#flowers language mbs

[waoyflouis]

wake up, live, dream, turn dreams into goals, achieve them, dream more. learn languages, travel, save money, spend money, meet new people, eat tasty food, drink weird drinks. watch films, read books, write books, burn them. fall in love, fall out of love. cry, laugh, scream, go crazy. pick flowers, make wreaths, collect butterflies, watch birds. listen to bad music, listen to your soul, make bad music, buy cds, go to the concerts. fall asleep under the stars, wake up under the sun

#mb #summer aesthetic #live #life #self love #uni #music #summer #aesthetic #travel #books #flowers #cottagecore #coquette core #health #mental health #dreams #languages #films #tv shows #love #fall in love #falling in love #stars #sun #butterflies #food #aesthetic of life

[paroxysm4seasons]

7/05/23

Turtle and Fox bounding over music afterschool. Usually they don't get along, but deep down they're very similar; and both in their own ways want to be here for the other. Fox wouldn't mind if Turtle relied on her a bit more, Turtle admires Fox composure and her assurance, as well as her flexibility, while Fox admires her strenght, determination, righteousness and honesty. Turtle feels a strange sense of compassion for Fox, she doesn't understand her, but she wants her to know that "if you need help, i'll always be here". Yet they feel estranged from one another, only feeling like they need to protect the other.

fox is the one with red-brown-ish hair, turtle has dark hair.

Turtle's flowers are Hydrangeas, Fox's are asters.

#oc art #old design of them!! i redesigned their uniform since! (mostly fox's) #original character #paroxysm4s #paroxysm春夏秋冬 #p4s turtle #p4s fox #oc #my drawing #they're my favorite friendship amongst the 4 of them #flower language #i wrote that in a moment mb its dumb idk but that's how i see them #after highschool they're definitely the one who'd stay the closest

[2hightocare]

PRINCESS TREATMENT ✷

“In a world of boys’ he’s a gentleman” mini series—

Synopsis: Jungkook simply does everything to make you happy..

Genre: established relationship!

Warnings: pure fucking fluff… (seriously makes me wanna jump in oncoming traffic) jungkook is a bright green flag, he’s love language is “acts of service” (can be read as a standalone but I recommend reading the first part)

a/n: we all deserve oc and jungkooks kinda love.. I’m turning this into a mini series since a lot of people enjoyed it🤍

for @ohsweetmimosa !!

Falling in love was always something that you wanted, your face has always been shoved into pages of books, wondering when it would be your turn to experience that type of love. Your mom would always tell you that your expectations were too high and that no man could ever be as perfect as a fictional man.

Until you met him.

There were no words in the dictionary to describe him. No words to describe how beautifully his eyes would sparkle whenever he would tell you he loves you, the way his thumb would caress you whenever you would hold hands, or the way he would kiss away the tears that would escape your eyes.

You a hundred percent believed God made men, and sent Jungkook as an apology.

“When did you learn to braid hair…?” You curiously ask, with a slight hint of jealousy in your tone, making Jungkook laugh behind you as his fingers thread the three strands of hair repeatedly. “Watched a YouTube tutorial,” he chuckles, trying so hard not to pull your hair.

“What for..?” You stare at the mirror in front of you with the goofiest smile plastered on your face, watching your boyfriend with no shirt, a pair of sweatpants hanging low on his hips as he carefully braids your hair with his lip between his teeth.

“You always braid your hair but then complain your arms hurt from keeping them up for so long soo… why not make myself useful.” He shrugs like it’s not a big deal.

Your heart did a cartwheel, might have exploded in your chest from how fast it’s beating. But nothing new. You were so accustomed to the feeling of butterflies flying in your stomach whenever he would do or say something to you.

He drops the most beautiful phrases anyone has ever told you so casually, like it was normal. But that was your normal since you met him.

You would hear your friends talk shit about their boyfriends, how they did something or what they didn’t do, but you really just never had anything bad to say about Jungkook. He basically took "Princess treatment" to another level.

You never had to ask for flowers, never had to pull out a chair, never had to open a door, never had to enter a car freezing... because Jungkook being Jungkook went out twenty minutes earlier to turn on the heater before you would get in.

Never had to worry about leaving your wallet at home when the only thing in your bag is lip gloss. Never having to turn on your brain whenever he was around.

Locked doors? Where are the house keys? Did you leave your curler on? Jungkook got it.

“That’s so much better than mine,” you point to his ice cream as your eyes widen from how the creamy flavors melt into your mouth. “So bo—mb!” You muffle out from the mouthful of ice cream shoved into your mouth.

“Let me try yours,” he opens his mouth, waiting for you to send a spoonful of your cookies and cream into his mouth. “Here comes the airplane! Brrr,” you try making airplane noises as your hand does a weird twirl before inserting the spoonful of ice cream into your smiley boyfriend.

“Mhm,” he nods his head, humming loudly, watching you smile at him.

“I actually like yours better, baby. Let’s trade?” Jungkook hands you his small cup of ice cream as you nod happily, while you hand him yours.

Jungkook watches with the biggest smile on his face while inserting another spoonful of the creamy content as he watches you eating the new ice cream flavor enthusiastically, hearing you rave about the new book you have just finished reading and how dumb the main character is.

Jungkook's heart aches, sizing double its size, beating hard in his chest. Your cheeks and nose are rosy from the cold outside the car. You both didn’t care about eating ice cream in the middle of cold December; you guys took it as a challenge on who would get sick first.

He laughs at the lighthearted jokes you threw at him, while you take another big spoonful of the chunky ice cream that was his not so long ago.

Little did you know that he really didn’t like your ice cream flavor.

When Jungkook first met you, he knew from the start that he was a goner. The way you smile at him, how your eyes will have a small glint on them whenever you look at him, or the way you would scrunch your nose if you found something funny or cute.

It took him by surprise when you pulled the move on him, thinking you found something disgusting when you first did it.

“I will literally eat you right now!” You scrunch your nose at your smiling boyfriend who’s slightly kneeling for you to be able to see your initial carved into his haircut.

“So that means you like it?” Jungkook stands up and spins to face you. You stare up at him, his dimples on full display looking down at you with your cute outfit he helped you pick on FaceTime.

“I fucking love it baby!! I have the urge to crawl inside your skin,” you bite your lip containing the laugh you’re trying hard to contain, failing miserably when Jungkook raises an eyebrow with a smirk on his face. “That’s… cute,” he replies before kissing off the little nose scrunch he loves so much off your face.

“Is that like your ‘cutie mark’?” You quip, your arms wrapping themselves around his shoulders. “Cutie mark?” He asks, a hint of interest in his voice while he wraps his arms around your waist pulling you closer to him.

“You never watched My Little Pony?” You fake gasp, eyes widening.

“I’ve heard of it, but me sitting down to watch ponies with superpowers… yeah, no.” Jungkook squeezes your waist as he explains.

“You suck,” you roll your eyes playfully sticking your tongue out before entangling yourself off his arms and making your way to the couch.

“Come big baby, we are watching My Little Pony.” You pat the empty couch space beside you.

He watched every season... all nine seasons with you.

Jungkook just wanted to make your life easier; you were always known for being “Miss Independent” in your family and amongst your friends, but here you were letting a man put your heels on for you.

“Too loose or…?” Your boyfriend looks up to you from his kneeling-down position in front of you.

“You look really good on your knees, sir.” You say instead with a sly smirk on your face, ignoring his question. “Pshh,” he rolls his eyes as he chuckles, tying a bow on your lace-up heels.

“Since when do you not flirt back?” You pout watching your boyfriend repeat his actions on the other foot. “Since we are late... and can’t be any more late.” He looks up with a mischievous grin on his face.

“Psh, okay.” You blow out in defeat as your boyfriend chuckles underneath you.

“Come on princess, let's go!” He stands up, giving you a hand for you to stand up off the bed.

The long rides to your guys' destinations were your favorite; Jungkook had given you the “passenger princess” award ever since you set foot in his car. He even installed a light-up mirror on your sun visor whenever you needed to fix your hair or makeup in the car.

Jungkook would listen to your little playlists. He still remembers when you explained to him that each playlist has a different emotion, which made him laugh. Now, anytime you played a song, he would ask you what emotion you were feeling right now.

“What emotion are you feeling right now baby?” He squeezes your thigh as he stops at a red light. The reddish hue illuminates your guy's face. “In love,” you turn your head to the side, staring at your boyfriend who’s already looking at you.

His eyes twinkle as he stares at you, a big smile adorns his face. As you mirror his actions before leaning in and giving him a kiss on the lips, his eyelids immediately flutter close.

“‘Cause I got my mind on you... I’ve got my mind on you.”

Plays softly from the car speaker; you smile into the kiss. “I love you.” He whispers softly. “I love you.” You whisper back.

#jungkook #bts jungkook #bts fanfic #jjk #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fluff #jungkook x reader #fluff #bangtan #jeon jungkook #jeon jungguk #bts jk #jjk fanfic #blurb #fanfic #jjk x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook x oc #jeongguk #bts x reader #drabble #jjk fluff

[thenightcallsme]

ATWOW | Neteyam Sully, pt. 3

"All I could wish for is to hold Neteyam like this without the heavy sombre air that threatens to consume me. For a moment of peace, where I can look up at him with a loving smile and see it returned."

Synopsis: You and the Sully siblings have been captured by enemy Avatars while sneaking away to explore the forbidden battle field. Just when all hope seems to fade, rescue comes in the rainy height of eclipse.

Pairing: Neteyam x Fem!Ometikaya OC (Gi'anya, or Gi for short)

Contains: established OC POV, crude language, a little fluff, mentions and descriptions of death and blood, guns, Neteyam being a comforting sweetheart, reader's thoughts getting carried away at the worst time cause yk he's just so sexy, possibly not proofread well enough so sorry for bad grammar or spelling or tense (I keep zoning out and fucking up the tense mb)

Word count: 4,174

find the rest of the chapters in my masterlist here :)

• • • • •

Rain softly pelts overhead leaves, dripping through the stratification of the Pandora forest. Large, fan-like leaves and flower petals bow towards the ground as droplets accumulate on the surface, launching back once the small pools roll off. Bioluminescent life lights up the surrounding forest in response to the eclipse’s darkness. Beside me, Tuk shivers. 

The five of us are being held in a line by the strange Avatars clad in human gear. Kiri and Spider are held by one man, Lo’ak held by the other, and Tuk and I are held by the woman. More stalk through the bush to create an impenetrable perimeter. The Colonel paces behind us, watching his surroundings with a gun drawn.

“Heads up, three minutes,” he murmurs. Radio static buzzes from his earpiece.

My heart sinks. Three minutes. We’re entirely out of luck. Although, a small part of me still hopes. It’s dark, the rain is light but still audible. The climate is practically tailored for the strategies of Na’vi offence. But, then again, three minutes is not long. Not long at all.

“Watch out six,” the Colonel murmurs to Kiri and Spider’s captor. He nods, ushering them to face the opposite direction.

Late birdsong, gentle rainfall, and the buzz of insects seeking shelter from the rain are almost deafening despite the soft melody. My mind is trained on the sounds, distinguishing what is actually an animal and what could be a damn miracle. Rain patter, chirping, buzzing… I listen and listen. I hope. I pray to Eywa that, if anything, the Sully’s will be safe—

My ears suddenly flutter, swivelling in a direction I cannot see. Distant yapping has caught my attention, so faint and high-pitched you would almost mistake it for the calls of the viperwolfs. Only, there’s a vibrato to it that is unmistakable. Tuk secretively glances my way. I raise and lower my brows in confirmation. Lo’ak turns to me. I return his knowing look. Three minutes.

The yip sounds again, this time louder, more piercing. The Avatars are scanning the bushes more intently now, trying to discern whether a creature stalks us, or the Sully’s have come to claim their children. Behind us, Kiri begins to chant beneath her breath, followed by a groan as an Avatar grips her queue harder, hissing for the chants to stop. She does not listen. Her voice grows louder.

The Avatar growls. “Shut. Up.”

They are his last words. I barely turn my head in time to catch a streak of wood and feathers cleaving through the rain. Obsidian lodges deep into his left temple. With a strangled cry, his body goes flailing, falling to the damp grass with a thud.

Orders are shouted between the Avatars as they shove us to the ground before rounding on the arrow's direction with guns drawn. There is no hesitation as they open fire into the night of the eclipse. The short explosions of light bursting from the barrels are enough the illuminate the trunk of a tree, where shards of bark go flying. Beneath gunfire, I hear Lo’ak’s name being called. Neytiri.

Lo’ak reaches for the tactical vest of his captor, ripping the key from a gas grenade. Green clouds burst into the air, and in the state of confusion, Lo’ak brandishes his canines and sinks them into the Avatar’s forearm. I nudge Tuk, who watches the struggle, with my foot, nodding when she looks my way. With a determined nod of her own, she does the same.

“Ah! You little—”

Beneath the cover of Tuk’s distraction, I manoeuvre my bound hands between my thighs and fish for a small, hidden knife, swiftly driving it beneath the hem of a tactical vest. He doubles over—a mistake on his part. I slam my shoulder into his approaching nose as I hook my foot behind his. The Avatar tumbles ungracefully towards the ground. In his attempt to clutch a bleeding stomach and broken nose, I launch myself onto the mass of muscle. It doesn’t take long to drive my blade into his neck, cutting clean through the mechanics of a throat mic. Beneath me lies the dying Avatar who gurgles and drowns in his own blood. I breathe hard, suddenly captivated by the sight in mortified realisation.

I have never killed before despite my adequate training. There has never been a need to. My life has not been void of death and gore, but at my own hands? Driven by the need to survive and protect Tuk, there was no second thought in my brutality. A part of me is satisfied at the wide-eyed look and weak clawing at my arms and legs which I easily brush away. …And then there is another part that is deeply sickened. Crimson blood coats my fingers. Small rubies of it have splattered across my chest and face from the rupture of his jugular.

I barely have time to process any of it before the deafening sounds of conflict come rushing back to me. The connection between my racing brain and reality is ignited as Lo’ak calls my name, pulling insistently at my arm

“Get up, Gi! Go!”

Lo’ak, Tuk and I stumble into the forest, wrists bound and bullets spraying at our feet. I barely catch a glimpse of Kiri and Spider escaping in the opposite direction. The group of Avatars are divided in their attempts to regain their valuable prisoners.

Faint glowing footsteps that fade in the moss are felt in our wake as we fly through outstretched branches and stray plant life. Deep shouts follow us. I hold Tuk’s hand in mine with a vice-like, white-knuckled grip, forcing her to reach a speed she can not achieve on her own. She pants and sobs. Lo’ak is a few steps ahead. Rain obscures my vision as we try to zigzag through the forest, but even though the Avatars are not familiar with this environment, they are not stupid. Losing them is beginning to seem impossible.

Suddenly, a searing hot pain shoots through my thigh. Every command my brain screams to run is left unheard as numbness takes over. Tuk’s hand slips from mine as I come crashing to my knees, the change in velocity driving me to the ground. Pained groans escape my lips as my hand flies to my thigh…which is drenched in blood. A bullet wound. Shit.

Somehow, in my state of agony and vulnerability, there is some luck; the bullet merely grazed my skin, but the wound is still deep and sizable. And it’s bleeding a dizzying amount. 

Tuk has come to a stop, swivelling on her heels to come crouching at her side. I shoo her away with wide, terrified eyes.

“Tuk, no—”

She ignores my attempt to push her away as she grabs my arms, trying to tug me to my feet. “Get up! Please, Gi!”

Lo’ak has turned back, remaining a few feet ahead as he hurridly waves at us to hurry, unaware and unable to see the blood streaming down my leg. “Quick!”

I struggle to my feet while trying to push her along. “Tuk go! For Eywa’s sake, run!”

But it’s too late.

A figure emerges from the foliage. I have my knife drawn in an instant, my hold awkward between two bound hands while simultaneously trying to hide Tuk with my body. The weight on my left leg with every step backward is nauseating—the fresh image of my first kill is no help. I hiss, all bared canines and wide eyes, trying to mask any weakness otherwise given away by my bloodied state.

“Put the knife down,” the male warns.

I growl.

“You’re not a Sully, but you have connections,” he continues with his gun raised. “You can either be helpful…or disposable.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

He shrugs and aims the gun at my head with sharper precision. My entire body goes tense. There is no way to escape this, and with Tuk cowering behind me, all I can think of is to shield her body from the spray. Maybe she can play dead beneath my bullet-riddled corpse and wait out the onslaught while Lo’ak makes an escape. Maybe…

“Disposable it is,” he hisses. “I don’t need you. Just him.”

His finger cradles the trigger. I drop my knife, swivelling my body to take Tuk’s body against my chest, my back brandished and ready for the killing blow. Tuk cries in protest as I whisper for her to play dead. Her nails dig crescent moons into the flesh of my upper arms. Lo’ak begins to yell—

And the bullets never come.

With a bloodcurdling, muffled howl followed by the heavy thud of a dropping gun, the Avatar goes stumbling back. I turn slowly to witness a horrific scene. Wide, faraway eyes stare into the dark beyond as the male clutches at his throat, trying and failing with disappearing strength to dislodge an arrow wedged through his neck. The arrowhead has cleaved clean through, finding rest in the trunk of a tree inches behind. I clutch the back of Tuk’s head, holding her close to my chest between my bound arms. My figure obscures her view of the dying male, but there’s not much use trying to hide her from the brutality—she just watched what I would do for her only minutes ago.

Seconds pass where Tuk, Lo’ak and I are deathly still as the male slumps, suspended from a tree by the neck. Carefully, I rise. Gunfire and shouting sounds in the distance, echoed the whirring approach of human-piloted Samsons. In this small clearing, nobody stirs… until two more figures emerge. My weak hiss dies on my tongue once their faces register. Of course. Lo’ak’s bow was taken—who else would have killed him? I recognise the precise craftsmanship of the arrow’s narrow body and tufted tail instantly.

“Dad!” Tuk cries out, voice breaking as she takes off towards her father. He drops to one knee and takes her in an unbreaking embrace, followed by Lo’ak.

Overcome by relief, fatigue, and raging pain, my knees give out and I sink to the ground with ragged breaths. The adrenaline has worn off now. Nothing eases the searing pain in my thigh anymore.

A figure drops down in front of me. Large hands take hold of my face, forcing me to look at amber eyes wide with worry. Neteyam turns my face from side to side, surveying for any damage in the darkness. Tiny bioluminescent freckles glitter across his skin. All of a sudden, it’s not just pain rushing back from my lack of adrenaline, but an unexpected wave of emotions. Tears prick in the corners of my eyes as I stare back at him in disbelief. I was going to die for Tuk. If not for Neteyam, who has discarded his bow in the wet grass, I would already be dead.

“Neteyam…” My lower lip quivers, my voice nothing more than a hoarse whisper. I speak his name as if he’s some sort of God who has graciously descended from the heavens.

“You’re okay,” he whispers, retracting his hands to take mine. He makes quick work of severing the bonds on my wrists. I don’t speak when he reaches forward to brush a stray tear from my cheek. His brow furrows. “You’re covered in blood.”

“Half of it isn’t mine. I…I killed…”

The sentence remains unfinished. My stomach turns as I speak, threatening to reject today’s meals at just the thought of what I did. The dead body only feet from us is no help.

Neteyam’s face softens from the hardened look of worry. “The first time is hard, I know.”

When a soft sob builds in my throat, Neteyam pulls me into a gentle embrace. The second my cheek presses against his chest everything comes spilling from me in an uncontrollable rush. I cry and cry within the comfort of his muscular arms, silently thankful for the calming air that always followed him, even in the midst of chaos. When a hand gently curves against the base of my skull, the floodgates open entirely, and I shamelessly cling to him. Everything is too much. The pain that seers through my thigh and numbs my brain, the slowly subsiding fear of death, the exhaustion of living a life dictated by the sky people. All I could wish for is to hold Neteyam like this without the heavy sombre air that threatens to consume me. For a moment of peace, where I can look up at him with a loving smile and see it returned.

“Thank you,” I blubber. Any coherence is lost. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Bursting through the clearing comes a familiar sight: Neytiri. I barely catch a glimpse of her and the faint sound of Kiri’s voice. Further relief settles in. The rest are safe. Though, when I hear Lo’ak ask where Spider is, my heart sinks. Kiri’s wailed reply is something I wish I didn’t hear. They took him.

Neteyam’s chin rests on top of my head as he lets out a deep sigh. His shoulders slump beneath my hands, only to stiffen once more as his gaze shifts. There’s a moment of stillness before he pushes away with a horrified, downcast look. My leg. Crimson streams trickle down my skin, staining the grass and absorbing into the moist soil. His teeth worry at his lower lip as his fingers test the skin. I wince as he presses on the surrounding flesh. His concerned curiosity is deterred by the muffled noise I make.

“Fuck, Gi,” he murmurs beneath his breath.

“Bullet wound,” I explain. “It’s just a graze.”

“But it’s still bleeding.” With a huffed sigh, he brushes a stray tear from my cheek. Never has his touch felt more like home. “Next time you find yourself in places you should not be, you tell me.”

“What makes you think I’m leaving home ever again,” I mutter. “In my defence, I didn’t know I was going to end up here, anyway.”

Neteyam purses his lips. “I’m going to kill Lo’ak.”

“It’s not his fault, Nete. Nobody knew this would happen.”

“Gi, you…” To my surprise, his voice cracks, and even more unlike him, his words come out in a near-incoherent ramble. “I just watched you shield my little sister. You were going to die for her, Gi, Jesus Christ you had a gun to your head.”

I shake my head slowly. “Lo’ak didn’t know—”

“I don’t care about what he knew,” he interrupts with a feverish wave of his hand. “I’m not even talking about him anymore. Fuck, if I had listened to Dad and stayed behind, I don’t know…”

I am at a loss for words, completely thrown by his inability to speak a sentence in his usual phlegmatic way. His gaze is everywhere and nowhere all at once, fazing between this reality and some nightmarish alternate one. Neteyam, even in the most stressful and demanding moments, somehow knows how to remain calm, and even if his mind is a hysterical mess, his outward appearance, nor his words, betray him. It’s an admirable talent of his, the ability to remain unreadable. But now that talent has disappeared. I am looked at, held, and spoken to like he’s just witnessed my brutal death cradling his younger sister, only to be ripped away and dumped in a timeline where his arrow struck true.

There’s no use questioning his erratic behaviour. I’m not sure he’s even aware of it. All I can do is stare back, overcome by the palpable worry.  Deep down, I’m a little flattered, but I shove away the thought, appalled by the audacity. Really, there is a time and a place, and neither of that is now.

The two of us are interrupted as a large, calloused hand falls on my shoulder, its owner shadowed by two peaking sets of golden eyes. Jake Sully gives me a gentle squeeze and a tight smile.

“You did good, kid,” he says. “You did good.”

He was watching as I threw myself over Tuk, I realise. With a huffed breath nothing short of a thankful sigh, Jake moves his hand to the back of my head, his other on Neteyam as he pulls the two of us into a fatherly embrace. Fatherly. You’d think I could not know what it meant to feel fatherly love, but if someone asked me what it meant, my answer would be simple: Jake. I look up to Jake, I heed his advice, both in life and in the matters of the mind. There was always a safe and welcoming aura to him, loving and caring, and as I find myself engulfed by it now, my lower lip quivers.

You don’t know what you’ve got till it's gone; I’ve always appreciated everything I have, grateful my life has amounted to anything on its rocky foundations. But it’s funny how you never realise how meaningless life would be without it until faced with death. Without Jake and Neytiri, I suppose I’d be lost in this world.

I try my hardest to bite down on the bubbling sobs and hiccups, but of course, the shake of my shoulders defies me. A comforting hand runs over the uninjured stretch of my right thigh. The four-fingered touch is a dead giveaway as to who it is.

“Alright,” Jake claps his son on the back. “Teyam, help her onto your Ikran. She’s losing a lot of blood, so sit her in front of you in case she starts to lose consciousness. Gi, I need you to stay strong just a little longer. Then everything will be alright.”

Wiping away the last of my tears, I nod.

Neteyam is extremely careful as he hauls me from the ground, throwing one of my arms over his shoulder while one hand slinks tightly around my waist. I hiss at the first step I take on my left foot, my knee buckling ever so slightly. Eywa, I feel like I’m going to vomit. I beg that the nausea is just in my head.

“How bad does it hurt?”

I purse my lips as I take another step. “Like hell.”

“Sorry,” he says with a wince. “I’ll try lifting you up just a little…”

I shake my head, but not in protest to the upward pressure he exerts around my waist. “It’s all right. Don’t say sorry like it's your fault.”

It’s his turn to shake his head. “If I was quicker—”

“I don’t want to hear the rest of that sentence.” He opens his mouth as if to defy me, but decides against it. “I owe you my life. That’s all that matters.”

He’s quiet for a moment, possibly considering if my rebuttals are worth the moping. The silence is echoed by each muffled whimper per step I take. Instead, when he finally speaks… “At least let me carry you.”

“Why—”

Too late. Ignoring my question and the protest to come, Neteyam drops his hand from the arm that I sling over his shoulders and bends down swiftly, arm sliding beneath my knees. One second, soft wet grass tickles the bottom of my feet, and the next, I feel nothing. All the pressure on my thigh is relieved. He’s so precise that our stride is barely broken. 

“You’re going to get blood all over you.”

“I’ve had worse,” he counters.

I tsk, replying airily, “If you say so…”

Neteyam keeps his eyes on his father, who leads the way to the Ikran’s resting place, but as I look up at his face, I swear there’s the ghost of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Strength to Neteyam is like crops at the height of harvesting season to a farmer; they go hand in hand, a reward of hard work that reaps many benefits, praise sometimes one of them. Humble in nature, Neteyam is not defined by cockiness and vanity like some of his warrior peers, though it’s definitely there if you know where to look. Now, I wonder if he finds some guilty pleasure in the little effort it takes to cradle my body against his broader, muscular stature. 

I myself definitely find a thrill in it. A stupid thrill that could not be coming at a worse time.

“Oh, Mighty Warrior,” I tease. While I intend it sarcastically to lighten the austere air, it somehow comes out…sultry. “How virtuous of you to help this damsel in distress.”

I don’t miss the way his ears flutter, contrasting the accusing stare he gives me. “You want to walk?”

I pat his shoulder. “Here’s fine, thanks for asking.”

He rolls his eyes with a toothy smile. “Charming, aren’t you?”

With great care, Neteyam helps me up onto the bony spine of his Ikran, who looks back to survey me with an inquisitive squawk. I stroke her back once seated. Knowing I’ve found a steady spot, Neteyam follows, straddling the beast so that he settles right behind me. I had expected him to give me some room out of respect. We haven’t flown together since the early days of our endeavours—most of those joined rides were spent on Nala, my beastly Ikran, as he was so fascinated by it. Smaller bodies give more room, and then, we were comfortably seated apart. Now is an entirely different story. Neteyam shimmies his hips forward so that the curve of my spin fits flush against his chest. As he moves around me to link his queue with the creature, I notice with great dismay that I can feel everything. Most of that dismay is in response to the perverse enjoyment I get out of it.  Maybe I should get hurt with no way home more often. 

I blink hard for a few seconds, as if closing my eyes could shoo away the appalling thought like a cobweb in the wind. Eywa, get a grip.

One of his large hands takes a tight grip on the Ikran’s antenna while he slides his free arm around my midriff. Lean muscles flex against my skin as he pulls me impossibly closer. Against my will, the position I’m in sparks up questionable, almost pornographic imagery, so vivid I’m afraid he knows what I’m thinking. Thankfully he can’t see the ashamed flush of my checks.

“I don’t mean to invade your space,” he apologises as if sensing some discomfort. His voice is low and erotically husky, warm breath caressing the inner shells of my ear. Skin to skin, I can feel the way his heart beats against my back. It’s fast. Sangely fast. From the freshness of the fight, I tell myself, not allowing any hope. “But it would be nice if you didn’t fall to your death.”

“I promise I won’t pass out and inconvenience the flight home,” I say. Truthfully, I don’t believe it will happen. My focus is more on the sick feeling that brews in my stomach.

“I don’t know how good of a promise that is. I was just watching you rolling your head around. You look like you fought sleep for a week straight and now it's catching up.”

“I look like that naturally,” I mumble.

“Lies. You usually look more alive.”

The ride home is a foggy haze. All that really registers is the consistent envelopment of Neteyam’s arm around my body, his hand resting lightly on my hip. He tightens his grip and pulls me into his chest any time he thinks I’m leaning too far to the side. None of it is because of fading consciousness. …Well, maybe once or twice I do lose my balance. The onslaught of sickness from the man I slaughtered mixed with the raging pain in my thigh is overwhelming. Too overwhelming. All that keeps my sanity anchored is the feel of my childhood friend cozied up against my back.

If anything, Neteyam overreacts. I could sneeze and he’d think I was having a seizure. Each time I assure him everything is fine, and each time, he makes me swear I’m not putting on a brave face. And each time, I get a shiver as he leans down to remind me to stay awake. Beaded braids fall over my collarbone, his chin ghosting the space between my neck and shoulder. I’m incredibly relieved to escape the cradle of his body, swapping it for an arm around my waist to ease my limp towards the Tsahìk’s tent.

Mo’at tsks at the sight of me, and despite the harshness of her scolding, there is an overarching worry in the deep lines of her face. I’m left alone with her for a little while, the storytelling my job as Jake and Neytiri speak urgently in their tent, their children too curious not to eavesdrop. Kiri and Neteyam return as Mo’at gently wraps the plush of my thigh in soft bandages supplied by the humans. There’s an indescribable look on their faces and their shared glances are strangely unsettling, but I decide to leave the questions unsaid.

•

And that's all I have in me to write rn, it's so late and I'm stressing about my exams this week and going crazy cause my stupid ex keeps liking my tik tok thirst traps which is NOT ALOUD!! Pray for me pookies 😘😘 now look at this mf hes so fit

#avatar #avatar the way of water #atwow #neteyam #neteyam avatar #neteyam sully #neteyam x reader #neteyam x oc #fanfiction

[delicrieux]

dream of the endless content mom??? pls??? mb something with the reader just appearing on different times in history and dream is like, who is this babe? LMAO

THE FIRST MEETING  | endless drabble series (sandman edition)    

summary: a new star is born and coincidentally, you start appearing in dream’s path  pairing: dream of the endless x f!reader a/n: UGH FINE!!!!!!!!! i will write for hot emo man bcs hes hot and emo. warning tho ive only seen the first ep of sandman lolz & i decided to make this a drabble series since i thought this concept could be fun!

masterlist. ☕. next.

He recalls a set of features that fall into a face – the slant of the nose, pucker of lips, tremble of long lashes and curl of hair that slowly morphs into a vision. It is a vision, a fragment of a dream, and perhaps he had seen the face amidst walking or when drinking from eternity’s fountain, but underneath the night’s sky another star had ignited, a blinking, far off thing that indicated something in the universe had shifted.

Destiny had been tight-lipped about the whole ordeal. The Lord of Dream’s didn’t pry – who is he to make his siblings talk when he so often refuses conversation? So the star was left unnamed, unexplored, unknown, twinkling dimly next to the Earth’s luminous moon.

But it’s an instant recognition when he walks the Earth – so young, so prosperous, with the whole of history not yet unfolded beneath it, no impressive strides yet, only those made from caves and furs into wooden shacks and stone houses. It’s the face he saw among the crowd of humans, lost in a throng of their burgeoning new language, a melody of strings that unfurls into movement. You call it dance. What humanity lacked in kindness they always made up in imagination.

He’s there, a pale shadow in the flickering fires and linen dresses, a ghost, maybe, or something born from pagan rituals that are younger than him, but it’s not like the present crowd knows. It’s a rowdy night, summer solstice, an important day now and perhaps forever, a salute to the Sun and the Rain and the Sky and Nature. You humans think of the most outlandish things, bring the most ostensive offerings – from bread and milk to blood. It spills, all of it, into the fire. Flowers crown heads and fall underneath trampling feet. It’s a celebration that’s coated in mead and honey.

He sees the familiar face in the dance around the fire – sees the person it belongs to, sees you lifting up your skirt to jump through the flames. Claps and laughter echo above the music. There’s something underneath his skin that stirs – much like then, much like the first time he saw your features, when the new star was born and the universe had tried to tell him something, but what he didn’t know yet.

You saw him, too, and your movements halted in a flinch of what? Curiosity? Recognition? Neither, or both, he can’t yet tell, he hasn’t mastered human emotions. But you approach, almost shyly, not daring to look him in the eyes again, and when you’re close enough you smell like lilies and smoke from the pyre, and your eyes reflect the moon.

You extend your hands in an offer – the same hands that had carried bread wrapped in linen to your young wise gods. The Lord of Dreams would think it beneath him to join the fray of delirious festivities. But it’s the star that blinks by the moon, the image of your face in the waters of his visions, dreams, fragments, pieces that slowly fall together and tug on his gut to submit to a feeling that he doesn’t know how to name yet.

Cold hands touch warm ones. A smile blooms on your face and in his mind’s eye he sees all of your dreams: dreams of freedom that manifests into a balmy fragrance in the night; dreams of him, no, a version of him, one born now and of your own imagination, of him joining your future as he joins the dance, a possibility of a happy ending and a vague apparition of a family. Briefly he is fascinated by how simple people are, how quick they are to conjure up a reality.

You’re light on your feet, as young as the night itself. And perhaps, if he allowed himself a moment of mindless indulgence, beautiful, too, but fickle – a beauty that’s doomed to erode like leaves in autumn. Your life is so short. It must be why you’re so happy.

“Have you found it?” You utter in a song-like drawl, palm’s aligned with his as you circle one another. A miniscule shift in his expression – a light knit of his brows and a slant of his head. A wordless question. You continue with a smile, “The blooming fern. Don’t you know? Whoever finds it, all of their dreams will come true.”

“…Have you?” He questions instead. Bashfully, you glance down.

“No, I haven’t,” You admit, “my father doesn’t let me wander that far off into the woods. He fears a witch might eat me.”

There are no blooming ferns or witches. Yet your voice brims with such sincerity that he knows even if he told you of the fact, you wouldn’t believe him. This is all you know, rituals and fantastical creatures and dance. Dreams and nightmares.

The music halts and you pull away – women flock you with clay pots of drink and blossoms, wrapping you in pure white shawls. He catches your gaze one last time – a voiceless prayer, a silent request to find it, whatever it is, the blooming fern in the daunting forest. You take turns emptying the pitchers. The mead runs down your lips, chin, dots your dress. You’re taken away, then, with a smile and a too sober understanding. Led to the fire.

He exits swiftly, without notice. The star in the sky dims, but flickers still.

hope u liked it xx <3

#the sandman #dream x reader #dream of the endless #morpheus x reader #netflix sandman #imagine #imagines #the sandman x reader #angstyy

[myfairkatiecat]

Have you assigned the MBS adults KOTLC powers yet?

OOOH I HAVENT HERE WE GO

Mr. Benedict—EMPATH!! He can feel people’s emotions but he always asks before taking a reading and doesn’t touch anyone unless they know he can feel their emotions when he does. And when he experience’s someone else’s happiness, sometimes it’s even enough to trigger his own narcolepsy!

Milligan—Guster. He can make winds so strong you can’t stand anymore…OR he can make cute little breezes that carry flower petals over and around little Kate while she dances and giggles!!!

Number Two—Pyrokinetic. You just KNOW she’d be formidable with those fire powers

Rhonda—polyglot!! She knows every language instinctively which helps with her disguises. She’s also a beguiler since polyglots can have more than one ability, and that ALSO helps her with her disguises. She rarely uses beguiling unless it’s absolutely necessary, but loves speaking as many languages as possible!!

Thanks for the ask!!!!

#kotlc #keeper of the lost cities #tmbs #the mysterious benedict society

[yuikomorii]

In the most honest way, who do you think deserves to be the protagonist of Diabolik Lovers?

// I assume you mean male protagonist, and from my point of view, I can say with certainty that Ayato is the best choice.

Ayato is one of the best main guys in otome games and let me tell you why:

Usually true lovers are portrayed as gentlemanly, calculated, and mature, and all characters admire them. When it comes to these types of guys, there isn't much room for growth because they're already cool and loved, which is what makes Ayato (and other main guys like him) stand out. He's the most misunderstood and insulted character in the entire franchise, and he's the polar opposite of what any of them would consider "ideal." I'm aware that Ayato also calls others names, but his insults aren't nearly as offensive, and he never tries to hurt anyone where it hurts them the most.

He received one of the best developments; while not as significant as Laito's, Yui enabled him to reclaim something long forgotten: his kindness. Ayato was known for being pure-hearted, as Laito also mentioned. The problem is that he stopped displaying this trait over time because every time he did something good, he ended up getting hurt.

You can notice that in Ayato’s MB route, in the flashback, Cordelia was impatiently waiting for Karl’s visit, but all he did was send her a blue rose. Knowing flower language, Ayato deduced that the rose represented "something impossible," which referred to Karl's love for Cordelia. He was aware such a thing would make his mom sad, therefore he started stepping on the rose but got beaten up by Cordelia for ruining her gift. Another scene is in Laito's MB route, where Ayato tries to convince Laito that what he was doing with Cordelia was wrong because there was no mutual love between them, but all he gets in return is "you're just a kid unable to understand such things" and "you're jealous because she loves me, not you!" I obviously can’t forget the YoungBlood scene, where he sacrificed himself for his brothers in order to find out more information and got severely beaten up by the ghouls, ending up with a traumatic memory and being CURSED as Adam. He’s also the only Sakamaki who noticed something fishy about the coming of age ceremony.

I love how, ever since Yui entered his life, he has been working on himself to become a better person. He's willing to work on his flaws and never hesitates to say or do something that could help someone. There are various types of kindness, but I particularly admire Ayato's because he not only feels bad for others or considers helping them, but also almost always takes action on the spot when someone is in a dangerous situation, regardless of whether he will be injured or hated as a result.

I'd also like to point out that the plot details (not lore) are best explained in his routes, but that's something that usually happens in otoge true routes, so it's obvious.

Last but not least, him and Yui are soulmates and I’m a sucker for this trope. It was confirmed in YoungBlood that they are fated to be together, which Rejet hinted at a long time ago, especially in an official Tokuten short story, translated by Koiiro on Wordpress:

Yui- "As for me, I clearly remember the reason why I fell in love with you, Ayato-kun. But it also feels like I've loved you all my life, and maybe I've gotten addicted to you before I knew it."

Ayato- “I do… remember the moment I fell in love with you… though, it also feels like I've loved you all my life."

I'm glad they both remembered why they fell in love with each other; it proves that their love isn’t just for the sake of being reunited as Adam and Eve, but is also something genuine.

I have a strong feeling that their relationship is currently the healthiest and most normal because they are both on the same wavelength and he really treats her so good! After all, a mentally strong and brave boy is the best match for a mentally strong and brave girl! ٩̋(ˊ•͈ ꇴ •͈ˋ)و

#ayato sakamaki #yui komori #diabolik lovers #sakamaki ayato #komori yui #ayato x yui #ayayui #dialovers #admin

[web-novel-polls]

Popular Danmei Character Tournament

CW: MAJOR spoilers for 2ha, s*x, genitalia mention, animal mention, self-sacrifice mention, non-serious murder/death threats mention, derogatory language as a joke ("d*mb*ss" and "b*tch")

Mo Ran from the Husky and His White Cat Shizun

Submission: dumbasses need representation too

He’s obsessed with his Shizun (Chu Wanning), but for plot reasons, he “hates” Chu Wanning. Still wants to fuck him tho (he thinks this is normal)

Constantly doing a fucking limbo contest where the bar is understanding his own feelings (he’s underground)  

The author pulls him and the reader through the redemption of a century kicking and screaming. 

Canonly has the largest d*ck in the cultivation realm (that we know of) - “Seen when bathing at Deyu Hall; an absolute unit, truly awe-inspiring” (Ch.131) - that leads to Chu Wanning having an entire crisis

“Because like people, an ox has gotta eat. For the sake of eating, a lot of work has to be done. If one day you can’t work anymore, then no one cares if you’re alive or dead.” - Ch.65, Ox Eats Grass 

The reason behind his “hatred-yet-not-hatred” for Chu Wanning is wild - he purposefully chose to take the Flower of Everlasting Hatred to save Chu Wanning, causing him to become Taxian-jun 

His story is also incredibly tragic, but we don’t talk about that 

Mu Qing from Heaven Official’s Blessing

Submission: He's so powerful and so pathetic. The duality of man

Mu Qing can split a tower bell in two yet can’t admit he wanted to be friends with the MC Xie Lian. He tried to sacrifice himself as soon as he did.

Randomly started reciting a poem about his least favorite coworker’s dick just to fuck with him (Feng Xin) 

Said he would kill Xie Lian if he was sent him as a bride

Apparently spent two hours telling Feng Xin how ugly his statue was in the Nan Yan Temple on Mount Yujun (source)

Is just kinda a bitch (affectionate)

#mo ran #mu qing #2ha #tgcf #polls #danmei #danmei character tournament #danmei character polls #my polls #popular danmei character tournament #danmei character polls round 2 side B #queue #I tried to put Mu Qing as being from s//vsss AGAIN #idk why my brain refuses to compute him as being from tgcf

[gayrainbowl3]

WHERE DID THE BLACK PHONE FANDOM GO??? TF?? YALL DISAPPEARED FASTER THAN MY DAD DID, DAMN

Also, mb for the Spanish, it isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if it doesn't make much sense lmao

Anyways, I'm bored and bring this.

___

After the Grabber, Finney Blake didn't see much of the ghost boys. They popped up here and there, but he never really got to talk to them.

Especially Robin.

He never got to see Robin.

It pained him more knowing that Robin was there.

He got peeks of him every so often. His messy hair, parts stained and drenched in blood. His voice, talking and sometimes, ever so rarely, laughing.

That was the thing that hurt the most. Like he was intensionally avoiding him. Finney Blake missed his best friend, no matter what Gwen said, or how his dad acted, they couldn't change his pain or grief. He missed laying under the trees and talking, taking walks while locking pinkies, and even just sitting in class. At least then, he knew Robin was there. He was always there. That's what Robin was, he was a constant.

Was.

He got to learn more about the other boys though. Sometimes through run-in's he had with them, or getting the information from family and friends.

Griffin was an only child, his favorite color was blue. Denim blue to be specific. He had a single mother who worked two jobs, yet always made time to have Friday movie nights. He liked to bike around occasionally. He hated being alone.

Finney felt horrible for not knowing anything about him. He felt guilty for having to learn about him like this.

Billy had a younger sister, and a dog that he took nearly everywhere with him. The dog's name was Dottie. He had been the paperboy for about a few months, maybe a year, before it happened. His favorite class was biology. He hated being out late.

Finney felt like he was going to puke once he learned more about him. The guilt was starting to eat at him.

Vance was a mama's boy, and was pretty smart. He had a strong relationship with his mom and they would often cook together, even if Vance occasionally burned everything beyond saving. He loved reading and writing. He hated most men.

Finney felt like sobbing when he finally spoke to Vance's mom. She was so nice, and he finally could see why Vance was always so violent and hotheaded. He was trying to protect her.

Bruce enjoyed math and a good challenge. He loved baseball, which Finney already knew. Bruce had a younger sister who searched for him relentlessly. He liked watching people from afar. He hated bullies.

He cried himself to sleep that night, and nearly screamed until his vocal cords snapped.

Robin. Robin with his pretty tan skin, and nice smile, and protective demeanor. Finney knew all there was to know about Robin, at least, he thought he did. It wasn't until he and Robin's mom finally sat down and spoke that Finney's whole world flipped.

Finney couldn't help but feel mad after.

He felt so many emotions. Anger, grief, sadness, and absolute love and adoration. Finney learned about them all in little ways, he tried his hardest.

He even left little things here and there for them. Popcorn and movies for Griffin. Bike locks and dog figurines for Billy. Baseballs and letters his sister made for Bruce. Chokers and flowers from his mom for Vance. Bandanas and enchiladas for Robin.

They all took and appreciated the gifts, all except Robin, who Finney never seemed to be able to get to. Not until two weeks later, when he finally saw the Mexican boy sitting underneath a tree, staring at him with a soft smile. Finney simply sat next to him and stared. At that moment, it all finally settled in.

Robin was dead. And so were three other boys. Three boys around his age. Three boys who saved him.

His Robin was dead. Never to be the same. Never going to school together again. No more watching movies together. No studying together. Nothing.

So, he let himself cry and cry underneath that tree, cry until he had no more energy to, but the tears never stopped.

In a way, he was still trapped in that basement. The place he lost half of himself. A place people lost their lives.

After the basement, Finney didn't see much of the ghost boys. He saw them, glimpses here and there. Griffin and Billy seemed to be attached by the hip, he never saw one without the other. It was the same way for Bruce and Vance. But Robin however, he didn't see much of.

Yet no matter how much it hurt, he knew it was for his own sanity. Robin loved him. In his own miserable, knowing, grief stricken way, Finney knew what Robin meant. The words he whispered to him under that tree. And he could live with it, sure.

In a way, Robin never left. He knew that. Even if he couldn't always see him, Robin was constantly by his side. And whenever he would want to doubt it, those words rung through his head.

Estoy a tu lado, y lo lograremos juntos mi amor.

I am by your side, and we will make it together my love.

#finney blake #the black phone #toh #robin x finney #send help lol #griffen stagg #bruce yamada #vance hopper #billy showalter #Basement boys #kinda angsty #lol #my badddd #not really #but still #authors

[havin-fun-imagining-twd]

Picking a flower = saving the day

Howdy, slowpokes, mb for the late, late, late chapter again. Give yourselves about 15 and get comfy, y’all!

When - right after Better with a friend. You and Daryl are stuck in a thunderstorm while out searching for Sophia.

What - the search gets cut short due to torrential rains, you and Daryl argue a little, and goddang it but you just want to find a present for Carol. Daryl also fesses up about when he got lost for 9 days, that’s a big step for him.

Relationships - it’s you two, otherwise only T-Dog pops in at the end when you finally make it back to the farm. Y’all do radio the camp at one point, so Papa Dale and big bro Shane are mentioned.

Pronouns - she/they again

Perspective - 2nd person you, third person Dixon

Genre - it’s part of the Slowpoke Series, idk, friends

TWs - language, mention of childhood physical abuse, parental death mention, and Daryl does refer in his head to Jacqui as “the black lady” before remembering her name.

Plot points - a quarter per white lie, reader’s migraines (and the prodrome phase of getting one), reader hating feeling weak, Two idiots, It was a pragmatic cigarette, What were your nightmares about?, Daryl’s childhood cat named Eyes. T-Dog and Daryl’s growing friendship (I say it’s canon). The story “Quarter!” I’ll put more if I think of them.

Masterlist will give you all the Slowpoke news published so far, as well as a Ko-fi link if you’re able to assist my tire budget :D

“Where we heading?”

“Just follow me!”

Through the thunderstorm, he leads the way. Mud starts to cake his shoes, ankles, and calves.

It’s hard to tell which way to head, a few times he veers off-trail. He’s pretty sure he gets lost for a while.

When the rain gets so heavy that visibility drops and parts of the path turn into small pools or streams, Y/N’s hand grabs the back of his shirt and clings to it.

It’s bad outside. Raining cats and dogs and horses, probably a couple cows and pigs, too.

Then he finally sees the shed that was at the farmhouse and almost cries with relief that he’s found it again.

He leads them by the arm to the side door, crossbow ready.

Y/N gets her pistol out, good.

And as he enters first, the sounds of them shouting “Wait!” reach his ears.

He aims all around the kitchen just in case, and kicks an empty bottle across the floor to make noise so that anything in there will either be drawn to them (walkers) or will scurry away (rodents).

“Why didn’t you check the windows first?” she pants, pistol still ready, shouting, “Sophia?” He does likewise in case Sophia came back here and he’d simply missed her yesterday. He’s hoping that he simply missed her yesterday.

Y/N limps (?) around the bottom floor of the house, repeatedly calling her name along with, “If anyone’s here, we’re s-sorry if we scared you, we’re lookin’ for a little girl who’s missing!”

He jogs up the stairs and calls Sophia’s name more quietly, poking his head into the rooms.

No one and nothing answers.

He goes back downstairs.

“This is the place I found the can and the cot,” he lets Y/N know.

Pistol still out and aimed, her stance doesn’t relax as she blinks in confusion. “Hm?”

“Sit down, s’okay,” he tells them.

Soaked to the skin and covered in mud as they are, the two of them can at least catch their breath now.

Y/N looks beat, promptly grabs a chair, drops into it and starts rubbing their knee. That was new.

Their baseball cap is missing, too.

You

The drip-drip-drip of yours and Daryl’s clothes and the stiff, squidgy feeling of the wet clothes and sticky mud on your body is only propelling your agitation. And where’d your hat go?

First, Mama and Good Dog and the man you shot in the fucking head set up shop in your mind, then your fear of finding Sophia as a cold, muddy corpse decided to dance with you all afternoon. Now, how Dad got washed away and drowned is ping-ponging around your thoughts. Your heart aches. Your body hurts. Good Moses, it even hurts to breath at this point.

And you were in enough physical pain today before idiot you smacked your already-bruised knee on the way here because Dickhead Dixon over there decided to up and sprint to a place he already checked?

“Why are we here, Daryl? We sprinted,” in a thunderstorm, in a flood zone, in woods we don’t know, “all the way to this place? Not somewhere unsearched?”

But before he has a chance to answer, you feel the angry voice in your head get the better of you.

Why did you bring us here, you backwoods bastard? It’s a spot you already been to! How is this helping our girl? It’s been seventy-two hours by now, it’s-it’s too late! You stupid, stupid man!

“You just wasted valuable time, listen to the storm out there! We need to get back down to the road and find someplace to search around there before the flash flood risk gets higher!” you almost yell at him, the pain intensifying when you strain so.

“I wanted to come back here in case she was campin’ out and I just missed her,” he snarls back. “A kid would probably wanna stay out somewhere they felt safe.”

“Then why the hell would you bust in like that, guns blazing? Woulda scared that little girl half to death.”

“Because anybody else here would’ve been scared, too, but I would’ve had the upper hand.”

“Until they put a bullet or a knife in you in self-dembense—fuck, self-de-fense!” you correct, growing more frustrated and furious and feeling more and more helpless and sad by the minute. Goddamn prodrome shit is making you sound like as big of an idiot as you feel. You didn’t even hear whatever the abrasive redneck you’re stuck in here with threw back at you.

Then your mood turns on a dime, your throat tightens and your eyes start to burn. Yours hands immediately cover your face to conceal it while you calm down. Kettle off the burner, Y/N. Inhale. Exhale.

“You okay?” reaches your ears. “Not going postal or nothing, right?”

You nod, feeling the sharp, achy tug in your shoulder and neck when you do. Swallowing to make sure your voice sounds normal, you relax your hands back to your sides and open your eyes—then blink in confusion as to when it was exactly that you stood up?

“Nah, you’d know if I were going postal. But, um, sorry for losin’ my cool and yelling.”

“I asked if you were okay.”

“Overtired, how about you?”

“Quarter.”

Him

“I am overtired, ain’t a white lie,” they insist.

“You’re pretty busted up, too. You in a lot of pain?”

Y/N stares him down as if to challenge him, but there’s something about the look they have on that suggests they’re about to tease him. “No,” she states, that hidden grin starting to come out.

“Quarter.”

“No. You said quarters are for white lies.” Ah, there’s the smile. “Not outright ones.”

He finally looks up at them again but stops when he sees that their egg-stained white t-shirt is soaked. It might be dark and they have on an undershirt, but he can still see the outlight of everything.

But even when not looking, when they take their hand off that spot under their ribs, he can’t help but notice a new, red stain.

Shit.

“What’s wrong, Daryl?” They peek down. “Oh, look at that.” As if it were nothing, they turn around and lift their shirt to check. They sigh in relief. “Stitches ain’t popped, we’re good. I should slap a bandage on there, I reckon.”

This weird sensation of like guilt or whatever starts to kick him in the balls.

The first thing that pops into his head to do to make up for it is to offer them a drink from his water bottle. Then, he rummages through their backpack to hand them the first aid kit they kept in there. There’s also this, though:

“You got a jar of flour?”

“Oh, that’s for Beth, I found it at the thother—the other—house.”

Which one is Beth again? Oh, never mind, she’s ‘the teenage girl,’ right, right. “Messin’ up your words a lot today.”

They take a gulp of his water. “Pre-migraine phase, most likely.”

“You should make people sign a waiver when you head out with them,” he jokes. Not his brightest idea. Maybe he said it wrong?

It’s like he turned their power button off. Y/N gave no offended or angry comeback, no eye roll, no chuckle. She just got really still.

The imaginary knee kicks him in the balls again.

He’s back to not knowing what to do but wanting to do something because Y/N was his friend and shit. It pops into his head this time to ask them for the little walkie next so he can radio the camp in her stead, letting the group know that the two of them were fine.

“No Sophia yet,” he has to tell them.

Dale asks if Y/N is okay (“It’s unusual for you to communicate with the walkies, Daryl, that’s usually Y/N’s territory.”)(“I’m peachy, Mr. H! How are Carl and Teddy, both improvin’ still?” she calls, real bubbly about it, too.)

T-Dog and Andrea apparently went out, as did Rick and Y/N’s brother.

He crouches down beside her as Dale told her all this, holding the walkie between them. Y/N thought he was handing it to her and her fingertips brush his.

(“Daryl?”)

Oh, um, yes, yeah, they know it’s getting late, they’re gonna head back when the rains slow enough. (“Dale, can you use the police walkie for Shane and Rick? They’re usin’ that one, right? I’m just worried about them and the flood risk.”) (“They made it back maybe ten minutes ago, I’ll wave your brother over.”)

While they wait, Dale checks about their physical safety.

Yes, they’re safe inside a shelter. No, they aren’t in a flood zone anymore, so Y/N assures Shane when he interrupts Dale and specifically brings that up. Weird how that keeps getting mentioned.

“My shoulder’s doing pretty okay. Stitches good, still intact,” Y/N repeats to her brother. “I think I’m prodromin’, though, how angoying is that?” Not correcting their pronunciation mistake for the first time that day, they even add that awkward laugh people make when they don’t want to sound upset. “Least I got a warning that I’ll be a liability tomorrow or the day after.”

Stress on the “liability” part. Their eyes look wet and they seem sorta pissed. Daryl feels like he got kicked in the balls by the imaginary foot again. He’d implied she was a risk to bring along, hadn’t he?

“How ’bout you help with target practice tomorrow, then?” Shane’s voice crackles to Y/N back over the walkie.

Their face lit up in response. “Sounds good, so long as we can risk the ammo?”

“These people gotta learn how to shoot proper.”

When all was finished, she clicks off the walkie. He stands up from his crouched position and sits down across from her again. Lightning flickers outside.

“Okay?”

Then the thunder rumbles.

“Okay,” they respond, going back and forth from massaging their shoulder, to their neck, to their knee. “While we’re stuck, I think I’m gonna poke around, find me clean shirt. Hopefully find Carol a present.”

“I’ll, um, cook this up,” he says, gesturing to the sopping wet squirrel carcass on his belt. “Lemme show you what I found yesterday, first, though, tell me what you think?”

Wanting to know their opinion was one of the reasons he’d lead them back here.

“Yeah, of course.”

First, he takes them to the trash bin so they can see the can (and he notes her suppressed gag). She frowns and bites her lip.

He doesn’t like that.

Next, he shows her the little makeshift bed in the cupboard.

She frowns and bites her lip again.

He doesn’t like that either.

But yes, it’s still better to have Y/N there even when they start to bring up stuff that he hadn’t thought out. It’s much better, in fact. They’re honest. He’d wanted to know what they thought and they were telling him.

But like, he still gets angry about it, though.

“Mr. Morales taught the kids how to open cans without, but was there a manual can opener in one of the drawers when you checked?” is their first question.

And he thinks that’s a weird question. “Why’s that matter?”

Y/N moves to check the drawers, hesitating before explaining. “This is gonna slound sliy—fuck, ‘sound silly’—but with the other options of canned stuff here, that she’d go for sardines…” They trail off and seem to stifle a groan when they start to massage their neck again. “I get that sardines are in a pull-top can and are quicker, and when you’re ravenous you’ll eat anythin’—”

“Exactly.”

Okay, yes, it’s possible that he grated that back a little strong. And interrupted them. He’s just...this was a lead, had to be. There were no other damned signs of that little girl otherwise.

Not even a damned sign that she’d got killed and eaten, there’s been nothing. Why couldn’t Y/N just agree with him? They’re his friend!

He sees Y/N’s nostril do that twitch thing people do when they’re fixing to get mad but are trying not to.

“Sophia is a child, is all, and she kept things neat, too. And it, it ain’t that she’d be picky, but,” She swallows and sighs, tugging at the hair at the base of her neck. “Children and teenagers generally will avoid stuff like sardines. Hell, I avoid sardines, I ain’t British.” Yep, using humor to lessen the tension, as always.

They close the open cupboard and reach to check another drawer.

And the second drawer they open has a fucking can opener in it.

He hears them make a small curse under their breath before they whisper, “This took me seconds to find, man.”

Then they stare at the damned thing as if the can opener just told them it had terminal cancer. “I...I just imagine she would grab something like, like the can of cranberry sauce that’s right there in the pantry, and then go to the, the, um—” they can’t seem to figure out the word ‘drawer,’ so settle on “to this pully thing to get a fork or spoon, then she would’ve found the can opener.”

“Jesus—you wanna explain away the bed, then, too, Sherlock?” he snaps despite really, really not wanting to. And that’s coming after using that name that way even though he knows Y/N doesn’t like it. ‘It’s shitty to go around usin’ a deity as an expletive’ was something along the lines of how they’d phrased it.

And Y/N is trying not to snap like he did, to her credit. “When somebody’s scared, they sleep curled up, child or grown. And the pantry is on the bottom floor where the temp’s cooler and has a door.” The last part she stresses, still massaging herself. “No, please don’t you go getting mad at me, Daryl. You wanted to know my thoughts, and I ain’t done nothing but said a truthful thing, tell me I didn’t.” A deep breathe. “You’re my friend, you’re worth the honesty, so is Sophia.”

He took a deep breath like he’d seen her do and listens to the torrent of rain spattering on the house. ‘You’re worth the honesty’ threw him off. And how they repeated that they were friends.

Another flash of lightning outside, another thunderclap.

Okay. He understands what Y/N said about the clues. The ‘clues’ could be nothing, could’ve been from any person alone and hungry in this world-turned-to-shit.

The trail could be cold, just like Merle’s had turned cold.

He just doesn’t want to have fucking failed that little girl just like he failed his brother.

But since when was Y/N doubting that Sophia was alive, too? This wasn’t the time for no doubts, all those do are drag you down.

It’s hard enough to not want to give up these days, and that’s without a lost child or her heartbroken mother left alone. Especially when it’s what, not even a month after those two finally got free from that deadbeat shithead Ed?

Fuck, he’d hated that bastard. Who knows what that asshole did to his kid? Bad enough what he was doing to his woman.

So, maybe, as much as he’s trying not to lash out, he doesn’t sound too friendly or patient or like an adult when he throws back at his friend, “Still don’t mean nothin’!”

Instead of getting all angry like he’d just done (I’m sorry, Y/N…), all they say back in reply is, “Wanna grab more food while we’re stuck here, or leave it in case somebody else takes shelter here and needs it?” as they place the can opener on the counter in plain view before limping away.

The only sound becomes the rain outside hammering away at the roof and windows.

He eyes the dumbass can opener, storms over, throws it back into the drawer and kicks it shut.

Pissy little bitch Darylina.

Yeah, he gives himself a minute to cool off. Y/N seems to be doing the same.

Another bolt of lightning flashes outside, following closely by a loud boom of thunder. Storm’s closer now.

“Ah, the painkillers are kickin’ in,” he hears them sigh from their spot near a window.

Lightning flashes again, thunder at just about the same time.

He decides to join Y/N in the living room and stare out the window, too.

“M’sorry I blew up,” he mumbles.

“Friends fight,” comes out of their mouth almost immediately. They sound tired.

“Heard ya say the painkillers are kicking in?”

“Thanks be.”

More thunder. He must’ve missed the lightning.

“Ain’t gonna work out, us heading to the road today, is it?” they ask him, tone soft and defeated.

He just runs his hands through his hair and flops onto the couch. “It’s gonna get dark soon. Out in the dark’s no good, you know that.”

They’re still standing by the window. A bolt of lightning flashes. “Andrea mentioned she and you went out to search in the dark.”

Shit. “Y/N…”

“No leads, then?”

“If there were, we’d have followed ’em.”

“Alright,” she relents with a sigh. After a few moments of quiet, she offers, “I’ll get a fire going, you do your thing with that squirrel there.”

You

I’m so sorry, Sophia. You were so loved. You’re still so loved, I don’t mean to be writing you off as gone so soon, but…I’m so sorry we couldn’t find you in time, baby girl. Please be alive.

Please let her be alive. Let her end have been quick if she’s gone already. Or bring her back!

Or…I don’t know, either way please just help me find Carol a damn present.

Him

Y/N’s been staring into the flames for a while.

The squirrel meat’s cooked, he threw it onto a plate from the kitchen and left it on the coffee table then headed to a window.

He opened it up, stuck his hands out to rinse off, and is now enjoying a cigarette. Small favors this fucking storm is moving further away.

“Rain’s slowin’ down.”

“Yeah,” they hush. He sees as they perk up. “We should oughta go now, then, flash flood risk is—”

—A massive thunderclap interrupts so forcefully that the house shakes.

Oh, damn it, he dropped his smoke on the covered porch outside! Of course he was holding it out the window when a hulking fucker of a thunderclap shook the place.

Can he reach it, maybe? Oh, nah, it fell in a crack that was wet. Well, there goes that.

He quickly looks back at Y/N to find them wide-eyed, tensed-up, and breathing heavy. “That was scary. What do you think Sophia is…” She doesn’t finish her sentence, and turns back to the fire.

He’s thinking the same. How terrified must that kid be right now?

Then there’s that asshole part of himself that is thinking how after this bullshit storm they’re having, the chance of finding that little girl is gonna be that much more difficult and…and unlikely.

Screw that.

“So, remember how I said I got lost when I was a kid? When I found my cat?” he calls over.

After a few sniffs, she responds back, “Your cat Eyes?”

“Yep. So, I was wanderin’ around playing and shit. I didn’t want to be ho—um,” he pauses and pretends he sees something outside. Did he really almost tell her how he didn’t want to be home? More mopey bullshit he almost spilled, what the hell.

And like, come on, it’s nothing, it’s just that things had been pretty shit then. Ma had died and Dad was…who he was. And Merle had been dicking around so he wouldn’t have to be around their old man, which had landed him in juvie again.

Anyway, being away from home felt safer. Hurt less.

None of this Y/N has to know.

He begins to walk back to the fireplace and sees that they haven’t eaten any squirrel meat.

“And yeah, I dunno,” he continues his story, “I ended up goin’ deeper and deeper into the woods by my neighborhood. Got lost.”

“How long ’til you made it back?” Their expression warms slightly when they ask, “And when d’you find Eyes?”

He opens his mouth to tell her.

Closes it.

He just doesn’t want them to get, like, all emotional or whatever. “Don’t, um—it ain’t a big deal, okay?”

Her brows draw closer, just a little. “Maybe it kinda is if you have to tell me that,” she gently counters, her curious smile switching into a cautious sort of look.

Might as well out with it. He’d already basically blurted out how he’d hid under his bed a shit ton as a kid, she’s probably already drawn some kind of conclusion. “I found Eyes on day seven, I think?” Was it day seven or six? Maybe eight?

“How long, you said?” they question, voice casual.

“Was out there nine days by the time I made it back.” He glances over for a second to see their reaction, and to his relief, there isn’t much of one.

You

Tears forgotten and voice as level and as nonchalant as you can crack it, you wonder about the phrasing of that sentence. “By the time you made it back?”

He hums.

Does that mean he was out there and he ran into the search party, or that no search party was sent? He said nine days. Nine!

“Your mama and big brother must have sobbed so hard with relief when you came back in one piece,” you decide to respond, praying you won’t say the wrong thing or react in an unwelcome way or cause him grief.

“Nah, Ma wasn’t around then, she’d died.”

Oh my, it got worse. Oh my. Okay, keep your voice normal, Y/N, you know the drill. “How old were you?”

“It ain’t a big deal,” he repeats instead of telling you.

So, you try humoring him a little. “Ain’t never said it was.”

And it’s probably him compromising when he allows, “I was younger than Sophia is now.”

Okay.

He’s probably feeling very exposed right now, that’s a given. God knows you’ve had the hard blessing of living with and caring for a lot of kids like him; when stuff came up that kids (and grown-ups) from difficult situations didn’t like facing, they’d fight it.

So, because it isn’t anything immediately urgent as it sometimes was with your foster sibs, there’s zero reason for you to encourage, press, or pry at this moment. But because completely changing the topic isn’t the best course of action, either, you try to direct it away from the painful part.

“You mentioned you’re from northern Georgia, right? We talking by Gainesville or far up like Dalton or Clayton?”

“In between, I guess.”

In between those are a whole lot of trees and not too much else. “Ellijay? Helen?”

“You got a map out or somethin’?” he snorts. He appears more comfortable now, which is good.

But shit, nine days lost in the woods? Whoever was meant to be his caregiver dropped the ball so hard it cracked the mother-fucking pavement—ohh, great and here goes you getting all huffy. Good Moses, you can feel your blood pressure going up!

You know, you know, you should be used to this kind of thing, but every time it still hurts to acknowledge that people can abuse or neglect kids. Sometimes, you swear, people don’t care about young humans half as much as they care about dogs.

Daryl could’ve been one of yours just as easily as Sophia could have.

All you want to know is where the fuck was this guy’s dad was—where was Merle, for that matter?—or, you don’t know, an auntie or grandma or whoever was supposed to be taking care of your poor mangy hick and didn’t notice he was gone for over a w—

“—Anyways, I told you that so you’d get it into your head that that little girl could still be fine,” your poor mangy hick’s voice interrupts.

Just a sec, did you just think of him as ‘your’ mangy hick? Twice? That isn’t gonna be your term of endearment for your new friend, right? Sure you’ve had that in your head since the day your group left the quarry, but it’s kinda rude. Plus, he’s not a child, he’s like six and a half years older than you.

Anyway, your curiosity gets the better of you. “What’d you do for food when you were out there?” you ask your poor mangy hick.

“Berries mostly. Wild onion, too,” he grunts back, picking up his food-knife (separate from his walker-knife) and taking a big bite of squirrel meat off it. “I overheard you doin’ a lesson with ’em about edible plants once.” He says this as if it means Sophia would know all the plants off the top of her head now.

More thunder interrupts, and thankfully it doesn’t shake the house like the last one did. And yet, your hope gets washed away with the rain and leaves dread in its place.

“But only one lesson, Daryl,” you begin to panic, efficiently tumbling down into worst-case scenario thoughts as the memory of her crying out in terror that day on the car-packed highway floods your mind. “We only went over poison sumac versus edible, poke versus elderberry, and, um, w-wild carrot versus hemlock.” Calm down, calm down...

His shrug might have come across as rude if he wasn’t staring so intently into your eyes. “Sophia’s smart, said so yourself.” With a shake of the plate, he seems to be encouraging you to eat some of the meat.

“Smart only gets you so far when th-there are dead people who chase and eat us,” you falter, pulse rising.

“Y/N, c’mon, zen,” he says, but not in the way he’s been speaking. The gentleness in it catches you off guard.

Plate put aside, he holds up nine fingers. “Nine days. That was me.” Then he points to himself, then toward the window. “Sophia’s on day three. She’s got the creek as her landmark and water source, and there are plenty of farmhouses she could be crashing in. Don’t go gettin’ your panties in a bunch just yet.”

As well-intentioned as the first half might have been, that last part gets you snapping, “Bitch, don’t patronize me or my panties,” as tears (not now, idiot!) pool in your eyes and threaten to slip down. Feeling weak and stupid and useless and helpless, you promptly turn your head and tuck your lips in, determined to cry too obviously and give credence to Daryl’s (*cough* sexist) choice of phrase.

His apology comes out annoyed, but one comes out nonetheless. Plus, he follows it up with, “I didn’t mean it like that…”

Then another rude-ass, mother-fucking, loudmouth thunderclap booms through the air and all you can do is whimper, “Oh, baby girl, I’m so sorry,” as you close your eyes and pray (scream inwardly) again and sink onto the couch.

Him

Y/N is quick to apologize for calling him ‘bitch,’ as if it were a big deal.

“I’m sorry, you don’t like being called that especially and here I go sayin’ it. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t sweat it, we all say shit we don’t mean.”

He takes another bite of squirrel, thinking how he’s gonna have to pilfer around for some hot sauce to help choke stuff like this down. After another two bites, he tosses the rest back onto the plate and sits down on the opposite end of the couch where Y/N is. He doesn’t want to make her uncomfortable. More uncomfortable, that is.

The rain sounds like it’s slowing down.

There’s still a stack of magazines from when she got the fire going. He grabs one, rips out a page. Crumples it. Pelts it into the fire.

Rips another. Crumples it. Pelts it into the fire.

Rips a third. Crumples it. Looks at Y/N. Nods his head toward the magazine.

Glancing back, they mutter, “That’s a good idea.”

He puts the magazine on the middle cushion between him and them before pelting his third paper ball as hard as he—fuck, it hits the glass fireplace door and lands on the floor.

It’s Y/N’s usual delicate teasing when they hint, “That’s how I felt when you chucked that rubber band ball too hard and I didn’t catch it.”

That happened back at the CDC. Fucking cosmic-level crazy day. And that black lady, uh, Jacqui, right? She was decent. Liked root beer as much as he does, so he found out while there. Too bad she chose to check out with that scientist bastard.

More thunder outside brings him back to the present. Based on the sounds of it, the storm’s finally moved its ass away.

Y/N’s attempt at tossing their paper ball ticks the bottom grate first but still flops into the fire.

He rounds up a fourth ball of his own, throws it—hell yes—and sends it straight into the flames.

“Ow,” Y/N hisses, dropping her second one. “Tried to throw with my bum arm.”

He figures he’ll do some teasing of his own. “Idiot.”

As expected, they bug him back. “Mangy hick,” they snark, and lightly toss the paper ball at his head.

He’s about to inquire why that, um…kinda weird nickname instead of ‘bitch,’ but she speaks up.

“Daryl?”

When they don’t say anything for several seconds, he looks over. Their chest is rising and falling slowly and controlled. Then he realizes he’s staring at their chest and turns away.

“We tell Carol we found somethin’, yes or no?” she finally speaks. “I don’t think we should, but do you think she'll need that?”

“Nah, we ain’t lying to her.”

“W-we can tell her about the old couple’s house.”

“We can.”

“And we can find her a present.”

A gift? Trying not to sound like a dick, he wonders, “What the hell kinda present?”

“I dunno, dude, I’ll look around.” Y/N massages their temple for a moment. “She likes modern art,” they trail off.

“So ya wanna bring her back a painting or some shit?”

She shrugs her good shoulder and closes her eyes. “Daryl, what sorts of signs might could there still be tomorrow of our girl?”

His answer is coming out before they’re even done asking. “Plenty. The wet ground will help us see way better, if she’s out in it leaving tracks. Just don’t—” What is he trying to say? “Don’t write her off just yet is all I’m askin’. From you of all people,” he adds, really not liking how…naked he felt in saying that.

Partway through making another paper ball, the crinkling noise slowly stops as Y/N pauses. She licks her lips, then tells him “It’s not me writing her off. That ain’t never gonna happen, she’s just a child. And I love her, it’s j-just me tryin’ not to be blind about her situation. It’s been seventy-two hours, man.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

He feels her turn to look at him for a moment. When he starts to return her gaze, she’s already standing up. Her voice comes out low and rough. “Stats say we’re most likely gonna find a body now.”

Um…wasn’t expecting that. How is he supposed to react? And who cares about some statistics bullshit?

Luckily, another damn thunderclap interrupts and helps him take a figurative step back before he gets pissed again.

So, he knows, alright?

These past three days, he’s known how slim it’s been getting. He isn’t stupid.

But it still doesn’t mean the worst. There are plenty of places for her to hole up and keep safe, fed.

Sophia’s surprisingly good at throwing punches, too, from what that little lesson Y/N was giving the kids that time showed. That means she can defend herself, at least somewhat.

Well, Y/N’s gotten up and is searching this dump to find useful stuff. And a present for Carol, for what good that’ll do.

Well, he’s gonna take this as another opportunity to have a smoke. And not drop it out a window this time.

You

A jug of cooking oil and a jug of bleach. Neither are for Carol, but both will benefit your group and the Greenes (and whatever Patricia and Jimmy’s last name is).

You think you took too many ibuprofen, your ears are ringing and you’re feeling kinda nauseated. Another idiotic thing you did, overdoing it on pain management so you could pretend you weren’t the liability you are for going out.

It was hard enough getting the fresh shirt on without resorting to asking Daryl to help pull it off (hell no), but you managed to get a clean, unstained one on yourself along with a pair of all-cotton jeans, one size too small but the cotton will loosen up, right?

“Ain’t that top kinda warm?”

“It’s comfy. Don’t you go snippin’ the sneeves—sleeves—off my new button down, hear?” you try to joke, eyeing his own cut-off shirt. Every sleeved shirt that man had had with him he ended up ripping the sleeves off. It was one of the first thing you and Amy noticed. She did enjoy peeking at his arms.

“You good?”

“I’m good. You good? You look tired.”

“Same to you. Ready to head back?” he puts to you, already shouldering his crossbow and—oh, shouldering your backpack as well. He also grabs the jug of cooking oil.

Okay, Carol really called it. There is a good man hiding underneath all that anger.

Him

“Yeah, the flood risk only gets higher the longer we wait,” they reply under their breath, dark circles under their eyes more noticeable in the light. She notices her bookbag on his shoulder but doesn’t protest. Then she picks up the gallon of bleach with her uninjured side and follows him on his way out the door.

“What’s with y’all and flash floods, anyways?” he’s curious to know.

Their brows go up just a little as they heft the jug, but their response nearly causes him to drop the one he’s holding. “Dad drowned in one.”

Shit, they serious?

They sound almost amused. “Oh, Dary-bear, are you freezin’ up? Relax, you’re fine. People die.”

“My bad,” is the only response that comes into his head.

“Make it up to me by lettin’ me carry my backpack?

He doesn’t think that’s a good…fine, he gives it back—but he takes the jug of bleach from their hand first. He just doesn’t want her to hurt too bad later. He can carry the cooking oil and the bleach, she can be the spotter, and he’ll just drop a jug if he has to aim his crossbow. Easy. “How old were ya when that happened? To your dad?”

With a pointed glance, she repeats the same reply he gave her earlier. “Younger than Sophia is now.” She adjusts the bookbag. “Maybe we can both share when we have that beer at some point.”

You

The skies are darkening and the birds are starting to leave their nests to get worms since the rain has finally slowed to a light drizzle. The air smells nice.

Dead tired, you’re already ready to ask for a break and you two only have a quarter of a mile from the farm, so Daryl estimates.

You two pass a big cinder-brick farmhouse-looking thing. He already checked the inside yesterday (“It’s stripped bare, Y/N.”), but the two of you pop in for one final sweep. ‘Stripped bare’ is the perfect description for it. After maybe five minutes of calling Sophia’s name and looking under and inside possible hiding places, it’s time to leave.

You trudge outside. And as you’re daydreaming about leaning against that tree while you try to wrangle enough willpower to make the walk back, he checks out of the blue, “Hey, you find that present for Carol like you were after?”

“Other than the red shirt from the highway and an unopened box of peach tea, no. Why?”

He’s staring at something. “She like flowers?”

“Very much.” She’d had the kids pick wildflowers more than a few times back at the quarry. And that Daryl is offering is something.

He bends down toward a scraggly wild shrub and picks—oh, it’s one of those? Those are the official state flower. They smell kinda like Christmastime.

“Ready to head back?” Daryl asks, holding just the single bloom.

“I guess.” You nod at the flower, intrigued and a little confused. “Why only the one? There are two.”

“I think it’s a sign,” he says quietly without looking at you. His gaze is fixed on the flower.

Your gaze is fixed on him. It’s—it’s weird to think, but you don’t want to look away. He whole appearance is unlike his usual self—he seems shy. He looks gentle. “What do you mean?”

“You know the story behind the Cherokee Roses, right?”

Of course, you were Georgia born and raised just like he was. “Yeah, that the, um, the Cherokee prayed for a sign of hope for the future, and those sprung up wherever they cried for their lost ones.”

“On the Trail of Tears,” he reminds you, still staring at the petals and delicately running his finger along the tips of them as if lost in thought. “All those people were dyin’, the kids especially. After the elders prayed for that sign to keep hope, every time a mother’s tears touched the ground for her children, one of these bloomed.” And it’s almost too soft the way he mumbles to himself “These bloomed for Sophia,” that you nearly didn’t hear it.

Your stomach does a flip. Your cheeks get all warm. You’re just about ready to start crying again, to be honest. Also, you get slightly turned on for a sec, but that’s neither here nor there—and you pay no mind. You’re overtired.

Carol called it. There’s a very good man hiding under all that anger.

“Y/N, you good?”

“I-I’m great, um—tell Carol that story when you give it to her. Okay? Daryl, it’s perfect.”

The flower in his shirt pocket, he doesn’t reply, he just picks up the jugs again and makes a half-grunt while inclining his head toward the farm.

“It’s perfect,” you repeat, but still are given no semblance of a reply as you both continue walking the final stretch back. You get the urge to bug him. “Since when do you get shy, mangy hick?”

The trudge back grows quiet.  

Him

They hadn’t called him ‘mangy hick’ in a while. He even kinda liked it. It didn’t sound like an insult when they said it, probably because it wasn’t. If Y/N was mad at somebody, their mouth would run, sure, but without fail they would then apologize for that shit and mean it.

“We’re almost back,” he lets them know.

“Good. Because really, man, what you told me about that flower will mean a lot, like, a whole lot to Carol. She needs that right now.”

He doesn’t know how to respond to this. It’s a flower, big deal. “Yeah.”

“How is it that you,” she sighs, “got to save the day two days ago, now you’re savin’ the day again?”

Not this again. I remembered leftover pills two days ago, Y/N, and today I picked a flower. How are you gonna swing this as meaning anything? “Pickin’ a flower is saving the day?”

She doesn’t even hesitate. “Today, for that woman, might could be.”

The two of them finally make it to one of the farm’s fields.

He doesn’t get it. “Tracking down her daughter might could’ve been better.”

A slight huff. “We’re working with what we got, Daryl, take the compliment. Carol needs comfort. Life’s beaten her down enough,” she mutters under her breath. Then she speaks clearly and almost as if she’s scolding him. “And now life has taken her daughter, at least for a few days. Carol needs comfort right now, and you found somethin’ deep and real to comfort her with.”

Before he can grumble or make any kind of lame reply such as “Picking a goddamn flower ain’t saving nobody,” a figure in the distance shows up from around a hay pile. He drops the jug of cooking oil and aims his crossbow within a second.

Oh, it’s just T-Dog. Does he look happy, did they bring back Sophia? He turns his head toward Y/N, who looks back at him and shares that same hopeful expression for just a moment until she waves and appears to be about to shout over to him. But she hesitates.

“You realize Carol ain’t gonna hate you that we didn’t find her girl yet? The one she—well, the person she hates right now, it’s herself. That’s why we need to remind her we don’t agree, okay? Especially comin’ from somebody as,” a slight pause, “as independent as you. That’s why you have to do it.”

There’s no time to process this idea or grate back anything he’d probably regret and kick himself in the balls for before Y/N finally does shout, “Teddy! I hope you and Andrea made it back before that free shower from Mother Nature!”

“It washed off the sweat, I’ll give it that.” T-Dog calls back, his voice sounding…disappointed. “Y’all find any leads?”

That answers why he sounds disappointed. No Sophia. Again. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, son-of-a-bitch, fuck!

“There weren’t signs of her back at the little shelter y’all made at the highway, either?” Y/N falters.

“We’ve got a new road to check out tomorrow,” Daryl cuts in, and states it loudly and as confidently as he can scrape up for both Y/N and T-Dog. “I don’t think that area was checked yet, right?” he adds with a toss of his head toward the east.

“Nah, Andrea and me did a sweep of the woods in that direction,” T-Dog gestures to the far end of the farm, then to another. “Shane and Rick searched that way. And y’all did that direction.”

“They find any signs?” he presses, knowing he sounds desperate.

T-Dog shakes his head.

After this, he reaches his hand down for one of the jugs Daryl is holding. Daryl hands it over without a word and without looking at him. He’s only finally let himself believe that Y/N was actually his friend, he isn’t gonna start assuming everybody will want to. That he thought T-Dog was a decent dude didn’t mean it was mutual.

“Teddy, how’s my Carl?” Y/N checks sadly.

“Still doing great. Little man’s itching to get out of bed already.”

“He ask about Sophia all day?”

“His parents told him.”

She coughs. “What? How did, h-how did he take it?”

“Good. He took it real good.”

“I gotta go see him—wait, I forgot to ask about you! You gonden dinzy—ahem, gotten dizzy spells at all? Are your stitches still clean and—ohh, how’s your stomach, those antibiotics can wreck—”

“—Okay, we good, slow down. To answer, my arm’s fine, and Glenn gave me the probiotics you put on the drug store list.”

“Glenn got back okay? Margaret, too?”

“Both good as far as I know. But to be honest about my stomach, yeah, it only been a day and a half on them antibiotics and that shit’s messed up,” he cracks to try and break the tension.

“Literally, huh?” she deadpans back at him, causing him to make a genuine laugh. Daryl gets the feeling he should smile or something, but he feels too out of place as T-Dog and Y/N have their conversation.

“Hey, Lori was looking for you, Y/N. Glenn, too.”

“Okay, I’ll go find them after checkin’ on my Carl. Oh, and I’ll try to find a vase for you, okay, Daryl?” she adds, taking off at a faster pace that Daryl didn’t realized she still had in her.

T-Dog slows down and nudges his arm, then nods over at Y/N. “They okay? No sling on today.”

“They overdid it.”

“You both look bone-tired.” He chuckles. “I’m guessing they was the one who wanted to bring these back with y’all, right?” he guesses, holding up the jug and grinning.

“Mmhm.”

“Was that flower you got there what she meant about the ‘vase?’ Not many Cherokee Roses this time of year. That’s what that is, right?”

“Ain’t nothin’,” comes out of his mouth before he can rethink it and not act like some asshole white-trash redneck.

T-Dog slows for a second, then rolls his eyes and shrugs. “A’ight, brother, I’ll leave you to it.” He maintains his distance from Daryl after that and walks along at his own faster pace.

No wonder no one fucking wants you around or is gonna. And throw out the damned flower, who the hell will care? You failed again at doing the only thing you’re supposed to be good at.

And he almost does throw the damn thing out. But…Y/N would be upset, for one.  But more than that, the thing she said about it being something Carol needed right now? That much is plain, the poor woman does need some kind of something to keep her going.

And those two flowers, they fucking did bloom for Sophia. Two single blooms, one for every night she’d been missing and her mother cried for her. There’ll be one more in it’s place tomorrow, try and tell him there won’t be.

When he sees Y/N across the field slow to a stop and lean over to catch her breath and forgets about the goddamn flower-drama in his head.

Y/N thought it was obvious. Carol needed a present, something to give her comfort. In their opinion, Daryl finding that flower was “perfect” for Carol, and was “saving the day again.” They said it without a lick of sarcasm, too. Then, when he turned into pissy Darylina and tossed it back in her face anyway and told her she was wrong, she didn’t even blink.

“Today, for that woman, it might could be,” she told him. “Life’s beaten her down enough, and now life has taken her daughter.” Then came the part where she seemed disappointed in him. The imaginary knee kicked his balls again. “Carol needs comfort right now, and you found somethin’ deep and real to comfort her with.”

He can’t chicken out. That woman—Carol—if there’s a chance she’ll get some kinda comfort out of this, it’s worth him feeling stupid and unwelcome or blamed.

Hot damn. What would Merle say if he could stare into his thoughts and read this shit, right?

You

You’d meant to go to Carl, but Maggie found you first. Wanted to talk.

You wish you’d waited to talk to her until after seeing Carl. And Lori and Glenn, or maybe after a good night’s sleep, like, what the fuck, Glenn? Never mind whatever was going on in Margaret’s mind, but as for Glenn: did he even think before getting himself into this?

Shoot—the pun wasn’t intended, it wasn’t, but really! What the hell were they thinking?

Maggie and Glenn had sex?

__________________________________

Taglist (inbox is open if you want in)

@spenciepoo338​

#twd #the walking dead #reader insert #the walking dead fanfiction #twd fanfiction #sorry for the delay #again #one might say I was a #SLOWPOKE #ba dum chee #reader insert fanfiction #daryl dixon #daryl dixon fanfiction #twd daryl #Daryl twd #daryl dixon x reader #Daryl Dixon x You #daryl dixon x y/n #canon compliant #slow burn #idiots to friends to lovers #eventually lol #Carol Peletier #carol pelletier #the Slowpoke series #T-Dog #theodore douglas #Shane Walsh #Dale Horvath #Papa Dale

[nightsidewrestling]

D.U.D.E Bios: Gardenia Lum

Tristan’s Beautiful Flower Maiden Gardenia Lum (2020)

The wife of Tristan and daughter-in-law of Damian and Nicole, Gardenia. Flowery and beautiful but reserved the majority of the time, she tries to keep out of family drama.

“Best not to worry ourselves over nothing.”

Name

Full Legal Name: Gardenia Autumn Lum (Née Day)

First Name: Gardenia

Meaning: From the name of the tropical flower, which was named for the Scottish naturalist Alexander Garden.

Pronunciation: gahr-DEEN-ee-a

Origin: English

Middle Name: Autumn

Meaning: From the name of the season, ultimately from Latin ‘Autumnus’.

Pronunciation: AW-tem

Origin: English

Surname: Lum (Née Day)

Meaning: Lum: From Old English ‘Lum’ meaning ‘Pool’. (Day: From a diminutive form of David.)

Pronunciation: LUH-mb (DAY)

Origin: English (English)

Alias: None

Reason: N/A

Nicknames: Nia

Titles: Mrs

Characteristics

Age: 33

Gender: Female. She/Her Pronouns

Race: Human

Nationality: British

Ethnicity: White

Birth Date: March 30th 1987

Symbols: N/A

Sexuality: Straight

Religion: Christian

Native Language: English

Spoken Languages: English, French

Relationship Status: Married

Astrological Sign: Aries

Theme Song (Ringtone on Damian & Vi’s Phones): Damian: ‘Girl All the Bad Guys Want’ - Bowling For Soup. Vi: ‘Call Me When You’re Sober’ - Evanescence

Voice Actor: Miranda Hart

Geographical Characteristics

Birthplace: Bodmin, Cornwall, England

Current Location: Bodmin, Cornwall, England

Hometown: Bodmin, Cornwall, England

Appearance

Height: 5’2” / 157 cm

Weight: 115 lbs / 52 kg

Eye Colour: Brown

Hair Colour: Black

Hair Dye: None

Body Hair: N/A

Facial Hair: N/A

Tattoos: (As of Jan 2020) None

Piercings: Ear Lobe (Both)

Scars: None

Health and Fitness

Allergies: None

Alcoholic, Smoker, Drug User: Social Drinker

Illnesses/Disorders: None

Medications: None

Any Specific Diet: None

Relationships

Allies: N/A

Enemies: N/A

Friends: Vanessa Rhydderch, Eithne O’Hannagan, Tydfil McFarland, Gwen McCracken, Branwen McCracken, Gethsemane Rhydderch, Ginger Rhydderch

Colleagues: N/A

Rivals: None

Closest Confidant: Tristan Lum

Mentor: Graham Day

Significant Other: Tristan Lum (32, Husband)

Previous Partners: None of Note

Parents: Graham Day (53, Father), Grace Day (54, Mother, Née Joyce)

Parents-In-Law: Damian Lum (61, Father-In-Law), Nicole Lum (56, Mother-In-Law, Née Yap)

Siblings: None

Siblings-In-Law: Viola Nye (41, Tristan's Half-Sister), Quentin Nye (42, Viola's Husband), Ulysses May (38, Tristan's Half-Brother), Kestrel May (39, Ulysses' Wife, Née Coy), Wanda Ott (35, Tristan's Sister), Heath Ott (36, Wanda's Husband), Xavia Lum (29, Tristan's Sister), Sullivan Lum (26, Tristan's Brother), Yasmine Lum (23, Tristan's Sister), Roger Lum (20, Tristan's Brother), Zella Lum (17, Tristan's Sister)

Nieces & Nephews: Adam Nye (21, Nephew), Paulette Nye (18, Niece), Benjamin Nye (15, Nephew), Olivia Nye (12, Niece), Charles Nye (9, Nephew), Earl May (18, Nephew), Jane May (15, Nephew), Flint May (15, Nephew), Imogen May (9, Niece), Magnolia Ott (15, Niece), Laurence Ott (12, Nephew), Naomi Ott (9, Niece)

Children: Daisy Lum (12, Daughter), Vance Lum (9, Son)

Children-In-Law: None

Grandkids: None

Great Grandkids: None

Wrestling

Billed From: N/A

Trainer: N/A

Managers: N/A

Wrestlers Managed: N/A

Debut: N/A

Debut Match: N/A

Retired: N/A

Retirement Match: N/A

Wrestling Style: N/A

Stables: N/A

Teams: N/A

Regular Moves: N/A

Finishers: N/A

Refers To Fans As: N/A

Finishers: N/A

Refers To Fans As: N/A

Extras

Backstory: Gardenia grew up fascinated with botany, eventually becoming a florist. She met Tristan during college and has been with him ever since.

Trivia: Nothing of Note

#D.U.D.E #original character #Lum #Day #Family. Not a Wrestler

[diabolikpersonals]

i saw you liked my post nat can you PLEASE tell me what shu and yuma's love languages are

[here] is the post in question!

I have my strengths and weaknesses here, because I know a lot about shuuma but I don't really know a lot about love languages :'D for the most part I agreed with you, so I encourage anyone who's curious about this topic to check out ur post! but I'm wondering about the distinction of, like, how someone shows love vs how someone wants to receive love.

for shu I think I can confidently say that he's all about quality time, through and through. I think you got it exactly right.

for yuma I'm less sure his "giving vs receiving" love language is the same! I think it's very clear that the way he SHOWS love is by giving gifts, particularly food in his case. it definitely makes sense given his backstory: if you love someone, you want to feed them, just like how lucks put himself at risk just to feed him and the rest of the boys.

but he never really expects anything back, does he? when I think about the things yuma wants or expects from his loved ones, I think about how he's always getting others to help him in the garden, or like that one story where yui ties his hair up for him...I'm wondering if it can be considered acts of service or quality time. considering most of the scenes I can think of involve helping him with a physical activity like gardening, I'm more inclined to call his "receiving" love language acts of service.

so to put this in a shuuma context, let's look at lost eden, my fav game to talk about! :)

what does yuma want from shu in lost eden? he wants shu to save eden, because it's an important place to yuma. when shu seems unwilling to take his job as vampire king seriously, yuma gets really upset. he's always been the most irritated with shu when he's avoiding his responsibilities, and more often than not those "responsibilities" concern yuma: shu should've helped yuma get his memory back in MB, but he refused at first. he should've helped save eden, yuma's childhood home, but he refused at first. things only get better between them when shu can overcome his fears and do those things for yuma.

to point to one example, there's a particular scene in yuma's LE route where shu decides to start taking responsibility, and he does this by helping the flowers in eden bloom using his magic. I thought that was very sweet. he couldn't solve the whole eden problem yet but at least he could help out with the garden. it's the perfect "act of service" for yuma in this situation :')

there are scenes where yuma tells shu "I'm counting on you" very sincerely. and you might be thinking, "if yuma wants acts of service then that's a shame because shu is terrible at those." but the great thing is, in yuma's LE route, shu really is doing everything he can specifically for yuma! like there's a scene where azusa asks him if he's ready to take responsibility as vampire king, and shu's like "not really, it's more like my responsibility to one particular person." (YUMA IT'S YUMA if that wasnt clear)

and in games like CL, we get yuma saying stuff like "I know you care" and "you're the kind of guy who can do it if he tries." I think that's a really good sign. despite everything, yuma has a high opinion of him and thinks of him as a reliable person.

so as for whether they conflict in their needs or not: quality time is no problem at all. for acts of service, yeah, but once shu gets a push, he's totally capable. even yuma knows that ^^

#text #shuuma

[ao3feed-matchablossom]

beyond the storm

by stars_and_candles

Kojiro and Kaoru have spent years knowing each other, and yet somehow both managed to be completely oblivious to the other's feelings. Both of them decide they want to confess on a rainy night.

Written for the Haruiro MB FlashBang, with art by ksa!

Words: 4951, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: SK8 the Infinity (Anime)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Nanjo Kojiro | Joe, Sakurayashiki Kaoru | Cherry Blossom

Relationships: Nanjo Kojiro | Joe/Sakurayashiki Kaoru | Cherry Blossom

Additional Tags: Getting Together, Love Confessions, Flowers, Rain, Mutual Pining

source https://archiveofourown.org/works/45643885

#IFTTT #fanfic #ao3feed #matcha blossom #ao3feed-matchablossom #sk8 the infinity #sk8 joe #sk8 cherry

[ebouks]

Faded Flowers by Marjorie Khous

Faded Flowers by Marjorie Khous

Faded Flowers Marjorie Khous Categories: Year: 2022 Publisher: Black Ink Language: French ISBN 10: 2379933286 ISBN 13: 9782379933288 File: 2.20 MB

View On WordPress

[winportables]

Laser Photo Wizard Professional Portable is a powerful software for creating images ready for laser photographic engraving. The system offers extensive controls for converting photos to grayscale black and white images. You can then use one of the three effects to create pure black and white laser images. Laser Photo Wizard Professional Portable is designed for anyone who wants to create high-quality laser-ready images. The Pro version has all the full system features including 3 conversion systems, overlays and plain text, but adds the editor, the special effects and the long text. and image control. Fun for your family: Put your pictures on wood or stone. Create Plaques - Take your favorite Bible verse or saying and combine it with a picture to create plaques to give away or sell. Another way to display your photography: Today, everyone has a cell phone camera, so it is difficult to impress people with just one photo. Laser engrave that photo and suddenly you have a unique offer Enhance Woodworking Projects - Add a flower strip or pattern to the edge of your next wooden box Release year: 2021 Version: Professional 9.6 System: Windows® 7/8 / 8.1 / 10 Interface language: English File size: 27.07 MB Format: Rar Execute as an administrator: There's no need

[themindful69]

Bein Sports IPTV M3U GITHUB PLAYLIST UPDATED - gists GitHub

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Bein Sports IPTV M3U GITHUB 2022

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