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hauntedelation · 3 years

Text

Looks Like Rain

Description: Chas tried his hardest to stop everything in the wake of you leaving. He was on a trip, but decided to take another after failing to qualm the pestering images in his mind.

Pairing: Gender Neutral Black Reader x Chas Reader

A/N: I really wasn’t sure where I pulled this from. I listened to a few songs that brought up a few feelings. And then I considered Chas for a little bit, he’s not seen much in this fandom but the young lad deserved some attention. This might be one of my sadder stories that I have written. (It also might not make any sense and I apologize for that lol)

Word Count: 5.4k

Warnings: heavy drug use, smut descriptions (18+!), depressive symptoms, puzzling ending, heartache, confusing feelings, angst, Chas wants to do whatever he feels is the right thing.

Errors weren’t intended, please enjoy y’all!

➽─────────────❥

His thumb pad swiped against his index and middle finger, a little residue was still left over. The specks were embedded in just about any space they could reach; the fabric of his trousers, shirt, and now the microscopic grooves in his skin.

He rubbed and he rubbed. The particles melted away, leaving nothing for the nerves to pick up. Which bled deeper, farther than the nerves, down to the bone.

Then there was the tapping, like a curious thump that you would hear in the dead of night only more rhythmic.

Into the aging cushion below, his hands sank.

The fabric was as lush as can be and would put a hefty dent in anyone's wallet, but it was collecting stains. Dismissed and expendable.

There’s that wondrous breeze slipping through the opened window, sweeping the curtains up and about, untethered from gravity. Evidently untethered from anything and they simply fly for a few moments.

The air was humid, stimulating on his damp forehead.

Chas can smell the night; the smoke and the concrete, the gas from the cars whirring past down below. He wonders about the other odors, those only emerging when the sun disappears, those that signal for the aberrant to come out and run around.

He was close to forgetting the stinging in his nose, the thick liquid dripping over his lips and down his chin.

Dotting his collared shirt, staining the couch.

He licks and he ingests some of the copper. It slides along his tongue, blends with his saliva, and he swallows. It’s familiar, reminds him of being in grade school when he would lose a tooth.

Except, he’s never really enjoyed that flavor. It was the tang that was carnal, rather grisly. His head falls back and he sniffs, using his white sleeve to smear it all away. It didn't matter that much if he missed a spot, everyone in the vicinity was stuck in their heads.

He can hardly breathe through one of his nostrils but he starts to feel—

Seven, eight, nine, maybe ten minutes.

That thumping is back again and it smites like some sort of nitro, white-hot voltage permeating his veins. His jugular throbbed, pushing against the skin of his throat. Then he could feel it right against his skull, picking up by the second.

This was always the moment that you felt most alive. Didn't people say that? Your body works diligently to keep you breathing, to keep you moving forward. You feel the most alive when your heart thuds against your ribs.

Though soon enough, he's not feeling much, nothing in his nose or along the back of his throat. There is some tingling from the bottom of his feet to that sensitive spot near his ears, but it always disintegrates.

It's so close, virtually there—perhaps he's reached it this time.

He wants to spring up off that couch, out the front door to run wild in the obscurity. He wants to do so much He knows that he can, just gotta decide on what. His father's voice comes to him, ‘the world is your oyster, son.’

Indeed it is, but Chas is afraid that those options his father had in mind were far more skewed.

Then he falls in his mind, he's strolling through the halls and inspecting those neurons zooming by faster than the speed he can blink. He sifts through those ideas, tosses away the unappealing. Chas sits and reflects.

He gnaws at a hangnail, and he ponders:

‘What about grabbing those keys off the counter?’ Just a little fresh air, feel the wind on your face and push through your hair.

For the life of him, he can't recall if he's ever taken a drive like that. ‘Have you?’

This is what he asked himself: 'You know where you drive so fast that everything is just a blur? All the colors look like streaks then.

He examines his desire, weighing his options. It's been a long time since he's left that stuffy apartment. No one would be able to stop him, really.

‘Chas, consider how much it would wake you. You might feel even better.’

Through the badly marred reflection of the glass table, he sees the red smudged on his chin and lips, drying slowly and flaking. He sees his grease-tinged hair, no longer in that neat part that he always styled it in.

There's more crimson, like tree roots through the whites of his eyes. There is more contrast with his irises yet they're just about covered with black. They sting every time he closes them.

Chas understands that it's been days since he's laid his head down and slept, been around the same time from him eating last. It was that cycle. He never felt hungry, so he didn’t eat. He didn't feel tired, a few nights without sleep would be fine. He's done this many times back home, in the pristine walls of Bredgar Hall.

It was the warmest time of the year, the moon was out and lazily so. Chas could see it was radiating now and again.

Next to that ray of light, the kitchen stove read 3:36 a.m. He could hear the vague snores of the people in his bed, each of the unknown, pretty, and contrived.

He thinks back to earlier that day. A sea of limbs, each moving with each other. Lips and tongue tasting his skin, teeth sinking in to leave marks. He remembers being in the center, wishing that everything was done harder. As if he needed the rough and the grating for it to resonate, to get his body to respond.

(It’s not like he needed to take a couple tablets to help him get ready.)

He would lay back and watch that orange light at the top of the camera-stand blink, the aperture capturing every movement, every sound. He would be adorned in those men and women, all taken in the flesh of each other—of him.

But Chas would retain that vision like he was standing a thousand miles away. He was never there even after leaving an indent in the sheets.

Time moved faster than he could comprehend now. Several months had to pass by, but he never found himself pulling away. This was what he wanted, wasn't it?

The boy doesn't know what he wants.

He can't feel a thing. Nothing inside his body nor the outside. He spoke with those faceless people, side-eyeing him in his expensive shoes, the creases of his suit jackets. Chas had wishes burning through his eyes and stacks of cash ready at the willing. He thought he was doing it right.

They had to have noticed it. The look of a young man desperately clawing for the keys to warp reality, to forget that...Chas craved this, far more than any breath entering his lungs.

And right here his mind is tormenting. Without a hand grasping at control, he'd begun to see a face in everything, one that was pivotal.

They weren't everyday features. No, nothing that he would see ever again.

Something to your likeliness would materialize in the darkness of the bedroom, your lips and your cheekbones, your voice ringing through a group of people.

He would blink, but no longer would you be there. So he tried his best to keep his eyes open, to focus his hearing. After each disappearance, there was him reaching out with those fingers, trying to feel for himself.

Feedback?

Nothing, you weren't there anymore, just a void remaining. It was that sensation of static on his fingers in that blank spot. There was a rational explanation for it.

So none of it happened.

➽─────────────❥

“I dreamt of you.”

You were still in that position where your head leaned against the white beams of the balcony railing. Your back was supported as well, and your legs stretched out in front of you. Your lap was reserved as a spot for his head to lay.

Your fingertips had begun to trace the line of your lower lip. Absentminded, it was a habit he noticed you perform while amid a thought or two. You had your eyes aimed upward, drifting over the black and swirling sky.

From his place in your lap, he was able to watch the clouds too—only that, the storm brewing above was not the true motive of his attention.

Something began to tug at the corner of your lips.

"Did you?”

You turned your head down to him, peeking through the strands of your lashes. He felt your fingers slip through his hair, stroking against the sensitive spot behind the shell of his ear. He'd twitched a little in response, though he wasn't intending to run from you.

Chas scratched at his ribs and attempted to nod, his head hardly moving against you, all before gathering the memories of that night.

"Yeah, but of course I was in it too."

It took a moment, but you didn't say anymore, you didn't rush him. Chas waited after a low roll of thunder, explicating,

“You and I were sitting in an overgrown field, there was grass but some yellow and orange flowers around us. We couldn't have been older than five. The sky was clear and bluer than I had ever seen it. You were located right next to me, sitting cross-legged in the dirt. I was too, only I was cradling my right arm. It was covered in a hard, green cast. It looked fresh like I just had it put on."

"How did you know it was me sitting next to you?"

You let out this light, airy laugh, and it stirred quite the mess inside of his stomach. Chas' eyes widened, not helping the inhibited expression on his face.

"Uhm–"

He'd forgotten that he never saw what you looked like as a child. He racked his brain,

"I could tell because of the way that your face was shaped, your eye color, and your nose. You didn't appear too different than what you look like now, only smaller."

You pinched his earlobe in jest.

"You were wearing jean overalls that had grass stains on them, I think I was wearing something similar. We were chattering happily but I remember feeling sorry for myself. I couldn't do much without my right arm. You appeared quiet, drawing shapes in the dirt. I didn't understand why until you whispered: 'I'm sorry for chasing you with a frog. I didn't mean for you to fall down.'"

Chas’ fingers twisted around a loose string in the blanket, he paused to gaze at his fidgeting.

"I told you that it was okay and that my parents were only concerned about me. I took the blame for getting hurt and you sniffled, wiping away a few tears. After a little bit, you scooted closer and asked me if it hurt. Your finger dragged along the rough surface of the cast, and I shook my head. 'It only hurts if I bump the cast on something.' So you stopped and looked up at me."

Your fingers began to slow in his hair. Chas paused once again, and he gaped up at you, reflecting. You were inquisitive but the rest of you was unreadable. He could feel that he held all the interest you could give, not missing a word.

Chas waited...for what? He wanted to finish.

"We decided that we couldn't play like we normally did. You were trying to find fun things to do that wouldn't get me hurt again. We had trouble finding one—until a lightbulb went off: I had a black marker stashed in my pocket. I took it out and asked if you would like to draw on my cast."

"You were...absolutely ecstatic to have been the first person to write on it. You brought yourself real close to me, so close that your hair brushed against my cheek. You took the marker in your fingers and began to write on my arm. It took a long time, but when you pulled away to let me read it, it said: 'This is a magic cast that will make everything you're scared of go away.'"

"Even though you scribbled it messily, I could discern what you wrote. I didn't know what to say to you, I just smiled, thinking about all the frogs outside vanishing to somewhere far away. I wanted you to draw more, so that's what we did But, I couldn't remember anything else after that."

Your touch reappeared with more confidence, gliding down his cheek, his throat, and settling to the front of his chest. He had gone to turn his head, still attached to you but looking through the balcony entryway and the shadows of the bedroom.

He waited until he could hear your voice.

"That was...some dream, Chas. I wonder what it could mean."

He hadn’t thought about that. What could it mean? Anything and everything he supposed. You let out a sigh,

"I think the last dream I had was about me playing the piano in school."

Chas hummed, suddenly riveted, you playing? That was certainly news to him. You only showed your skills in other areas.

"Really?"

You smiled, taking a moment to consider, "Yes."

"I love playing, but I am nowhere as great as you are. You've got this way about performing that makes it look effortless. You play freely, pieces that I know are the most complicated. I can't do none of that."

This is where Chas entered a mental block, despite the shade of him glowing nearly sanguine. He knew how it went with you. A willful thing who declares every word with sure conviction.

You never missed an opportunity to speak to him with firm approval, challenging his diffident mind on everything. Taking how gifted he was with a piano, he grappled with accepting that he was as good as you say. (He would if it was coming from anyone.)

Though his image had become so important to him in these past few years. All the eyes of his elders, friends—even his contemporaries were a constant force.

Chas thought that shaping his image for them had become taxing, the most formidable thing.

No.

When your lips formed around those words, the accolade, the delight in your voice. He was tortured with it, repeatedly with no other stressor coming close.

If you did enough in one day, he could feel an ounce of acceptance for it. But, he wouldn't be able to grasp those words for long.

There was a reservation that tossed around in his mind, most frequently in those days he spent with you. Why?

Chas looked back up at your face. "Why do you hold me to such high regard?"

This time you did stop, but you tilted your head down and scanned his face for a little while. Soon, he could feel your fingers tap the center of his chest. With your head, you gestured for him to sit up, off of your lap.

When Chas untangled himself from you, he let go of the blanket, sliding his hands back to brace his weight. He stiffened them at the elbow to support his torso up. And, just as you did, his legs stretched out before him.

You abandoned your previous spot by the railing, rotating to drape over his thighs. At this moment you were just about eye level with him, your body, and his bare before the night.

His abdomen tensed under the light drag of your nails.

You had intended to pierce his eyes with yours. It was only made obvious the way you took hold of his jaw, a different grip than he ever felt from you.

"I'm not very good with words," you began.

Lightning struck in the western horizon, crackling and casting the image so vividly in your irises. It was right then, he could hear a thumping in his ears.

"For me, it's everything that you are. The way you do things, walk through life…You give yourself to everyone, no matter the cost. I've never seen anything like it."

You crept up and stroked the bones in his cheeks, so gently that he thought he'd never felt it. But if Chas could see from your position, he would notice the mindless patterns you were drawing.

"This life is fleeting, you know? Nothing will last, you, me, our friends, family. Even the things we make won't be here forever. It’s just that...something about you bends those rules."

And you grinned, again, with a particular intent. One of your brows rose a fraction as if you were sharing an inside joke with him. Though, he was looking at a puzzle. You were hard to read, always were. Chas got used to it in the time he spent with you. He chalks it up to the way you handled yourself

—but you were never this much.

This night you were some sort of the zenith of riddles. What were you hiding?

A million things could have been behind it. Chas was musing but he said nothing. To be honest with himself, he hadn't been able to find an adequate reply.

You leaned in real close, just like the dream, only, your words danced on his lips.

"There's something…thriving inside you Chas. I think it will last until the end of time."

You pulled back and came another crack of thunder. This one lingered and stretched wide above your heads. Nothing else could be heard between you two.

“That’s why I hold so much respect for you, there’s no one else like you.”

Chas exhaled a long bated breath, disconnecting your eye contact.

He'd begun to feel nauseated. He let his head fall back to look up at the sky, hoping that the cool air would settle him back down. Chas held his focus upward, steadfastly, while your fingers found purchase in his hair.

Eventually, there was a wet smack, a light tap in the middle of his forehead. Then there were more, dozens landing on the balcony floor and the tops of your heads. The sprinkle escalated to a blanket of rain.

He could feel you steal a tender look at his dripping face. You were whimsical when you said it,

"Looks like rain."

➽─────────────❥

Chas placed a glance at his dark surroundings, seeking the nearest interstate. He picked up sporadic wanderers. The tops of their heads glowed under the amber streetlights.

Around each bend of the winding streets there seemed to be someone. Upon his departure from the city, a small group of young adults flickered in his rearview before they disappeared into the gloom.

He wondered why his hands shook, why he couldn't seem to steady them on the wheel. He would tighten his grip on the leather, but there was a shiver each time he removed his fingers to glide through his hair.

Chas had a handle on how to drive this vehicle, he was sure of it. So he turned the volume dial on the radio up.

He rolled the windows down, let the air flood the space and grab at his skin. The wind whipped sheets of paper about in the back seat, spilling them out the opened windows and leaving them forgotten on the empty highway.

He leaned his elbow on the metal rim of the window, taking hold of the wheel in his right hand.

There are neon green signs. Cities and attractions approach in random distances: a quarter of a mile, two and a half. He wants to eyeball what is to offer. What was listed on the signs again? He squints as he gazes down the stretch of the road. He had passed by those placards quicker than he realized.

Chas would dwell, but—did it matter?

Listen, he could drive all night. He didn't have a clue what was to be on the other side of this city, the state. This foreign land and all of the new wonders within it, Chas was a newcomer. He'd been too occupied in the past few days to sight-see.

Yet the gas tank was full. He had nothing to call his attention, nothing to fasten him whatsoever. He could do as he pleased as if he was on the stretch of a vacation. He was.

The boy was just passing through.

He went underneath an overpass, another city limit was swiftly approaching. Indubitably, he did not recognize the name.

The melody of a song comes in from the speaker, and Chas reminisces for a spell.

➽─────────────❥

"What are we?" he asked while you were busying yourself with unknotting his tie.

The sun was falling behind the clouds, and in that old room where he was beckoned Chas saw pieces of dust dance by your head.

Your uneven breaths pushed them away.

Then those very breaths were captured in the juncture of his neck. You had removed the constructing fabric from his collar, kissing down and down, until you couldn't reach past the ridge of his collarbone. Little pink marks were to soon rise in the aftermath.

His eyes slid shut when you reached to untuck the shirt from his belt.

"What do you mean?"

Chas inched into the fog between your knees, not helping his fingers to rid the fabric from your skin. You twisted, sliding your bottom further on the surface of an old table, rattling about books and trinkets.

You took the time to unzip your jacket. Beads of sweat accumulated on your neck. His eyes took in a droplet flowing down and vanishing under your uniform. He wet his lower lip and his palms fell to the tops of your thighs.

You were red-hot, burning him up. How does he say this?

"I mean...what are we? You and I."

Butterflies chewed at the lining of his stomach. He was more anxious than he had ever remembered, skin clammy and sticky but you wouldn't have known the difference.

There had been an understanding, yet the line began to blur during the weeks to months between you two. He would feel sure with himself, confident in what he was feeling. Then you would do something that shatters all that.

Under those thick lashes, he met the color of your eyes. There was an expression that was light as air, almost too broad. Even more weight flowed into his gut, seeing the ludic curvature to the corner of your lip.

You wound your fingers over the back of his neck and brought his mouth to yours. There was a vibration coming from your lungs, the familiar melody of your laugh.

You pulled away here and there, murmuring,

"We're just friends, yeah?"

Chas was brought so close, he thought he would fall into the table. He made a move to nod his head, humming a low confirmation. “Yeah.” He knew that, but…

His lips were suddenly released. The tip of your nose brushed along his, and for a second or two, you shared the same air.

You grasped him with your other hand, trailing more wet spots down his chin, surely picking up the small pricks of hair there. When you reached that point where his pulse lied—he stumbled, hips falling forward.

He wasn't able to control what arose from his throat. You were the same. Chas pressed onward and your voices were laced with hushed release, both echoing into the empty room.

Wider, your thighs opened. His hands were rehearsed, shifting the most sensitive spot on your skin, taking hold, and lifting.

He dug into you to the point where his belly touched yours, forgetting what his last thought had been. Until he could hear you, quietly, teeth grazing the shell of his ear,

"We're friends who like to do this."

➽─────────────❥

Over and over and over again. It had become more than an occasional blip, ignoring the importance of where he was or what he was doing at the time. What if he was in class? During a meeting with someone higher up? Or when he’s staring at a wall?

He thought about you far more than a friend should have. Much more than what should have been the understanding. (Whatever that originally was.) He lost the ability to distinguish what was, what you originally wanted out of this companionship.

And did you come to realize it?

There was an unsettling feeling inside of him. Christ, you saw past the veil he strung up, after all that time. The lingering looks, the book with your name scrawled in it about a thousand times or more. You stared at his boyish face and you were appalled by what you saw. Obsessive, wretched, flawed.

Well, then it made sense then, why it went the way it had or why it went at all.

Everything seemed to be flowing for the longest time, flowing continuously in the same direction. You still took his hand in yours and you still laughed in a dulcet tone.

You'd tugged him out of his dorm room late at night after everything was quiet. He was greedy and drank everything up.

He could take it away by the last words you spoke to him, the last image of your face, or the weight of your voice in his ears. It was complicated, and he couldn't understand—

"I’m not staying in this town anymore. I want to get out, be exposed to more than this."

Chas heard the song fade and the radio station shift to another. He had taken a right after departing from the highway, following the path of an old Mazda.

The street lamps were softer than the city he left from, the temperature of each bulb matched, never flickering. Chas didn't sense unease, no. The atmosphere of this place was placid. There hadn't been much wind, the strange sounds of the night.

The number of people out was scarce, (unlike the last town). If you could see someone out and about they moved rapidly, almost like they rushed to get home.

He shifted his eyesight and noticed the windows of a few businesses illuminate. The smell of grease and meat wafted up to his nose.

Light was approaching from the east, the dark indigo sky transformed to violet.

There was another hour before morning came and the boy still couldn’t figure out where to go.

He wasn’t running, nothing of the sort was in his mind. Only the feeling of finally moving, getting outside, and feeling the fresh air on his skin. He saw new, experienced new. He believes that, well, if he drives enough maybe he will start to feel better.

Ah, he wonders what you would think. ‘Where would they say I should go?’

He can hear your voice in his ears, saying ‘Go. Go as far as you can until you feel satisfied with what you see. Find something beautiful.’

And, Chas wants to stop to think about what that entails, what you would have considered beautiful. You were particular, a little unusual with your selections. He remembers how you collected beer bottle caps with a specific font on each one, or your affinity for yellow-colored notepaper.

He struggles with his memory for a moment or two, finding the car taking a left at the light.

He looks up and the Mazda is no longer in front of him, the multi-laned road is revealed to be empty and he is the only one cruising west. In the smudged mirror, he saw no sign of headlights, no people, no sudden movement.

The reflection of the town behind him only shone back, with the barely noticeable sway of trees.

In the air, he can smell something faint. At the start, he can’t place his finger on it. What and how to describe it? He wants to say that it reminds him of his grandparents, their amazing home with the high stone archways, the land stretching to the ocean.

That’s what hits him, the sea. He can envision the waves crash and pull back now, how hypnotic it was to him as a child. The color was bluer than anything else.

The scent of the brine and the fish grow stronger as he passes several neighborhood streets. Soon enough he starts to believe that he’s found his answer for you.

➽─────────────❥

He met you in a lone part of the local library, where the walls saw thousands of students from decades past and were in dire need of renovating.

It was private, though, that's why you wrote the location down on a sliver of paper and pressed it into his hand. He was distracted when you had, eyes probably glued to a book or two.

But he didn't forget. There was a peculiar way that you didn't stop. You didn't tell Chas where you were going. When he brought his eyes up to the world around him you had been long gone.

So he was there, a hand rubbing at his ironed blazer and the other holding the paper up. He stood outside and double-checked the number on the building before walking up the front steps.

His eyes were taking in all that you had on the table. There were more stacks of books than he was able to count, more sheets of paper, pencils, note cards. On the floor close by your feet were crumpled up sheets. That was when he saw your damp cheeks and the mess your hair was in.

You removed your head from your hands and the look you gave was reminiscent of someone lost.

“I can’t figure this out, Chas. This paper...it’s due tomorrow morning and I don’t understand what to put down.” (You had no one else to go to.)

Chas had been unsure in that instant, without a clue of why. ‘Think’ he would tell himself. Your eyes were so dim when he peered right in them he couldn’t help but hold his breath.

He remained stiff in front of you. In his hand resided the directions to the library, but it slipped and fell to the floor. Your tears dripped from your cheeks and landed on the crumpled paper, mixing with the ink on the surface of the pages, staining them.

It took a moment for the boy to move his legs, his eyebrows rose and pinched together as he crouched close. To your left was where you opened up, his hand took hold of the pencil from your hand and set it down.

Your chin was nudged upward between his index and thumb. And right then he could see past your reddened eyes, “Hey...hey hush now. I’m right here. It’s going to be alright.”

“Is it?” You softly bit. “I feel so dumb, I can’t see the answers right now.”

You brought the back of your hand up to rub at your eyes, and Chas frowned. He glanced at all of the papers on your desk, all of the scribbled words. To his knowledge, he understood that you were turning in a final paper.

His last day had been that day, only earlier and involving math and science. But that didn’t mean that Chas wouldn’t know the feeling you had in your chest. All the pressure building up. He loathed watching your body sink in that chair.

The details and the guidelines for your assignment would have to be determined next, and he questioned you what it all entailed.

“Well…” and you sighed. You carried on telling him about what your Professor wanted, stopping here and there to close your eyes to gather your thoughts. You spend a few minutes doing this, not catching that Chas moved you so that you resided on his lap.

It’s not like you never did this before, there had been only one chair in the room. The boy wasn’t even sure what he had done then, all his attention was focused on your face, the papers on the table.

He remembered you mumbling a sorry into the fabric of his sweater, something about how you should have looked for a second chair but he shushed you again.

This time you let go, you let all of your weight onto him and burrowed yourself closer. He scooted up to the table without any effort. Chas let you watch while he gathered a fresh sheet of paper and a pen. His left hand rubbed up your back, resting there.

In your ear, he whispered, “Let’s see what I can do.”

➽─────────────❥

He had approached an intersection adjacent to the entryway of Leobourg Bay. No other vehicle shared the road with him up until that point. The radio falls silent, as with the rest of the world outside his window. He tilts his head and, the wind didn’t blow, the trees halted their swaying.

A warm-colored light starts to shine, spreading over the car and blanketing his face. Chas takes a breath past his lips, gathering it in to fill every cavity of his lungs. The thumping stays as he enters the crossroad, and in his mind’s eye, he can hear you again.

Another moment passes by until his lids flutter shut, fingers sliding from the wheel of the car.

➽─────────────❥

Taglist: @mansaaay @feralrunaway @hope-to-hell @brandycranby @luclittlepond @madbaddic7ed

➽─────────────❥

#chas quilter #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill fanfiction #chas quilter x reader #chas quilter x you #non binary reader #black reader #henry cavill x black reader #henry cavill x black!reader #Looks Like Rain

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crossbowking · 4 years

Text

No Way Out (Part 2)

(Click HERE to read No Way Out Part 1)

Summary: (Set mid Season 3) Trapped inside an abandoned hospital and on the run from a vicious herd, Daryl and Y/N find themselves caught up in a fight for their lives.

A/N: Um. Hi. Lol. So, I know this is legitimately ONE YEAR LATE. But hopefully it’s worth it. (@wilhelmjfink now you can stop threatening me!!! Also thanks for the cover work ily. @jodiereedus22 thank you for always supporting me!) This is a super long part 2, but I wanted to give you guys a little extra something because you waited so long. I’m happy to put this story to rest now.

Quick Recap of Part 1

- Reader and Daryl are scavenging a hospital

- Oh no! Reader opens a cafeteria doors, but low and behold, there’s a herd inside!

- Herd chases them to a dead end (which ends up being this massive hole in the ground from an explosion that falls all the way from the third floor to the ground floor...the hole has a bunch of pipes and rebars sticking out, making it look like the world’s most dangerous game of pinball lol)

- They fight off walkers

- Daryl tip toes around the hole and finds a mysterious door

- He comes back in the knick of time and saves reader

- Daryl is fighting the biters off while reader gets to the door (suffering from a probable concussion/bruised ribs/other shit)

- He gets distracted and AHHHHH HE IS TACKLED BY A WALKER INTO THE HOLE AND WE ARE ALL VERY SAD AND HE’S PROBABLY DEAD NOW NOOOOOO.

Okay, enjoy!

xx crossbowking

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Previously...

Then Daryl looked back at you.

And all it took was that one moment, that one brief moment of distraction…and everything changed.

It almost happened in slow motion — you were sure of it.

By the time the archer spun back around to face the herd, it was too late. Cold, decaying arms were wrapping around his middle, propelling him backward, catching him off guard.

Then a bloodcurdling scream was tearing through your chest as you watched Daryl suddenly lose his footing, stumble over the edge of the hole, and disappear from sight.

Now...

It took a moment for you to realize the spine-chilling screams drowning out the roar from the dead were coming from you.

You’d never heard anything so raw, so gut-wrenching, so broken spill from your lips. You’d never felt so helpless in your entire life — it was as though every single fiber of your being was begging you to move, to jump, to do something. Yet there you were, frozen in place, only able to cry out in pain as parts of your soul disappeared into the dark.

Everything felt fuzzy.

It was almost as if your mind wouldn’t allow you to process what you just witnessed, instead choosing to simply shut down and ignore reality. Your body felt heavy, your brain muddled and foggy as your shrieks dwindled into pathetic whimpers. At some point, your legs must have given out because you suddenly found yourself kneeling inside the room you’d climbed into, forehead pressed against the cool tile as you fought back the wave of nausea coursing through you.

You raised your head just in time to watch the door in front of you slowly swing shut, the light spilling from the hallway narrowing until you were enveloped in nothing but blackness. Your heaving breaths echoed around you, bouncing off the dark walls of whatever room you now found yourself in. You reached out blindly, your shaking hands fumbling to find solidity as you sat back on your haunches. You began crawling forward, keeping one hand out in front of you as you felt for the door that had closed, ignoring the way your chest began to suddenly constrict the closer you got.

But the moment you felt it, the moment your hand pressed against the dented metal, that’s when you heard it — an incessant thudding coming from the opposite side of the door.

It took you a second to figure out what exactly the noise was. It was distant, mimicking the thrum of a heart. But when the thudding began to increase, like the rapid pounding of a native drum, you realized that you were listening to the sound of dozens upon dozens of bodies careening into the hole outside the door and falling to the ground floor.

And all you could think about was Daryl — lying at the bottom of that pit, limbs twisted, bones shattered, his body becoming buried amongst the dead —

The contents of your stomach suddenly appeared before you. A small, desperate, part of you wished the sounds of your vomiting would drown out the sickening thuds reverberating from the opposite side of the door — but no. If only you were that lucky.

You shakily pushed up from your hands and knees, wiping your mouth with the crook of your elbow. The thuds were getting louder it seemed — endless, almost. And the more you tried to tune out the noise, the more it intensified. It suddenly felt as though the walls were closing in on you, the darkness overpowering, seeping through your flesh, finding a home amongst your bones. It felt like the air around you was thinning, each breath becoming harder and harder to take.

You grimaced, gnashing your teeth together as you squeezed your eyes shut and clamped your hands over your ears, attempting to silence the pounding in your mind. “S-Stop — please, stop,” you whispered desperately, your words tangled in your throat as you began rocking back and forth, clawing at the sides of your head.

Daryl always knew how to calm you — how to keep you sane. But he wasn’t with you. No, instead he was at the bottom of that hole — the only good thing left in your world now buried amongst a mass of the dead.

A gut-wrenching thought suddenly struck you — what if he survived the fall? What if he survived? If the fall didn’t kill him, the crushing weight of the dead would have. All of those biters that dropped, undoubtedly landing on top of his broken body, would eventually press the air from his lungs, slowly and painfully suffocating him until nothingness came. And if that didn’t kill him, then the walkers that survived the fall, their brains still very much intact, would writhe towards him, clawing their twisted fingers around him, sinking their teeth into his flesh until there was nothing left — until they erased him from existence, all that remaining being streaks of his blood on the hospital floor and pieces of his skin wedged between their teeth —

There was nothing left in your stomach for you to expel, leaving you to painfully dry heave as you forced the gruesome thoughts from your mind. A vicious tremor racked through you as you pushed up from your hands, hunched over, one arm wrapped protectively around your sore stomach before you settled with your back against the door. You drew your knees to your chest, curling inwardly, feeling your throat constrict as you attempted to tune out the chaos.

You didn’t know how long you sat like that — head tucked down, eyes squeezed shut, arms wrapped around your legs. When the fog finally cleared from your mind, you realized it was finally silent — eerily silent. You lifted your head slowly, straining your ears, hearing nothing except the sound of your own shallow breaths.

You couldn't sit there any longer — you had to do something. You had to move or scream or cry — or else you feared you’d never do anything again. Or else you’d just sit in that pitch-black room, letting the darkness suffocate you until it swallowed you altogether.

You slowly slid your legs out in front of you.

Move — you could move.

Your voice was lost, caged inside your chest, trapped beneath layers of guilt and ache and loss. Your eyes were void of moisture, hollowed and glossy, red-rimmed from the tears you refused to let fall because if they fell, that made things real — that made this real.

But move — you could move.

So inch by inch, you managed to pull yourself to your feet, your legs wobbling beneath you as you grabbed onto the door frame for support. The adrenaline from earlier was wearing off, the shock slipping away, leaving you with all sorts of aches and pains in its place.

There was a steady pounding at the base of your skull from where your head had collided with the ground — the ringing in your ears and sudden dizziness had all signs pointing towards a concussion, but you didn’t have time to think about that right now. Your ribs were achy, bruised from being tackled by that one walker and the palm of your right hand was torn open from the shard of glass you’d slid it across in an attempt to save your life. You hissed softly, curling your hand into a fist and tucking it protectively against your chest.

Now wasn’t the time.

Using your shoulder, you slowly pushed open the door, shielding yourself from the sudden onslaught of light. After your eyes adjusted, you lowered your shaking hand, taking a deep breath. You were immediately aware of the stench wafting up from below — like rotted flesh and blood, like meat that had been sitting out in the sun for a little too long.

But you had to look. You had to see. You just had to.

Looking down the hole, past the rebars and pipes sticking out from the sides of the floor that’d caved in, the bottom of the pit simply looked dark — as though it was too deep for even light to touch. But the more you stared, the clearer the carnage became.

Bodies on top of bodies piled below you — bones torn through skin, standing out in stark contrast against the blood smeared over flesh. Limbs twisted at the kneecaps and elbows, legs and arms bent at odd angles. The most sickening part was the fact that most of the dead below were still alive — their brains still intact, having somehow survived the three-story drop — their broken frames wriggled and writhed below, trapped beneath the masses.

You gripped onto the side of the doorway, exhaling shakily, unable to breathe through your nose without feeling the urge to gag. There were too many bodies below, not enough light — you couldn’t see him.

“D-Daryl?” his name slipped through your trembling lips, voice groggy and thick from not being used, throat raw from your horrified screams. “Daryl?” you tried again, this time a little louder, a little more desperate as you scanned the bottom of the hole. You weren’t sure what you were doing — or what you were trying to accomplish here. What exactly did you think was going to happen? That Daryl would pop up out of nowhere like a fucking magician? That he’d crawl out from beneath those dozens upon dozens of bodies unscathed? That you’d realize this wasn’t real life and simply a gruesome figment of your imagination?

You gnashed your teeth together. He couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t. Because…because it was Daryl. And if he was dead, then what the fuck was the point of any of this?

“Daryl!” you screamed, the cry tearing through your chest, your voice echoing down the silent halls of the hospital as you choked back a sob.

And that was when you saw it — lying at the bottom of the pit, strewn off to the side, the image shattering your soul completely.

His crossbow.

A muffled sort of cry slipped through your lips as you propelled yourself back into the room, away from the cavernous hole. The heavy metal door slowly swung shut, encompassing you in darkness once more as you shuffled backward frantically.

But before you knew what was happening, you suddenly lost your footing, unable to catch yourself on anything as you toppled over — but not just backward…downward.

That was when you realized you weren’t in a room at all — you were in a stairwell.

The world spun as you tumbled down the stairs, your already bruised body smashing against the concrete landing moments later. You sputtered for breath, curling onto your side, wrapping an arm around your middle as you fought for the breath that’d been knocked out of you. Squeezing your eyes shut, you whimpered quietly, feeling the steady pounding at the base of your skull intensify, feeling every ache and pain jolt through you.

You grimaced as you pushed yourself up onto your hands and knees, another wave of pain rocking through you. “Come on, damn it,” you growled, your quiet voice echoing down the stairwell.

The darkness was so vast it felt endless as you blindly reached in front of you, feeling along the floor for the next set of stairs.

Once you felt an edge, you crawled forward inch by inch, ignoring your body’s demands to rest, until you found yourself at the top of the next flight of stairs. You kept your breathing steady as you maneuvered your feet in front of you, finding stability on one of the steps. You reached to the left, sure enough finding a railing a few inches above. You grabbed onto the railing as though your life depended on it because, well, it very much did.

You couldn’t help but cry out as you pulled yourself to your feet, your beaten body screaming in protest. You wrapped an arm around your middle, putting pressure against your bruised ribcage as you fought to control your frantic breathing.

It took an extensive amount of time for you to make it down the next flight of stairs — the process painstakingly slow as you fumbled in the dark. But you kept yourself focused, the sharp pains and tugs in your body forcing you to be alert as you descended the stairwell inch by inch, concentrating on nothing but your shallow breathing and steady footsteps.

You knew you finally reached the ground floor when you spotted a small sliver of light at what you could only guess to be a second door — and you nearly wept with relief. Part of you noticed the way the stairwell began to smell the farther you descended — the stench of something resembling spoiled meat wafting up your nostrils — but you’d tried to ignore it.

Now, you couldn’t help but force back the gag that rose as you slowly limped towards the light.

The pile of the dead was right there, just ahead. Which meant that Daryl —

“Stop,” you growled to yourself, halting your train of thought with that single word. “Don’t go there,” you murmured, squeezing your eyes shut, feeling moisture gather at the corners of your eyelids. You swallowed any rising emotion, steeling yourself for what was ahead as you reached out and shoved open the door.

You were immediately assaulted by the decaying smell of flesh — it was so powerful, you felt your knees buckle beneath you. Your eyes began to water as you buried your nose into the crook of your arm, grabbing onto the doorway for support as you slid out of the stairwell, the door slowly closing behind you.

The image before you — of dozens upon dozens of broken and bloodied bodies piled up, some still writhing, frenzied by your presence, reaching desperately for you, but unable to move closer— would stay with you for the rest of your life. You were sure of it.

You had to turn your eyes away — you knew that if you looked at the horror for too long, there was a chance you’d see something familiar. Like a calloused hand — the one that’d stroked the hair from your face during the nights you couldn’t find peace. Or a scuffed boot — worn out from the miles walked in them by your side. Or the frayed end of a leather jacket — like the one that’d wrap around your frame when you couldn’t shake a chill.

And you couldn’t bear to see any of that.

So you turned your eyes away, creeping alongside the ground floor’s hallway walls, inching around the pile of the dead until you found what you were looking for.

His crossbow.

You couldn’t leave it behind. It was all you had left of him now.

You sniffled softly, wincing as you reached down and grabbed it, your bruised ribs aching in protest. But you pushed away the pain and slung the strap over your shoulder, feeling a sense of comfort settle over where it lay.

You had to keep going. It was all you could do now.

The hospital was like a god damn maze — you turned down hallway after hallway, searching for the side door you and Daryl had initially broken down and entered through, forcing any thought that didn’t involve escaping from your mind. You kept one arm wrapped securely around your midsection, attempting to relieve some pressure from your ribcage, working on keeping your breathing steady.

After what felt like hours, each path you took continuously winding into another, the hallway you’d been staggering down finally spilled out into an empty, open room.

Tightening your grip around the crossbow’s strap, you surveyed the area around you, taking a quick break to catch your breath. It seemed as though you’d found the main lobby, with overturned couches and chairs littering the room, magazines and random debris shredded to pieces, and a large desk with blood splattered over the words plastered across the front — Emory Hospital.

A desperate, half-delirious sob rose to your throat as you propelled yourself forward, towards the glass entrance doors.

But your heart sunk when you pushed against the doorway, only to find it locked.

“No, come on,” you growled, pounding your fist against the glass out of frustration.

You could see the parking lot, filled with abandoned vehicles and debris — you were so close. The truck you and Daryl had driven was parked just outside the lot, hidden behind some brush. You just needed to get through the glass doors and you’d be okay — you couldn’t risk exploring the hospital further. What if there was another herd trapped somewhere? What if you became lost within the walls? What if you saw him? Dead or suffering or even worse — turned.

You didn’t think you’d have it in you to put him down. You couldn’t do it. You had to get out and now.

Pushing away from the doors, you frantically searched the room for something you could break through the glass with. When you spotted a flipped chair, you made a beeline for it, grabbing onto one of the legs and dragging it towards the entrance.

A soft whimper escaped your lips as you hefted the chair up, the motion jarring your injuries. But you fought through the pain, reeling back before throwing the chair at the glass. A string of curses fell out of you as you watched the chair simply bounce off the glass without making so much as a dent. With a growl, you picked up the chair once more, taking a deep breath, stepping back.

You gathered every bit of strength you had left and hurled the chair against the doors, the forceful momentum throwing you off balance.

And as your body slammed against the ground, you heard a deafening shatter.

You shielded your face as the glass doors exploded, small shards raining down on you. Instantly, you felt a cool breeze from the outside, sharpening your senses. You winced, pulling yourself to your feet, sliding Daryl’s crossbow off your shoulder and into your hands. You’d never learned how to use the weapon, but it was all you had to defend yourself — that crash was bound to bring walkers your way.

You needed to move — and fast.

Sidestepping the larger pieces of glass now littering the floor, you maneuvered your way through the doorway and out of the hospital.

The moment the sun hit you, its rays warming your features, you felt a swell of emotion. Partly because you’d truly thought you’d never make it out alive — but mostly because of, well, him.

You paused just outside the doorway — how could you leave him behind like this? What the fuck was wrong with you? If the roles were reversed, Daryl would’ve dug through that pile of bodies to find you — even if it was just to bring home your lifeless corpse for a proper burial. You couldn’t leave him like this.

You turned on your heels, the sudden determination to bring Daryl home nearly overwhelming.

But the moment you spun around, the moment you looked away, you felt cold, gnarled hands grab onto you.

And you didn’t think — you just moved.

You swung Daryl’s crossbow around, slamming it against the side of the walker’s head that’d latched onto you, effectively knocking it off its feet.

Then, you took off, away from the hospital and through the parking lot.

It was difficult to run — you were injured and carrying the crossbows extra weight — leaving you half jogging, half hobbling away from the sudden onslaught of walkers, dodging around long-forgotten cars and trucks. You craned your neck to look behind you — a small cluster of the dead had been drawn in from the glass shattering and now, their sights were set on you.

You weren’t going to outrun them — you could practically feel your body giving out from underneath you. There were only four biters — you could handle that. You’d handled more than that before.

Chest heaving, you slowed your pace, spinning around, frantically searching for anything you could use as a weapon.

The dead closed in quickly — the first walker lunged forward, though you were able to dodge its attack, knocking the second walker away with a swing of the crossbow. Even if you did know how to use the weapon, you had no time to even load the damn thing.

The third biter launched itself at you, but you quickly fended it off with a swift kick to the gut, feeling your body scream in protest as the dead careened backward. You stumbled away, colliding into the bumper of an abandoned car behind you. You fought for balance as the next walker came at you, pressing you up against the hood of the car — but you quickly counteracted, keeping its snapping jaws at bay by shoving your forearm against its neck.

You grunted under the weight, feeling your arm begin to shake as you fought off the dead, dropping the crossbow at your feet. An idea struck as you used your free hand to reach behind you, fumbling around the hood of the car until you felt the windshield. You grabbed onto one of the windshield wipers, yanking it towards you as far as possible until you heard a loud snap.

Then, with the windshield wiper in hand, you raised it above your head and sunk it deep into the walker’s decaying skull.

“Holy shit,” you breathed heavily, ripping the wiper away as the dead fell at your feet.

The next walker lunged, but you didn't hesitate, thrusting the wiper forward, directly into its eye-socket with a sickening squelch. The third came at you with a hungry growl, but you quickly yanked the wiper out and embedded it into the third’s skull, shoving the dead off to the side.

The fourth and final walker clawed its way towards you, but you quickly sidestepped its attack, grabbing it by the back of its head and slamming its face into the hood of the car. As the dead fell, you swiftly grabbed the crossbow you dropped and jumped on top of the dead, raising the weapon high above you before slamming the butt of the bow into its head, immediately caving in its skull.

Your breathing was ragged as you dragged yourself off the biter and fell to the ground, your back against the car tire, body limp and fatigued, crossbow lying across your legs.

The parking lot was silent — all that could be heard was your rapid breaths and the thrum of your heartbeat as you shut your eyes.

And then suddenly, you heard something else.

It almost sounded like the scuffing of a boot.

You slowly opened your eyes, blinking through the sudden haziness.

That was when you noticed a fifth walker — slower than the others, but shuffling steadily in your direction.

You groaned softly, attempting to pull yourself up off the ground, but you couldn’t — you had no strength left, leaving you to collapse pathetically against the car as the dead neared closer. All you could do was grab onto the crossbow, your grip weak as you hefted the weapon up into a shaky grasp, your last attempt in defending yourself.

But then, you really looked at what was approaching.

And your blood ran ice cold.

Your eyes shot open, your heart dropping into the pit of your stomach, a wave of nausea coursing through you.

“No,” you whispered in horror, feeling your stomach roll. “Please, God, no.”

It was him.

The closer he got, the more you recognized. His boots, shuffling along the asphalt. His hands, swaying back and forth as he limped towards you. His hair, long and stringy, covering the front of his shadowy face.

It was him.

And you couldn’t do it — you couldn’t put him down.

This was your fault anyways — you were the one who opened the doors that let the herd out, you were the one who couldn’t fend them off, you were the one who left him behind. This is what you deserved.

You felt a sob rise to your throat, unable to hold back the emotion you suddenly felt, like a dam had been released inside of you. “I-I can’t do it,” you cried out, crossbow wavering in your grasp as Daryl inched forward, closer and closer, his staggering footsteps mirroring the swift hammering of your heart until he was so close you could practically reach out and touch him.

And then, he stilled.

The air was so quiet, so tense, you could cut it with a knife.

Neither of you moved.

Neither of you breathed.

And then —

“That damn thing ain’t even loaded, ya know.”

You faltered.

No. No, this wasn’t possible. You saw him — you saw him fall. You saw it happen. There was no way he could be standing in front of you — he was dead. He was gone, right?

Right?

“A-Am —” you stammered, pushing past the lump in your throat, breath caught somewhere in your chest. “Am I dead?” you whispered, mostly to yourself, questioning everything you’ve ever known in that split second.

Daryl’s eyes remained locked with yours, a flash of confusion crossing his features. “Nah,” he grunted, glancing around the parking lot, seemingly surveying the area. “Pretty shit idea a’ heaven, don’t ya think?”

A shaky breath slipped through your lips as you struggled to sit upright, feeling like the world was turning upside down around you. “H-Hang on —” you stuttered, unable to process just what in the fuck was happening. “No — n-no, this is impossible. I-I saw — I saw it, I-I saw you —” you sounded like a crazy person, you knew that, but you could feel yourself starting to lose your grasp on reality, like you had been transported to some sort of sick, twisted dimension.

Daryl quickly caught on, his features suddenly changing as he kneeled in front of you. “Hey, hey, hey,” he shushed. “Easy —”

“No, no, no, I saw — I saw you — I-I saw you fall, Daryl!” you protested wildly, feeling your chest beginning to constrict.

“Hey, hey, look a’ me, alright?” the archer rumbled, worry etching his features. “I got hold a’ somethin’ on the way down, Y/N. Ya saw all those damn pipes an’ bars stickin’ out, right? I got hold a’ one an’ swung right down onto the floor below ya,” he explained before glancing down at his hands. “Tore off some skin pretty bad,” he held his palms out for you to see and sure enough, blood oozed out from the center. “An’ twisted my leg ta’ hell, but that’s all.”

You shook your head slowly, gaze locked on his. “It’s — it’s not possible,” you murmured under your breath, eyes wide and teary, unable to stop the swell of emotion. “This isn’t real. I-I think I — m-maybe I hit my head too hard,” you whispered, poking the back of your head, wincing when you hit a tender spot.

Daryl’s features shifted, becoming stormy all of a sudden as he reached out and grabbed either side of your face, jolting you slightly. “Listen ta’ me,” he growled, searching your eyes frantically. “Feel this — feel it!” he shook your head gently, his hands warm against your ashen flesh. “This is real, Y/N. This is real.”

A soft sob rose before you could force it back, your bottom lip trembling as you forced your eyes downward. “N-No —“

Daryl then grabbed one of your hands, collecting it with his own before pressing your palm against his chest. “Feel that? What’d ya feel, huh? What’d ya feel, Y/N?” he demanded, a desperation in his voice you hadn’t heard before.

You froze, closing your eyes, stilling your body — and then you felt it.

A heartbeat.

It was rapid, hammering from within him, but most importantly — it was strong.

And it was there.

You opened your eyes, watching as the archer’s gaze softened, slowly removing your hand from his chest. He glanced down at your palm then, his brows furrowing suddenly as he reached behind himself, pulling out the red rag he kept tucked in the back pocket of his torn jeans. You noticed then that he was inspecting the cut on your palm, the one you’d received earlier when fending off the walkers inside the hospital.

Wordlessly, he wrapped the rag around your palm, his touch gentle as he tied a knot before letting your hand fall back into your lap.

A beat of silence passed between you before you exhaled shakily. “I-I thought you were dead. I mean, I — I thought that was it. I thought I lost you, Daryl,” you hiccuped softly, a tear snaking down your cheek before you could stop it.

But Daryl was already reaching out, swiping away the moisture as he shrugged. “Ain’t gettin’ rid a’ me that easy.”

Your features crumpled. “I’m serious,” you sniffed, leaning forward slightly, catching his gaze for a moment before he looked away.

“C’mon, we gotta go. Gonna be dark soon,” he rumbled, grimacing as he grabbed his astray crossbow and rose to his feet, balancing most of his weight on his uninjured leg before reaching down to help you up after.

You muttered a curse under your breath as you straightened, feeling your ribs ache at the shift, features twisted in pain. It was almost embarrassing how winded you were after just that small movement — but Daryl remained unfazed. If anything, he seemed more worried.

You leaned your backside against the car behind you, wrapping your arm around your center, taking a moment to collect yourself. You could feel Daryl’s eyes watching your every move and quickly glanced up at him.

And that’s when you realized…he was there.

He was real.

He was okay.

Before you could stop yourself, you lunged forward, throwing your arms around the archer in a tight embrace, uncaring of the way your body protested. You buried your face against his chest, unbothered that he remained still, apparently caught off guard — so much so that he was no longer even breathing. But a small smile grew across your lips when you felt his arms slowly snake around you, his cheek coming to rest on the top of your head, his heart racing a fraction faster than before.

After a moment, he pulled away. You felt empty in the spaces he’d filled, but it was okay — because he was okay.

But then he reached forward, gently cupping the side of your face in a rare showing of affection, his calloused thumb brushing over your cheek. You placed your hand on top of his, sighing softly, your eyes searching his.

And there, in that brief moment of time, you finally felt whole.

A/N: Ha ha ha. Do you guys get it? “Whole” as in “Hole”? Like the “Hole” Daryl nearly died in LOLOLOLOL.

Anywho, I’m not sure about the ending but hopefully this lived up to your expectations and didn’t disappoint!

Let me know your thoughts!

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