty enough for both of them.

"Never seen you here before," he told Simon. "You're too big for the slides."

"Not here for the slide," he said, his gaze drifting back to you where you stood below, watching anxiously. "Why don't you get back down there before you give your poor mum a heart attack?"

"I'm not supposed to listen to strangers."

"That so?" Simon asked. "Supposed to listen to your mum though, yeah?"

That easy bit of logic seemed to trip Charlie up, and Simon smirked, then nodded to the slide.

"Go on, then."

The child let out a dramatic sigh, then climbed the rest of the way up the steps and went down the slide. Simon watched you rush to the bottom of it, swiftly grabbing his hand when it came within reach.

"Thank you so much," you told him when he climbed his way back to the ground, your earlier trepidation gone, seemingly with relief. "He usually listens better than that, and I couldn't ..."

"No need," he said gruffly, cutting off your explanation. "Just glad I could help."

You gave him a smile, and just for a moment, he let himself think of things he never allowed himself to imagine. A life in which he not only had a family, but this family -- a family where you, the boy, and the baby in your belly all belonged to him.

That's when the wanting started. And now, nearly two weeks later, Simon finds himself walking past the park, again and again, hoping to find you there. Hoping to ease the gnawing little ache that began knocking around his chest that day, to see what he now believes could be the most beautiful thing this ugly world has to offer.

[illbegottenfaith]

the one where theo gets glasses

"What did you say you needed again?"

Theo was standing in his bathroom, staring at three equally incomprehensible bottles. From his bed, you called out something unintelligible. He pushed back his hair, damp from the shower, now sticking to his forehead in stubborn clumps.

"What?"

You looked up from the issue of Witch Weekly you had nicked from the common room and were now flicking through. You sighed, repeating yourself.

"Dreamless Sleep potion. The one with the blue label."

A brief silence. Then, his voice echoed from the bathroom, dry and irritable -

"They're all blue."

You huffed, swinging your legs off his bed.

"Just - hang on."

You entered the ensuite to see Theo squinting at the bottles under the bathroom light, holding them up close then far away from his face.

"You look like an old man at the apothecary," you teased. Theo didn't look half as amused.

"I am in an apothecary," he grumbled. "What are all these - so many - and why are their fonts all microscopic?"

You plucked the right potion out of his hand. "They're not microscopic. You just need glasses."

He frowned. "I keep telling you, I don't need -"

"Teddy, you're holding them like it's a tea leaf reading."

He put the remaining vials down. "It's - the lighting."

You didn't look impressed.

"Really? You're going to stand there and tell me you can't read under bright, fluorescent lighting?"

Theo took on a sulky look. "I had it narrowed down," he muttered.

"To what? The cabinet?"

He gave you a look.

"You know, it's very rude of you to be coming in here and insulting my perfectly acceptable vision."

You raised your eyebrows. "This coming from the man who washed his hair with muscle relaxant last week?"

Theo huffed. "I keep telling you, my eyes had soap - "

"Muscle relaxant."

"Oh my god."

"How did you not realise in the shower? You reeked of menthol." You padded out of the bathroom with your potion. "We'll get your eyes checked at Hogsmeade first thing tomorrow."

You pulled the covers up as Theo walked out of the bathroom, dressed for bed, with a faintly petulant look on his face.

"Fine," he mumbled, drawing you close as he joined you under the covers, smelling refreshingly clean of his unscented soap. You dimmed the light just enough for your magazine.

"You look hot," you tried encouragingly as Theo glared at you from behind his dark tortoiseshell lenses.

It was barely 10 am and Theo had already had his eyes examined and his glasses chosen. He didn't seem much appeased by your efforts in finding the frame that would best suit his features and colouring. You were starting to realise him rushing you through breakfast that morning had less to do with his eagerness to get his glasses and more to do with him wanting to finish before everyone else started arriving. Now, as the two of you waited for the bill to be drawn up, he scoffed.

"Yeah, right."

"I'm serious. I'll have to beat off all the fifth year Ravenclaws with a stick, trust me."

"Now you're just mocking me."

You grinned. "Only a little."

You meandered at the door while Theo paid. Outside, spring was in full bloom this time of year. The air was fragrant with the perfume of flowers in the chilly, stagnant morning air.

When Theo stepped out to join you, you stuck your hand in his as you walked back. For a moment, it seemed like he was refusing you before he finally relented and curled his fingers around yours. You watched his expression concernedly.

"Do you really hate them that much?" you asked softly. "Are they really that bad?"

He sighed. The slight weight on his nose felt foreign and the newfound sharpness made everything feel more vivid in a nauseating way. But at the same time, walking down the cobblestone path as the first morning rays filtered through the dissipating clouds felt like seeing spring for the first time all over again.

"I'm just not good with change," he settled for instead.

"But doesn't everything seem crisper? Brighter? Doesn't everything look different? Don't I look different?"

You batted your eyes exaggeratedly at him, earning the first genuine albeit faint smile from Theo in the past 12 hours.

The two of you paused in your tracks as Theo looked at your face. "I don't remember your eyelashes being so...distinct." He cupped your face, dragging his thumb across a faint smudge near the corner of your eye. "And since when have you had this birthmark?"

"Since forever." You stepped back and put your hands on your hips. "Don't tell me you don't even know what I look like."

Theo mock squinted.

"I think I liked you better blurry."

You made a sound of mock indignation.

"I inhale my eggs, come down all this way, go through the headache of picking out your frame for you, and this is how you repay me?"

You sniffed disapprovingly, crossing your arms.

"And to think I used to have a thing for guys with glasses."

Stunned, Theo could only watch as you continued down the path without him at a brisk pace. He thought back to the months you spent badgering him to go and get his eyes checked.

"You couldn't have led with that?"

[highdramas]

a guard dog with a death wish | jack abbot

pairing: jack abbot x f!widow!reader warnings: EXTREME ANGST. like seriously. reader is very distraught. death of a partner, mention of suicidal ideation, language, age gap (unspecified, but reader is late 20s/early 30s and jack is mid/late 40s), there will be an eventual happy ending <3 word count: 2.6k summary: at a grief support group that you never wanted to attend in the first place, jack abbot finds you, and pulls you up by your-- admittedly-- quite sad and pathetic boot straps. notes: if you are under 18 do not interact with any of my work or this fic. yay i've finally posted a new fic!!! this is the first part of a new series! yay! not a ton of jack x reader in this part, but it lays the ground work for what is to come <3 i sincerely hope you all enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it <3 parts that are to follow may be non-linear on reader's healing journey, but i haven't gotten that far yet so we'll just have to see hehe

the thing that no one thought to warn you about grief is that, a year may pass since the worst moment of your entire life, and you’ll still pat yourself on the back when you get yourself to swallow a bowl of fruity pebbles. the thing they didn’t think to tell you is that two hours of sleep will seem like a miracle– bonus points if the two hours are continuous. the thing that they should put in the pamphlet is that your world is going to end, but everyone else is going to, somehow, miraculously, be so much more put together than you.

you ascertained that you were not doing this whole grief thing right six months ago. when the looks that you received stopped being empathetic, and began to be outright concern. when the texts were more frantic. when it was easier to disconnect from all of it– friends, family, loved ones. how could you explain this feeling to them?

how could you explain that your heart was living somewhere else, outside of your body, so far out of your grasp? how could you explain that every night a future that was never yours, could never be yours, played on a loop in your brain until you were reduced to hot, angry tears? how could you explain any of this to someone and have them understand it, understand you?

it’s not like you thought you were the only person in the world who was grieving tucker. it felt like the whole world was grieving him– that was the type of person he was. but he was your person, first and foremost. he was the person who you sat on the couch with and watched survivor every wednesday night. he was the person who always put the groceries away. he was the person that you lived your mundane little life with– it wasn’t perfect. you didn’t need it to be perfect. that fact that you shared it with him was all that you needed.

it was tucker’s mom who sent you the information for the grief support group. there was a pang of emotion when you saw the text– you hadn’t even seen her since the funeral. you knew, deep down, that she understood. but it didn’t make your feelings of frustration with yourself dissipate.

she could get herself together, and she gave birth to tucker. you were falling apart while she held herself together. it was embarrassing.

the invitation, most likely created on canva, was sent to you in a well-meaning text alongside the words, he loved you more than anyone, or anything. he wouldn’t want you to live like this. if you won’t talk to anyone you know, talk to someone you don’t.

the words, as tough-loved as they were designed to be, didn’t bring you any comfort or resolve for making yourself better. that may be what tucker would’ve wanted– but he died, and you were left behind without the one person who made you feel like you were coming up for air.

tucker sunday was a good man. he was a good man who had loved you entirely and completely and with no reservations, from the moment the two of you met in the first grade. you were new to school, having been relocated to the pittsburgh suburbs from boston. everything felt different and scary– you sat alone on the playground with your hands in your lap, looking from left to right, right to left, hoping that someone might come up to you.

and then there was tucker. gap-toothed and freckled and with a pair of glasses perched on his tiny nose. he plopped beside you with a copy of the lord of the rings in his hand– advanced for a first grader, but that was just how tucker was.

he sat down beside you that sunny day on the playground and he never left.

that was the thing that you think people don’t understand. tucker had been your world, every day– and not in a codependent way. you each had your own, full lives. your own friends and your own families that knew just the right way to blend and merge. you were a librarian at a high school. he was a teacher at an elementary school. you couldn’t carry a tune or play an instrument to save your life. he was the best at the guitar. you loved to bake. he loved to cook.

you balanced one another. and now, the scales have tipped so fast, in such a fervent freefall… how do you climb such a steep mountain back to where you were? when you don’t have someone keeping you even?

you look at the looming building from your place where the bus dropped you off. your hands tremble as you make sure that you have the correct address– you do, of course, because despite your grief, you are still meticulously type a, somewhere inside of yourself.

“my little planner.”

his voice rattles in your head and you have to physically shake your shoulders before you walk through the doors and down the hall, turning left into a room with probably fifteen chairs in a circle. only six are occupied.

a woman turns her head to you and smiles brightly, too brightly for a room filled with such, presumably, weary souls. “hi there,” she gestures towards the empty chairs. “come on in. have a seat.”

your fingers grip your bag tighter, eyes popping from each individual to the next. there’s two people huddled together– sisters, you think. an older gentleman with kind eyes and a long beard who is wearing a veteran hat. a woman in her mid-fifties, if you had to guess, with legs crossed and peering at her phone down the bridge of her nose.

none of them glance up at you, but one.

he’s sitting in the chair facing directly to the door, alert. his eyes don’t leave you for even one singular second as you pad into the room, half wounded animal, half woman. his arms are crossed over his chest and his legs are slightly spread and there’s a camo backpack leaned against his leg. you have to question if you have something on your face or if he just has a staring problem. you decide it must be the latter.

you don’t glare at him in return, but you don’t not glare at him, either. you take tentative step after tentative step until you take a seat one away from him, fixing your hands into your lap and casting your eyes down to them. you look left to right, right to left. you fiddle shakily with the ring that weighs heavy on your left hand. you twirl it and twirl it and twirl it until your skin feels irritated.

introductions begin to happen, but you don’t quite hear them. you’re still staring down at that ring and everything surges at you suddenly, a tidal wave of anguish that takes you by the ankle and drags you under. you don’t realize you’re crying until it’s your turn to introduce yourself and you’re faced with the tell-tale signs of an emotion that you always seem to see, these days.

pity. pity from the sisters, who you presume is the facilitator of the group, and from the two older attendees. pity from all five of them.

your eyes dart over to the man who couldn’t quit looking at you when you entered. you’re momentarily jarred because he’s not looking at you with pity. he looks intense, yes, but not sad for you. you open and close your mouth and for a second, you think it must be because things are going blurry through your tears– but he gives you a small nod of his head.

your mouth falls open again, still hesitant, and he nods again.

heart tumbling over itself, you rub your hands on your pants and share your name. “i’m sorry, what else am i supposed to answer?” you ask, looking to the facilitator. natasha, her nametag reads to you.

“anything that feels right.”

you’re almost certain there were structured questions, but you feel a distant thankfulness for her flexibility. “um…” you wipe away stray tears. “i lost tucker.” you look back down at your lap. “and–” you’re cut off by a box of tissues being placed on the seat beside you. it’s the man with the staring problem, again. your silent encourager. you take one of the tissues and dab at your eyes. you’re not a delicate crier, but you’d like to pretend you are. “tucker was my husband. and–” your vision is gone again, swept away by salt and the smudging of the mascara you put on yesterday when you tried to fool yourself into thinking you were someone who wore mascara and wore cute outfits and took care of herself. “and i lost him almost a year ago. in a car accident. and– and i’m not doing well.” you laugh a little bit, but there’s nothing funny. not even a little bit. “if you couldn’t tell.”

you manage a crackling inhale before you continue on. “and his mom– god, i love her, she sent me the flyer for this. and i don’t want to be here,” you admit, laughing again. “i don’t want to be anywhere. i want to be where he is. still. and no one seems to understand that. i don’t mean it in a scary, i’m going to hurt myself way. i mean it… i mean it in a, i don’t know what’s left of me without him, way.” you blink and look around the circle. “does that make sense?”

every single person nods their head, and for a moment, you feel comforted. the man with the intense eyes nods with a fervor and you’re drawn to meet his gaze, as sad as you think you must look. the corner of his mouth turns up at you.

“anyway,” you sigh, exhausted from the onslaught of emotional upheaval you’ve just experienced. “that’s me.”

the only person left is him. he clears his throat and says, “man. how do i follow that up?”

it should offend you. but there’s a level of light in his eyes that you hope one day you could achieve again, and it makes you laugh and shake your head and look down at your hands while he speaks.

“my name is jack abbot. my wife, annie, died in 2016. i’ve been coming here every week since 2017.”

the rest of the meeting keeps you quiet. you take a handful of tissues and make your best attempt at cleaning up what you imagine is a true sight on your face. the rest of the meeting passes with very little fanfare– everyone shares, and you half-listen, and you can’t muster up the guilt to feel for being so disinterested in everyone else’s grief. you’d accepted, long ago, that your mourning had made you self centered. where once upon a time, you would be mortified at the thought of anyone thinking you to be selfish– you can’t find it within yourself to care, not anymore. you are selfish. you are self centered. grief had made you someone you didn’t recognize.

by the time natasha dismisses everyone, you all but run out to the street. you suck in a deep breath and you sink into a crouching position, covering your mouth with your hand. heavy boot-clad feet come into your line of sight. when you trail your eyes up, you’re met with that storm cloud gaze. jack.

he doesn’t say a word. but he scoops up your tote bag and he slings it over one shoulder, turns heel, and walks off.

your brows furrow, and you have to decide if it’s worth the effort– but ultimately, you stand, the wind stinging your tear-streaked cheeks. “hey,” you call. “that’s my bag.”

he doesn’t turn around. he keeps a steady, casual pace. not running, but not waiting for you to catch up with him, either. “hey!” you call, growing more frustrated. “what, do you just steal bags for a living?”

jack takes a look at you over his shoulder. “yeah, something like that.”

you pick up your speed so that you can fall into step with him. “what the hell are you doing?”

“i’m going to take you to go eat something. because, no offense, you don’t look great.” he looks you up and down while he continues to walk. “when’s the last time that you ate something with some substance? protein, have you ever heard of it?”

your silence is his answer and he grips the totebag a little tighter. “figured you’d say no if i asked. so…”

“so you stole my bag.”

“not stolen,” he says with a disarming smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “i’m gonna give it back. don’t worry.”

“but…” you try and rack your brain for some excuse.

there wasn’t all too much for you to cite. your work hours had been reduced way back in the weeks after tucker passed. you still worked enough to get by, but not so much that you were drowning in work on top of drowning in your own pain. your friends and family were constantly making attempts to make plans with you, but you were diligent in your efforts to firmly stick out an arm and keep them at that length. easier this way, you told yourself. easier for them to be far far away where they cannot see just how damaged you have become. their worry is the last thing that you want, or need.

coming up empty, jack’s smirk spreads on his face. “yeah, that’s what i thought.”

–

jack’s eyes are like a blanket on you while you push around the eggs on your plate, take a tentative bite of your toast. your stomach is still in knots, as it always is, so ultimately, you set down your fork, your toast, and push your plate away. you turn your gaze to look out the window. your body is there, in that diner, but your mind is far away when jack’s voice brings you back.

“so. husband.”

your eyes snap over to his before they slide back to the window. “yeah.”

“i know a little something about that.”

your brows furrow and your eyes narrow and you lean in towards him. “you don’t know shit about me, or about what i’m going through.” you huff out a disbelieving laugh. “bold of you to think you do. seriously, wow.”

“no, i know. i know this song and dance. i lived it.” he gestures towards you, and then towards himself, and his look is still not pitying. if anything, he seems more annoyed. “it’s addicting, isn’t it? feeling like shit?”

your mouth drops open and you stare at him, trying to muster the words, but they don’t come. he continues talking. “i bet everyone is coddling you. keeping a safe distance from you, lest you snap. not wanting to push you too hard. right? they’re treating you like something breakable. well, you know what i think?”

“you don’t know a god damn–”

“i think that you need someone who’s going to hold you accountable.”

“accountable?” you reel backwards.

“yeah. accountable. accountable of taking care of yourself. accountable of eating. accountable of dragging yourself out of this hole that you’re in. and i don’t think that anyone is stepping up and doing it.”

you grow silent. it’s not that they’re not stepping up– you’re not letting them. maybe jack knows that, too, since he seems to be able to read you like a well-loved and memorized book.

he folds his hands, one on top of the other, staring at you. “and i’m gonna be that person.”

scoffing, you cross your arms over your chest. everything about your body language screams defensive. “why?” you finally ask. you raise your eyebrows up at him.

he shrugs his shoulders. “what can i say,” he stabs his fork into the eggs on your plate, taking a big bite. “i like strays.”