#i think that’s all the eras these are over

[always-just-red]

Hii! I've seen some Pregnancy scenario with LaD's men, but I have this HC-- personally for Sylus. That when fem!reader got pregnant, he didn't really understand how the Pregnancy hormones work, until he experienced one and he got confused how he should act or react because it's feels like he's walking on landime, one wrong move/word, she'd throwing tantrum or being sulky at him

I've heard from my Friend who got pregnant before, when she craving something and her Husband showing any form that he can't fulfill what she's craves, she felt her heart broken, and she'd sulk and acted as if he just cheated on her. The problem is, she always craved something that didn't even exist at that moment😂, she's craving certain type of Mango while it's not even that Mango season, so nobody selling it. He literally being desperate to negotiate with her cravings

So... Can I request a scenario smiliar like that? It doesn't have to be mango, or any foods. Just... how Pregnancy hormones or Cravings could make Sylus got frustated lol

Aaaaa anon this is adorable, thank you! We love making Sylus suffer in cute and harmless ways. He's always asking for trouble, so let's give him some! 😌💅

Something Sweet

Sylus x Reader 🩸

Summary: Sylus knows how to get what he wants. Getting what you want might be a little more tricky...

Genre: fluff!

Warnings/Additional tags: female!reader, IMPLIED pregnant!reader (pregnancy not actually mentioned or described- just hormones being hormones ✌), established relationship, canon pet names, a lil bit of roleplay because Sylus refuses to leave his Mystic Adventure era

| Word count: 2.1k | Masterlist |

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

“Sy, d’you know what I’m craving right now?”

“Always, sweetie.” Sylus doesn’t look up from his book. “Not now, though. I’m tired.”

Morning sunlight streams through the gaps in your living room curtains, casting pale yellow shapes over the floor. A shard of it has been inching over the sofa towards Sylus, the sharp edge now grazing the side of his face. He shifts, ever so slightly, away from its touch. His eyes are open but heavy.

“No,” you scold, leaning forwards to swat at him with your book. “That’s not what I meant, you narcissist.”

He chuckles with his usual low timbre— his gaze still not lifting— and the sound is deeper for how close he is to sleep. He wants to give in to it, you can tell. When he turns a page, the movement is languid, soft. You’re losing him.

“Sy,” you say again, then with more of a whine: “Sylus.”

His eyes flutter closed as he draws in a deep breath. His hand raises, his fingers stretching to pull his reading glasses from his face. They’re set down on the arm of the chair beside him, along with the book, and he turns to you with a smile. “What are you craving, sweetie?”

You rest your book on your stomach. Your legs are stretched out over Sylus’s lap, and his hand finds one of your feet, massaging an ache from it as you begin your speech. “Do you remember that café we used to go to? The one we found when it started raining in the park that day? We didn’t think it was open, but then the owner knocked on the window and said we could—”

“Yeah?” His hand moves to your other foot.

“Well, they make these—”

“Macarons.”

“You remember?”

His smile widens like he remembers vividly. “Kitten, how could I forget? I’m still jealous of that sweet little treat. You’ve never made that face for me, and believe me—” he wiggles one of your toes— “I’ve tried.”

That had been one of the only times you’d truly caught him off-guard, back when your feelings for one another were unnamed and uncharted. The rain had been drumming against the café window, and you’d heaved Sylus’s damp coat from your shoulders— giggled at the raised eyebrow and the sarcastic ‘…thanks’ he’d given in turn. One hot drink later, you were lifting a pastel pink macaron to your lips, taking a delicate bite and failing to stifle a tiny, almost euphoric moan.

You remember realising yourself: blushing profusely and expecting some remark, some ridicule, but none ever came. Sylus’s eyes were wide, dark, fixed upon your still parted mouth.

After a few of the longest seconds of your life, he’d dragged the plate with the rest of the macarons away from you and muttered something about how you had better not do that again.

“They’re still the sweetest things I’ve ever tasted,” you tease now, just as you’d wrestled him for that plate back then, set on eating every last macaron.

He makes a hmph as he idly runs a finger over the part of your foot he knows is ticklish. His expression is distinctly grumpy, but it falters as you laugh and try to writhe away from him.

You’re quickly out of breath. “Sylus?”

“Mmm?”

He glances up at you and you smile sweetly, head tilting. “Please?”

His coat on a rainy day. The entire plate of macarons in the end; he’s never been very good at denying you anything. For the first time since you’d stirred him from his book, however, he appears genuinely regretful. “You’re forgetting something, sweetie,” he murmurs gently. “Why did we stop going to that café, hmm?”

You shrug.

“It closed, kitten,” he sighs. “Months ago.”

“What?”

Not only did you already know that— you actually visited the café on its final day. The owner was telling you stories: he was moving somewhere warmer, closer to family, and he needed all the funds he could get. Sylus had snuck an obscene amount of money into the man’s tip jar whilst you acted as a distraction. You both had fond memories of that place; it was nice to make one more.   

It's all coming back to you and you’re struck by a wave of nostalgia. You want to go back there. You can’t go back there. It doesn’t exist anymore, and you’ll never taste sweetness like that again.

Your mouth has gone dry.

“Sweetie?” Sylus prompts, because he notices you’re far away. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” your voice wobbles, “I just really wanted… I mean, I really needed one of those—”

“… Macarons?” he finishes for you.

You burst into tears, and one day, you’ll tally this as another time you took the man by surprise. His face drops instantly— lost, for a moment— before he slides your legs from his lap, allowing him to lean closer. “No, no, no,” he coos, “don’t cry, kitten, please. I didn’t mean to… well, I didn’t realise…”

He doesn’t know what to say, and he always knows what to say. He set you off with a single word and now he’s stuttering like sentences are all possible landmines. He tries his luck again, putting a foot forward: “Listen to me. I’ll go to the store. Would that be alright? Or perhaps there’s another café that could—”

You explode: sobbing even more viscerally. Your whole body shakes with it.

Sylus has frozen. He watches on helplessly as you cry, blabbering about the macarons you can’t have and the café you can’t return to. Across the room, even Mephisto has hunched down on his perch, though he issues a few, spirited squawks, maybe in solidarity with your breakdown, or maybe in protest of it.

It’s like a catalyst. You cry more: burying your face in your hands because what the hell is wrong with you? It’s not a big deal. It’s not a big deal, so why do you feel sick? And then there’s Sylus— your Sylus, devoted and adoring— and here you are, punishing him for something beyond his control.

You look up from your hands, desperate to apologise, but he’s gone. More shards of sunlight paint his empty seat and catch all that’s left of him: a few crow feathers, glistening like onyx. Mephisto is gone too, and the room is quiet, save for you snivelling and feeling sorry for yourself.

“Sylus?” you call out into the empty morning.

It isn’t his fault, not really. You wouldn’t want to be around you, either.

…

Something brushes over your cheek, and your tired eyes open.

The sun has ebbed back behind the curtains and the ceiling light has taken its place, casting artificial highlights over everything in reach: the coffee table, the closed-up flowers at its centre and a mug of tea that’s gone cold. Sylus is in front of you too, backlit and soft like a daydream, and he—

He left you.

“Sy?” you whisper warily, because the context is coming back to you slowly, piece by piece.

“Hey,” he coaxes, voice as honeyed as whatever’s turned the air sweet.

You blink, rubbing sleep from your eyes and relishing the warmth of his hand on your face. Then you slap his shoulder. “Hey, really? That’s all you’ve got— hey?”

He’s kneeling for you— on the floor, beside the couch— so you can meet his eyes. He settles his chin thoughtfully on the edge of the seat, his nose almost touching yours. “What would you prefer, sweetie?” His lips are close to yours too. “Good evening, my beloved? Greetings, my queen?”

“How about sorry?” you snap, because he isn’t cute and he isn’t charming.

He pouts. “Why sorry?”

“Because you left, Sylus!�� You sit up straighter, and your phone tumbles out of your lap. Its screen is still lit-up from a few hours ago, showcasing a very one-sided conversation and a rant you never actually sent, because it’s still in the text box.

You vaguely recall writing it, so you try to snatch the phone from Sylus’s hand as he plucks it from the floor. He’s more alert than you. More co-ordinated. He keeps it out of your grasp as he reads the unsent message, an eyebrow raising.

It was a lot of things— colourful, creative— not entirely tasteful. “My, my, your highness,” he tuts, “so this is the treatment your valiant knight receives for undertaking your quest?”

“You’re not valiant,” you rebuke, and you manage to wrestle your phone from him. “You’re—”

“A heartless prick,” he finishes casually, quoting your message with a chuckle. He takes your free hand and kisses the back of it, refusing to let you pull away. “And whose fault is that, I wonder?”

“You can have your heart back.”

“Nope. You’re stuck with it, sweetie. With me, too. Now—” he sits back on his knees— “would you please ask me about my quest?”

The analogy is lost on you. You sit fully up, looking down at him. “What quest, oh valiant knight?”

His lips form a smirk; he just loves when you play along. “Close your eyes.”

You do— whether you’re queen or not. You hear him shifting aside, and then there’s a snap of his fingers. The air changes, warping like thick, liquid smoke, and you know he’s using his Evol. “Open,” he commands.

And there on the coffee table, freshly teleported, is a plate of macarons the colour of cherry blossoms. As if anticipating the comparison, Sylus pulls a handful of pink petals from his pocket and blows them up into the air so they can spiral down on the scene. He watches them. Then you. “Ta-da,” he proclaims, his tone dry but full of humour.

You’re prone to hyperbole nowadays, but this is without a doubt the best thing you have ever seen.

“Sylus,” you gasp in disbelief, “how did you—”

“It doesn’t matter,” he says; the story isn’t for today, and he’s very, very tired. A few weeks from now he’ll tell you about how he tracked down the contact information of the owner of the old café. How he spent an hour on the phone bargaining for a certain macaron recipe, and several more hours in the kitchen, trying to get them perfect. “Now, they might not be exactly the same, sweetie. But I did try to—”

You surge forwards, capturing his lips in a kiss. It’s so impulsive— so reckless— that you almost tumble down from the couch, but he catches you, steadies you, and your hand is gripping the soft of his hair as he kisses you back. Slowly, his mouth not leaving yours, he lifts you back into your seat.

“Easy, sweetie.” His voice is low as he pulls away, and though he turns his face from you, you can make out the blush on his cheeks. He settles back into his kneeling position on the floor. “I have one more surprise for you. Do try to control yourself.”

He retrieves a small, complete flower from his pocket, albeit one a little dreary from its journey. Sylus smiles triumphantly as he holds it out to you, and he was right; you do want to throw yourself at him. Instead, you take the flower and lean forwards, tucking it behind his ear before he can protest. He’d tilted closer to help you, and he sits back with an exasperated tsk when you’re done.

“It suits you,” you grin.

He yawns. “Everything does.”

You don’t want to get into trouble, so you shimmy to the very edge of your seat and carefully— showing tremendous restraint— reach out to take his face in your hands. “You’re amazing, Sy. Thank you for doing all of this for me, but…”

“But…?”

“I missed you. I like macarons, yeah,” you smile, “but I’d much rather have you.”

This time, he can’t hide his face and the way it goes pink, like the blossom behind his ear. His cheeks are warm beneath your palms. “You couldn’t have said that before I spent the whole day—”

His voice is strangled as you keel towards him— slow and deliberate— to thread your arms around him and pull him into a hug. He tenses for a moment, then wraps his arms around you too: holding you tightly, keeping you from falling any further. You can feel his hand stroking your back and he hums as you give him a gentle squeeze.

“Such a lovely moment, kitten,” he muses, your head on his shoulder. “I do hope it’s sincere, and not— say— an excuse for someone to get her paws on the macarons behind me.”

There’s another moment of quiet.

“Don’t be silly, Sy,” you retort, but your mouth is full, your cheeks are stuffed, and not a single word of it is intelligible.

[foone]

Ok so I've done some cursory looking over hdg and it seems like it would like, 99% be my thing except for the caked in assumptions regarding consent.

If benevolent plant beings showed up from space and said "We're here to free you from capitalism and also do some weird kink stuff with you if you're into that" I would not need to be mindbroken about it. I would be like "Can you maybe also do some weird body horror stuff to me please" and they'd be like "Yeah and we're also gonna keep you as a pet" and I'd say "Yippee!"

If there's like, a bunch of stories about enthusiastic consent in the setting it would become my favorite thing I think, but im not seeing any reference to stories like that so far in my research.

No, I don't know if there's any specific stories like that. There must be a couple (there's nearly 1000 stories on AO3 alone!), but I've not seen them. Any other HDG readers can recommend any?

But yeah. HDG is firmly in a dubcon hypnosis era: it's usually about subs going "no I don't want this!" and they eventually get convinced (possibly with mind control! ) that they're actually denying their feelings and they DO want this.

I can totally see why that kind of consent situation wouldn't be for everyone! But it's a bit baked into the setting, so I don't know how much HDG you'll he able to find that doesn't have it.

Best of luck, and I totally understand if you just don't enjoy HDG because of the consent issues. It's not for everyone.

For what it's worth, while I personally don't have a problem with reading the dubcon, it is a bit annoying to me, as someone who would similarly just dive into being a plant-mommy's pet. An HDG protagonist will be all "damn you freaky xenos! Stop trying to give me the body I always wanted and fixing everything about my life and trying to give me sexy plant cuddles with fun drugs!"

And I'm like... Sis, stop complaining. Embrace being a pet and enjoy. This is everything I wanted.

(I hope I don't get evicted from the HDG fandom for my heresy)

[d1xonss]

Practice Makes Perfect

✧ Pairing : Daryl Dixon x Reader

✧ Era : Season 11

✧ Pronouns : she/her

✧ Genre : ⚠️ Smut (18+)

✧ Word Count : 8.9k

AN ~ Okay, so this was originally a request sent in by annon, but when I first uploaded it, I wasn't completely happy with the turnout. It felt a bit rushed and there were some things I wanted to change so I figured I would reupload and try again. So in other words, if you've already seen me post this once, no you didn't:) Hope you enjoy! xoxo

ps- Daryl's a sub in this so if you're into that, this is definitely for you;)

Daryl stood slumped over at the kitchen counter in the shitty apartment he now called home, the space oddly silent as the kids were off with Carol for the day. But the quiet was nice, it gave him time to think, time to let his mind wander as he slowly woke for the day. The smell of coffee hit his nose as it brewed softly from behind him, the light streaming in through the opened windows to let in the fresh breeze. 

Though his gaze remained downcast at the piece of paper that sat in front of him, his eyes rereading the words over and over again to the point where he had it memorized. The neat cursive of your handwriting, the small errors in your spelling, and especially the little heart you placed at the bottom where your name was signed. You had left it the first time you came over, and even though you didn’t have a clue in the world, he had kept it ever since. Mostly because he didn’t have the heart to throw it away. Though there might’ve been another small part of him that held onto it because it was something you wrote out for him, and him only.

He reminisced about how stressed he was that day, having just moved into the Commonwealth with two of his kids, trying to figure out the new community and routine they would have to grow accustomed to. It was all very surreal having to go back to a “normal” kind of life, Judith already asking for allowance before he even had his first day of work made his head spin. But then with just a soft knock on the door, came a sight that he never expected to see.

You stood there on the other side, all pretty and perfect, wearing a smile on your face and holding out a container of cookies as some kind of welcome. You explained that you lived just down the hall and heard about the new arrivals, wanting to do something special as you expressed your understanding for how weird it must’ve felt for him. And after offering your baked goods and assistance to whatever they might need, all Daryl could do was nod his head as he stared at you dumbly. He wasn’t trying to be rude, in fact he appreciated your words more than anything in that moment. However, he couldn’t help but ogle you as if you walked straight out of a Disney movie or something.

And it was safe to say those feelings never exactly went away. In fact every time he saw you they only seemed to worsen.

The kids however were even more hooked with you than he was, your cookies really winning them over in the beginning as they finished them within a day and a half. “Marry her.” was the first thing Judith told him after tasting the delicious treat, and he couldn’t deny he was amused. Though he obviously wasn’t looking to date or marry anyone ever, the idea of eating whatever you baked for the years to come...it tempted him a bit.

But the reality of it all was that he didn’t want to ruin his blossoming friendship with you, it was far too precious for him to ever risk. That, and he had absolutely no experience with relationships whatsoever. He had kissed a girl once when he was about fifteen, but other than that, he hadn't been with anyone in his entire life. Never even showed interest in any woman that attempted to flirt or touch him as he simply didn’t ever feel the need to want that. He always preferred to be on his own, that’s just the way that it was. 

But now as he stood there, reading over your note you left on top of the container of cookies all those months ago, he knew he was in way over his head with someone like you.

Just then the front door suddenly opened up, the sound causing him to jump a bit as your familiar voice called out, “It’s me!”

It had become a common occurrence for you to just walk into each other's homes without knocking, and though Daryl didn’t mind, now was clearly not the time. He scrambled to open up a random drawer, tossing the note inside before slamming it shut again, “Kitchen.” he called back with a huff.

He saw your head peek around the corner a few seconds later, smiling as you adjusted the strap of your purse, “Hey, you busy?”

“Nah,” he said as he awkwardly scratched the back of his neck, “Just…makin some coffee.” he gestured, offering you a thin lipped smile.

You nodded, “Where are the kids?” you asked, sitting yourself down at one of the stools across from him, “I found some things I think they’ll like, I figured I’d stop by and drop them off.”

“They’re out with Carol, she offered to take ‘em for a couple hours.”

“Oh.” you nodded again as you watched him turn around to pour himself a cup of coffee, “Well, that’s nice…you deserve some peace in the mornings every once and a while. I can just leave them here.” you suggested as you took the two little boxes out of your bag, placing them down on the counter.

He hummed a response before retrieving some milk and sugar to pour a decent amount into the mug, making you question everything as he was always adamant on having his coffee black. The way God intended or something. But then your expression softened a bit seeing him setting it down in front of you instead, making it the way he knew you loved.

“Oh, I don’t need any-” you tried to protest.

“It’s just coffee,” he said as if it were no big deal, “No roofies or anything, I swear.”

You snorted at his shitty joke, like you always did, raising the cup to your lips as you muttered, “Smartass.” just loud enough for him to hear.

He smirked a little at your response, pouring himself a cup of the steaming hot beverage as the two of you enjoyed it in the nice comfortable silence. His eyes never strayed away from you for very long however, almost as if he was casually taking in your appearance without you noticing too much. You always dressed up pretty, your hair styled to perfection, wearing some kind of boot or high heel, and paired with some fancy outfit that was far too much for the apocalypse. But Daryl never minded. In fact, he found it endearing.

Though he couldn’t help but let his mind wander a bit, noticing that it had been quite a long time since he had seen you. Usually the two of you would get together a few times a week simply because you had grown to love each other’s company. But recently you had been busy with other things, with other people. Perhaps that’s why he found himself staring at your note this morning, subconsciously missing you without even realizing it.

“You avoiding me or somethin?” he then broke the silence, his question lighthearted but a part of him was a little serious. His insecurities tending to get in the way of things.

Your brows furrowed a little, “What?”

He shrugged a bit, “Just noticed you’ve been busy lately…haven’t seen ya in a while. Miss ya.”

You gave him a sad smile, “Believe me, I’m not doing it on purpose, work has just been insane. We recruited a few new people who don’t know what the hell they’re doing, training them has been a disaster, and…” you trailed off as you looked at him, noticing the small smile he wore when watching you ramble on and on. “...I miss you too.”

“Then stay for a while.” he said, his voice soft, seeing if he could keep you a few extra minutes before you would ultimately have to go to work.

You sat up a bit straighter at the invitation, “Yeah? You want me to?”

“Course.” he reassured, though his statement made him feel a bit uneasy, roughly clearing his throat to slightly divert the topic, “Just…don’t get too comfortable cause you ain’t movin in.”

He heard you laugh softly, the sound being almost too perfect to be real, “Don’t worry, I know you like your little bachelor pad going on here.” you gestured.

He scoffed, “Yeah, when the kids ain’t hoggin it.”

You hummed before a slow knowing smile was brought to your face, gently setting down your mug, “You know, speaking of…I talked to Carol recently. She told me some pretty interesting things.”

He raised an eyebrow, whether it was one of concern or curiosity, you couldn’t tell, “Oh yeah? Bout what?”

“You. And…Connie.” you hinted.

A look of surprise crossed his face, “What bout Connie?”

You shrugged innocently, “She seems to think you have a little thing for her.” you said, taking another sip of your coffee as you looked around, “Maybe this won’t be a bachelor pad for long.” you winked.

Daryl was left baffled. Why Carol would think he had a thing for Connie, he had no idea. But she had gotten it completely wrong, and now the girl he had been pinning over was under the same impression from the misinformation. But he couldn’t necessarily correct you, not without you questioning why. This conversation couldn’t have been going any worse, and all because he just wanted you to stay for a damn cup of coffee.

He couldn’t help but chuckle nervously, running a hand through his slightly messy hair, “You and yer wishful thinkin, girl.” he tried to brush off.

You tilted your head a bit at his dismissive tone, “I just want you to be happy.”

The sincerity in your voice made his heart flutter in an unimaginable way, finding he couldn’t stop the smile that spread onto his face. This is exactly why he liked you, your heart was far too big for your own good. “Yer pretty sweet, ya know that?”

“I’m just being honest,” you spoke softly, “If anyone deserves happiness, it’s you.”

He scoffed lightly in response, “Well, I appreciate that…but I don't think that's somethin I want...it ain’t really that simple for me. I can’t just…do that with Connie. Or any woman really. I ain’t good at that kinda stuff, I dunno what the hell m’ doin. I never even-”

A lump formed in his throat as he suddenly cut off the last part of his sentence, feeling his face get hot with embarrassment at what almost dared to slip out. He hadn’t meant to say that much, he never wanted to admit this kind of stuff to anyone let alone the woman he was enamored by. But now he had gone too far, he became far too open and honest about his inexperience, and now all he wanted to do was crawl into a hole and die. 

Apparently, the conversation could get worse.

Though whether it was because of your innocence or the fact that it was early in the morning, you weren’t picking up what he was putting down as your face morphed into confusion instead. “Never even…what?”

Oh for the love of God.

Daryl cleared his throat awkwardly as he ran a hand over his face, the redness spreading down his neck as he debated on whether or not to tell you. It was mortifying, the fact that he had gone fifty whole years without touching a woman was absolutely the last thing he wanted you to know. Yet at the same time, he trusted you. He trusted you wouldn’t laugh or make fun of him for the matter. And anyway, he felt it was a little too late to back out now given the intrigued look on your face.

“Never had…y’know…” he trailed off with a gesture of his hand, hoping he wouldn’t have to actually say it out loud.

A beat of silence passed before your eyes widened a little as you connected the dots. Though you couldn’t bring yourself to believe it. No way this man was a virgin.

“Shut up.”

Daryl felt his cheeks burn brighter at your disbelief, “M’ serious…I ain’t ever…done that before.”

“You’ve never had sex?” you asked as if to make sure you were truly on the same page.

He blinked, “No.”

You slumped back in your seat with a breath, “Wow…” you muttered, watching as he grew more uncomfortable by the second. Though you weren’t trying to make him uneasy by admitting such a thing, it just genuinely surprised you that he had gone this far in his life without sleeping with someone. I mean…he was attractive, kind, somewhat of a smartass. It was hard to believe no one had fallen for that sort of thing, causing you to wonder just how much he had missed out on.

You nodded to yourself, “We gotta get you laid or something.”

His eyes widened in absolute horror, clearly not expecting that response from you, “No, no that’s- what?” he exclaimed in disgust, “You ain’t gettin me laid.”

“Why not?” you asked in mild disappointment.

He set his mug down on the counter with a soft slam as he grunted in slight frustration, “Christ (Y/N), cause it ain’t that easy. I don’t just wanna screw around with someone, that ain’t me. I would have to have…feelings for that person to get that far, y’know?” he asked, silently pleading with you to understand.

His outlook made you slowly realize that Daryl wasn’t like any other guy you’d ever met. Well, you always knew that, but hearing his genuine words seemed to make you falter for a moment as you just simply stared at him. Any other guy would absolutely dive head first for the opportunity to have a random and meaningless hookup, something to make them feel good before forgetting about the other person as a whole. Using them to just get what they wanted. 

But Daryl…was the complete opposite; probably the biggest sweetheart the world had ever seen. You knew he would want to love and cherish that person he would share such an intimate moment with, treating them with the most respect and consideration. He would probably take it as slow as possible, not only to prolong the intimacy, but to make sure they were truly comfortable. You imagined him to be gentle and kind, even after the deed was done, he would continue to take care of them, offering to get them anything their heart desired. 

Thinking about all of this caused an unexpected flutter in your stomach, one that you didn’t expect. But you couldn’t deny it was there.

You blinked a few times to snap yourself out of it, clearing your throat awkwardly, “I know that…I honestly wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” you smiled softly.

His shoulders relaxed a bit upon hearing your response, nodding in appreciation as he assumed the topic of conversation would end here, hoping to get out of this humiliating misery. But before he could speak, your gentle voice cut off his words.

“Is there someone you have feelings for?"

His eyes widened a little at the unexpected question, "...Huh?"

"Is there someone you’d want to, you know…experience that with?” you clarified.

He paused again, swallowing nervously as there was a certain heaviness to that question he couldn’t place. Of course there was. The way he felt about you was unlike anything else he had ever experienced before. In the beginning he denied it relentlessly, because he simply couldn’t accept the fact that he had managed to open up his heart to someone so special. But there was no denying it anymore, at least to himself. Though you on the other hand, could never know the truth.

“Nah.” he said simply.

You nodded slowly in understanding, quietly tapping your fingers on the counter as if you were trying to figure out what to say. “Well…if there comes a time where there is someone, and you need some advice…I’m always around.” you assured.

He nodded slowly, “Alright...” he said in appreciation, trying to mask how he was really feeling, his heart feeling like it was about to burst out of his chest at the thought of you seeing through him.

“Dropping the topic now.” you said as you raised your hands in surrender.

He chuckled gruffly, “Thanks.”

You smiled up at him, before catching a glimpse of the time blinking on the oven, “Oh shoot, I should go. I have to head into the infirmary in like fifteen minutes.” you said as you quickly drank one last mouthful of coffee.

Daryl tried his best not to let his disappointment show, nodding once more as his eyes followed you when you moved around to place your empty mug in the sink. Though the disappointment seemed to diminish when you turned around to give him a hug, your arms going around his shoulders as you gave him a soft squeeze. He found himself smiling at your familiar gesture, patting your back before he pulled away first, his hand lingering on your arm.

“Stay outta trouble, alright?” he mumbled.

“Always.” you promised in return.

An entire week had passed since that little talk the two of you had in his home, and it was safe to say that it had been plaguing Daryl’s mind ever since. He couldn’t recall the last time he was so open with someone, not being able to tell for certain if he regretted it or not. Though he couldn’t deny that your support and understanding wasn’t something to take for granted. But the longer he thought about the interaction, the more he wished he’d told you the truth.

Maybe he should’ve laid it all out there, but then again he had a lot to lose. Having no idea how you would react to his confession, he could potentially scare you off, and that was something he didn’t know if he should risk. He became a mess of emotions as he pondered endlessly over the things that clouded his thoughts. Although he couldn’t deny that he was slowly starting to find the idea of sex more and more appealing the longer he thought about it. Maybe having a little experience wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. But that also meant having to ask you for that experience, and he knew he would rather die than put himself out there like that.

Though as the days dragged on and he grew more restless, he physically couldn’t stop himself from thinking about it. This was way out of his comfort zone, he knew that, but he felt like he was going crazy at this point. At least if you said no then he could just move on and not absolutely spiral about the constant “what ifs.” So, with that in mind, he smoked an entire joint by himself in order to calm his nerves before gathering what little confidence he had left, and headed down to the infirmary where he knew you’d be at this hour. He couldn’t let himself think about the decision too much otherwise he knew he would surely chicken out. 

The door opened with a soft creak as he stepped inside, scanning the area for you. He disregarded the people sitting in the waiting area, clearly anticipating when their name would be called, opting out to peer around the corner to try and see if he could spot you. And sure enough he managed to catch a glimpse of your frame in the back, stocking up a nearby medicine cabinet as you organized a few pill bottles. You were wearing that little white doctors coat that he knew you hated, thinking it ruined your outfits. But he always found it quite attractive.

He awkwardly stood there for a moment as if debating whether or not to go back there, knowing he didn’t exactly have permission. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, letting out a small whistle in hopes to get you to look at him. It was a quiet, soft sound, but it caught your attention nonetheless, glancing over your shoulder to see him standing there lingering in the waiting room. He smiled a bit, gesturing with a hand as if asking if he could walk over to talk to you, to which you nodded almost immediately, waving him back.

Daryl let out a breath once you beckoned him to come over, silently slipping past everyone else to join you in your more secluded spot, “Hey.” he breathed.

You smiled, “Hey, what’re you doing here?”

Once you said that, it hit him. What was he doing here? He showed up to where you worked of all places to have this private discussion, not even considering the option to invite you over sometime to talk like adults. Maybe he underestimated how high he really was.

“Just uh…just wanted to see ya.” he said quietly, shoving his hands in his pockets as he figured there was no backing out now, “Can we talk for a minute?”

“Oh, um…” you trailed off as you looked around, making sure no one needed your assistance, “You might have to make it quick.”

He nodded in understanding, “Right, course…I promise it won’t take long.”

Your brows furrowed a little in concern, “What’s going on?”

He cleared his throat nervously, gripping the material of his jeans as he felt his palms begin to sweat, “You know, uh…you remember that morning you came over a few days ago? When we was talkin in the kitchen?”

“Mhm.” you nodded.

He swallowed thickly as his heart was beating concerningly fast, trying to force himself to just say it, “Well, I been thinkin…bout what you said and…all that,” he gestured with his hand, “Bout gettin some real experience.”

Your eyebrows raised a little, “Really? You changed your mind?”

“Yeah, I did,” he grunted, “I think it could help, y’know…get outta my comfort zone and whatnot. See what all the fuss is bout.” he joked dryly, purposefully dancing around the subject.

You smiled a bit in surprise that he was willing to take that step, knowing normally he wasn’t one for change or trying new things. But maybe this time he was really ready to put himself out there, and you couldn’t lie, you were happy for him. Though the more you thought about it, the more you became a bit discouraged at the thought of him with another woman. You didn’t know where it came from, this pang of jealousy, but you knew you couldn’t say anything. After all, you were his friend, and he clearly came here in search of the support you always provided.

So, you managed to push your lingering thoughts aside, smiling genuinely as you gave his arm a small nudge, “Well, I think that’s great.”

He hummed as he nodded his head, trying to force himself to just stop being a coward and ask, “But I also had…somethin to ask ya.”

You raised an eyebrow, “Oh? About advice?”

“Nah…not exactly,” he mumbled as he let out a heavy sigh, “I was just wonderin…if you’d��” he trailed off again as he took another moment to look at you. He knew there was no going back after he said this, questioning last minute if it was really worth it. But seeing that gleam in your eyes and the sweetness of your smile, the words just seemed to stumble out without his permission.

“If you’d be the one to give me some experience.” he said quietly, his tall frame leaning down a bit to mutter it quietly for your ears only.

Your stomach plummeted when you heard his quiet request, feeling as if the wind was knocked out of you as that was the last thing you expected to come out of his mouth. The way his tone dropped when he asked, the fact that he took a small step closer to tower over you more than he normally was. It was all doing something to do. The tension between you was there, thick enough to cut with a knife as you stared at him practically gaping like a fish, not knowing what to say.

On one hand, you were flattered, and a little turned on by the fact that he wanted you specifically to give him the experience he craved. But another part of you felt hesitant, as if you weren’t one hundred percent sure he knew what he was asking of you. You wanted him to get out there, escape his comfort zone, but you didn’t want him to do it just because you simply suggested it.

Though just as he was growing a bit worried at your silence, you finally spoke, “...Me? You…you want it to be me?” you whispered.

He let out a soft breath, “Well…yeah. I...I really like ya, and...I trust ya.” he admitted, gazing down at you with a certain gentleness in his eyes, “But you know…you don’t gotta if you dont want to. I ain't gonna pressure you or anythin, I just thought I'd...” he trailed off, realizing he was talking far too much.

But you didn’t feel pressured, quite the opposite really. You honestly just couldn’t believe this was actually happening, it was a lot to process, and you hardly knew what to say. Time seemed to be moving incredibly fast and slow at the same time as you stood there, staring at each other with a newfound feeling.

Though just as you were about to open your mouth to speak again, someone popped around the corner and called your name, clearly needing some help. Daryl silently cursed at the interruption, though it was to be expected. He was coming to the conclusion that this was probably the worst time to be having this discussion.

“Sounds like they need ya...” he said softly.

You tilted your head as you didn’t want to go, your expression turning sympathetic, “I’m sorry.” you whispered.

Daryl shrugged it off, “It’s alright.” he said, hesitating for a moment, before reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair back behind your ear. Your eyes widened a little at the gesture, the comfort of his touch, feeling yourself almost leaning into his hand before he took it away too quickly.

“I’ll um…I’ll see ya around, okay?” he said with a nod before turning to head out, not even giving you a chance to respond. 

You were a little shocked at his sudden rush to get away, but at the same time you understood. He must’ve been incredibly embarrassed and ashamed, especially since you hadn’t given him an answer. A part of you wanted to call him back, but you knew better than to do that, knowing he was already too far gone to hear you anyways.

Daryl couldn’t even begin to describe his regret as he walked back home, the distance between his apartment and the infirmary giving him way too much time to think. You didn’t seem completely disgusted, but clearly you weren’t a huge fan of the idea given the look on your face. He knew this was a bad plan from the get go, but he still somehow convinced himself to do it, now wishing he had never opened up his mouth at all. He felt a certain grief wash over him as he could imagine he had ruined whatever relationship he had with you, needing to learn to let it go. 

The remainder of the day passed by in a flash, ending with him taking a long, hot shower in an attempt to ease the tension in his muscles and the thoughts circling his mind. The water sprayed down on him like an element of lava given the harsh temperature, his fingers running through his wettened hair as he rinsed out the soap and bubbles. Perhaps the longer he spent under the running faucet, the more it would make him forget about the embarrassing events of the day. It caused him to wonder what you were thinking at this moment in time, but then again a part of him didn’t want to know.

“Daryl?”

His eyes widened in surprise when he heard the sound of your voice, momentarily considering it to be just his imagination, but the sound of the front door closing with a familiar slam convinced him otherwise. What the hell were you doing here? And with the worst timing in the world.

“Y-Yeah? I’m in the shower.” he called out without thinking, the door being opened a crack and just enough to where he hoped you could hear him.

You fidgeted nervously near the front entrance, hearing his slightly muffled words made you rethink your decision to come over, seeing it clearly wasn’t the best time. “Oh, okay...should I um…should I come back later?”

“No, no,” he quickly called out again, “Just…just gimmie a sec.” he said as he frantically finished up before you had the chance to leave.

With his reassurance in mind, you stayed put as you waited for him, briefly hearing the water shut off after only a few seconds. Your thoughts ran wild as you pondered over the things you wanted to say, having not been able to take your mind off the interaction for your whole shift. It was distracting, nerve racking…but it was also a bit enticing. You had no idea what you were going to say to him, but one thing was for certain, you weren’t about to deny that his request didn’t intrigue you.

The sound of his footsteps approaching is what snapped you out of your thoughts, your eyes widening a fraction as you saw him step into the living room in nothing but a towel. The truth was, he was just far too anxious to hear what you had to say to take the time and put on real clothes. Though now as he stood a few feet from you with just a thin piece of fabric shielding him, he felt a little exposed under your lingering gaze. But you couldn’t bring yourself to look away, his messy hair sticking to the sides of his face and the water droplets that clung to his skin, it truly was a sight to behold.

Had you always looked at him like this? From the moment you met, you always saw him as a close friend and someone you could count on for anything. But now it was like a switch flipped or something, nearly drooling as you saw him in a way you never had before.

“Somethin you need, sweetheart?” Daryl’s voice broke through the silence.

You blinked a few times as you were brought back to the current situation, nodding absentmindedly, “Yeah, uh…I was hoping we could talk.”

He shifted a bit on his feet, subconsciously tugging his towel up a bit, “Bout what?” he asked dumbly. He knew why you were here; he just didn’t know what else to say.

You gave him a look that made him feel stupider than before, “About earlier…” you trailed off after a moment, attempting to find the right words, “Were you…um…did you really mean all that?”

He shrugged, “Yeah…” he breathed, “You really think I didn’t mean what I said?”

“No,” you quickly reassured with a shake of your head, “It’s just…it was all really unexpected, you know? You’ve never done anything like this before, and now all of a sudden, you’re asking me-”

“I know how it looks,” he said as he dared to take another step closer to you, “But…I’ve had these feelings for ya ever since you first knocked on that damn door, alright? It’s new to you but it ain’t new to me.”

Your expression softened as he admitted this wasn’t some spur of the moment thing, not that you thought it was. But his confirmed feelings for you only drew you closer to him, hearing the assertiveness behind every word.

“Look,” he sighed, “Goin down there and askin ya that was me bein a fuckin idiot. I shouldn’t have gone about it like that, hell, maybe I shouldn’t have even asked at all...I don’t know. But I don’t want ya to feel like ya owe me a damn thing, cause ya don’t. If you don’t wanna do this-”

“I want to.”

Daryl paused for a moment when you interrupted him, feeling a bit shocked that you had made your decision just like that. But then again, you did have hours to think it over. Meanwhile he didn’t even have to think twice when it came to you.

“Y-You do?” he asked, not meaning to stutter. He was just thrown off and absolutely floored that someone as breathtaking as you would agree to something like this with him of all people.

You took a breath as you stepped closer to him, leaving just a few inches of space, “Yeah…I really do. Honestly, I’m...pretty flattered.”

He felt a sudden burst of nervousness in his chest as the reality of the situation began to set in for him. You wanted this too. He could easily see how genuine you were being as you moved to be closer to him.

Clearing his throat gruffly, he spoke again a bit quieter, “Yer flattered?” he couldn’t help but chuckle, “Ya don’t even know the half of it.”

You smiled a little, sensing both his eagerness and unease which you seemed to find charming, “It’s just me.” you reminded.

He nodded quickly, “Yeah, yeah I know…” he said as he hesitantly rested his hands upon your arms, as if to help steady himself. “I just…I don’t know what m’ doin.” he admitted a bit sheepishly.

“I know,” you reassured, “I’ll show you…you trust me?”

He nodded again, his heart beating rapidly against his ribcage as he grew more anxious by the second. Not because of her, but because of the unknown. But it was clear he was in good hands. “I trust you.”

With his simple nod of approval, you reached up to gently grasp the back of his neck, before pulling him down to meet you halfway where your lips clashed together. He gasped quietly against your mouth, the softness of your lips already addicting as his hands instinctively squeezed your arms, wanting to keep himself grounded. The taste of you was better than he ever could’ve imagined, heavenly, unreal…but what else did he expect from someone as perfect as you? As the kiss deepened, you slowly coaxed his mouth open so you could slip in your tongue, his groan in response to you only encouraged you to keep going. His kiss was hesitant and a bit sloppy, though you couldn’t help but love it.

Your free hand moved up to his wrist, guiding his hand down toward your hip as if silently encouraging him to touch you. Daryl received the message loud and clear, but he was still a bit clueless when it came to how, slowly allowing his hand to roam the curve of your back blindly. He then pulled you a bit closer to him, wanting to feel every part of you against his skin. But with his swift movement, caused his towel to nearly slip all the way off his waist, feeling him quickly grab it before it had the chance to hit the ground. 

He cursed quietly as he pulled away from your mouth, his breathing coming out in short, harsh pants as he grew a bit flushed at the idea of being completely naked in front of you. You allowed him to collect himself for as long as he needed, noticing the red that dusted his cheeks, but you still didn’t miss the blatant lust that filled his eyes.

Your hand reached up to gently brush some hair away from his face, “You don’t have to be embarrassed around me.” you spoke so softly, so patiently, leaving a few kisses on his cheek as if to help ease him.

He sighed shakily, trying to gather himself as his eyes fluttered closed for a moment at the feel of your touch, “I know, just…never been this exposed in front of anyone before.”

“I know,” you assured again, your mouth traveling to gently nip at his earlobe, “How about we move to your room? And you can take it off when you’re ready.”

Daryl hissed softly as your teeth grazed his ear, nodding frantically at your suggestion, “Okay…yeah.” he said breathlessly before taking your hand to guide you back down the hallway.

In a flash he had taken you into his room, shutting and locking the door behind the two of you before you gestured for him to sit down on the edge of his bed. He followed your suggestion without saying a word, willing to do just about anything you wanted right now with how incredibly turned on he was. Though he was extremely nervous, he couldn’t deny how badly he wanted you, how many times he had imagined himself in situations much like this one. Completely at your mercy.

His eyes followed your movements as you came to stand in between his legs, cupping his face to angle it up toward you. “Just relax.” you whispered before slowly kissing him again with a little more force than before.

This time he couldn’t stop the moan that bubbled up in his throat, feeling the smoothness of your skin on his aging cheeks, his body physically shuttering. His hands reached out to pull you closer to his bare chest, wanting your body flush against him as his touch seemed to roam a bit more confidently. You felt his hands travel down to squeeze your ass, groaning into your mouth as your tongue invaded his mouth to taste him again. At this point he couldn’t help but wonder if this was a dream, or some kind of sick hallucination, his mind tricking his body that this was actually happening with how fast they seemed to move. But he honestly couldn’t bring himself to care right now.

You smiled against his lips as he gently groped your ass, your hands moving up towards his hair to give the roots a gentle tug as your mouths worked frantically. A shiver ran down his spine, the action making his head spin. You were so good with him, so gentle yet so firm as well. He couldn’t stop himself from breaking away from your mouth briefly, his lips moving down your neck as if he wanted to trace and memorize every last bit of your skin.

You sighed softly as your head instinctively tilted back for him, “You sure you’re a virgin? You seem pretty good at this.” you teased lightheartedly.

Chuckling against your skin, he took his time to kiss the underside of your jaw a few times before responding roughly, “Just have a good imagination is all…”

“You’ve thought about this before?”

He nodded a bit timidly against your neck, growing a bit shy at the admission, “A lot, actually…”

A smile broke out onto your face as you looked down at him, “Well, now I’m even more flattered.”

He groaned in slight embarrassment as he buried his face in the side of your neck, the words just slipping out without him being able to stop. His mind was too far in the clouds to realize fully, the lingering effects of the weed he had smoked making his mind a bit hazier. But he desperately wanted to remember every little detail, his hands trailing down toward your thighs as if he was itching to memorize your body.

“Here...” you then spoke again, moving his hands up toward the buttons of your blouse, “Help me out.”

Daryl looked back up at you with slightly widened eyes, swallowing thickly as he gave a shaky nod, beginning to undo them one by one. His calloused hands, though rough, couldn’t have been more gentle when it came to touching you. He treated every part of your skin like it was delicate glass, a piece of art to admire, as he almost didn’t feel worthy of being in this position. How could he have gotten so lucky when this was the last thing he thought he deserved.

“Keep going,” you encouraged when you felt your top fall to the floor, feeling his hands hesitantly move to unzip your skirt.

The piece of fabric slowly slid down your smooth legs and bunched at your feet, leaving you in practically nothing as you believed bras were a waste of time and effort to wear. His eyes took in every inch of you, mentally trying to capture this moment as he was already reluctant for it to end. And yet it hardly even started.

“You’re so beautiful…” he whispered as his hands reached out to touch you again, his face filled with desperation.

You smiled as you looked down at him, “Yeah?”

He nodded instantly, “Yeah…I can’t believe this is actually happening.”

A laugh escaped your lips as you leaned down to be aligned with his face, “We haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.” you said sweetly before leaving a kiss on his cheek.

Daryl let out a breath as you kissed his cheek, the reminder that this was far from over was almost reassuring. His growing need and want was beginning to be unbearable, his hands gripping your thighs a bit tighter as he felt his erection start to ache.

“You wanna take that off for me?”

Upon hearing your request, the gesture of your hand that pointed toward the towel still around his hips, he grew a bit anxious. It was no secret that he was a bit insecure with the way he looked, he was older, his hair and beard a bit graying, his skin worn and scarred. He knew he was about to be fully vulnerable with you, that being both a good and a bad thing. He did trust you, but he just hoped you liked how he looked despite the fact that he didn’t.

It took a moment for him to build up the courage, to which you were incredibly patient, before he finally pulled the towel off of him, leaving him completely bare in front of you. But your reaction was far from a negative one. Your eyes widened a little as you took him in, not being able to see his flaws he was so worried about as you were solely focused on how breathtaking he looked. His arms could’ve been sculpted by gods, his toned chest rising and falling with every heaving breath, and as your gaze traveled south, you were shocked at the bragging rights he seemed to hold. 

But the thing you wanted him to know the most, was that he was just as perfect to you as you were to him.

Though seeing his pleading expression seemed to stir something inside you, quickly slipping off your thong before stepping forward to straddle his hips in a fit of impatience. His eyes widened at your fast actions, but he wasn’t about to complain, his hands immediately going to your hips to hold to in place as he loved the feel of your skin against his. He didn’t know what to do now exactly, but he did know that he wanted more of you.

“You’re so handsome.” you praised, your mouth coming down to suck softly on the side of his neck. "So perfect for me."

A small gasp escaped him at your praise, your mouth working against his skin caused him to nearly melt beneath you. He had been called a lot of things in his life, but handsome and perfect were never one of them. It was new, different…and he loved it. He soaked up everything he could like a sponge, wanting to ravish in your touch forever. But when he felt you begin to rock against him, stroking his length with every pass of your hips, he couldn’t help the strangled moan he dared to let out. His hips instinctively bucked up against you in return, unable to help himself as he craved more than what you were giving him. All he could feel was his heart racing, his skin burning up, and his dick twitching as he physically needed more. His face nuzzled in the side of your neck, breathing you in as shivers of pleasure ran through him like currents of electricity.

You hummed, “You like that?” you asked, your mouth hovering over the shell of his ear where your teeth grazed his sensitive skin.

Daryl nodded his head frantically against you, losing himself in the lust he had never felt before in his entire life, “Yes…yes, I like it.” he stuttered out desperately, gripping onto you as a signal not to stop anytime soon.

He had never felt so good, the rhythm mixed with your kisses and taunting praise, he felt he could’ve imploded right then and there. He wanted more, his body craved more of you, but he didn’t know how to ask for it. His breathing was ragged at this point as he tried to hold himself back, his face still hidden in the crook of your neck as his lips began to place soft kisses against your skin. But as your pace grew more tortuous and slow, he couldn’t help but writhe and moan beneath you, not being able to take much more of your teasing.

You felt him pull back to look up at you, a distressed look painting his face, “Please.” he nearly whined. It was a tone you had never heard from him before, finding that you loved the way he was falling apart for you.

“Please what, honey?” you asked sweetly as if you didn’t already know, cupping the sides of his face, “Tell me what you want.”

A soft whimper escaped him in your agony, knowing damn well you knew what he meant. He looked up at you pleadingly, the smooth skin of your hands on his face feeling so good, but not good enough. “You…” he whispered needily, “I want you…please.” he begged.

Whilst he was beneath you, whimpering and pleading for you to fuck him, you on the other hand learned something new about yourself. The scene that played before you was something sinful, but you loved it far too much to feel even a little bit guilty. The burly man you had come to know as tough and stoic, just whimpered because of you. And for that, you had no choice but to give him what he so desperately needed.

In an instant you slowly sunk down onto his length, the size of him causing a moan of your own to escape through parted lips. Though Daryl on the other hand groaned loudly as he felt your tight walls enveloping him, his head falling back as he bit his lower lip in an attempt to silence the noises you threatened to pull from him with one simple move. It felt like he had just walked through the pearly gates of heaven, the feeling so surreal and pleasurable he couldn’t help but let it cross his mind.

As you adjusted to him, you looked down and studied his face, his brow already lined with sweat and his expression one of pure bliss. “You look so good like this.” you whispered, your finger gently tracing his jawline.

He wanted to scoff at your comment, thinking that he no doubt looked like a mess in front of you, but he couldn’t help but feel prideful at the thought of you loving it. It made him feel good, perhaps more confident even though he was fully flushed and exposed.

Though as he felt you begin to move, his eyes rolled to the back of his head and a low moan left him in response, feeling the heat in his stomach already beginning to build. His hands moved from your hips down to your thighs as if to encourage you to keep going, giving them a firm squeeze as he panted to try and catch his breath. He felt as if he were going insane with the waves of pleasure washing down upon him, the feeling like no other as he knew he was a goner from the moment you agreed. His head was spinning though he tried to concentrate, not wanting it to ever come to an end as he watched you steadily pick up the pace from above him.

His mind was lost on him as your movements quickened skillfully, his hips pathetically trying to match your pace though he was failing miserably. But he didn’t care. It felt too good to care. His fingers nearly dug into the soft skin of your thighs as he whimpered and squirmed, feeling himself already starting to chase his high. He felt a little embarrassed that it had taken him close to nothing to reach his peak, but then again, he couldn’t bring himself to tell you to stop.

Daryl grew desperate to say something, to warn you that he was getting more and more overwhelmed with the feeling of ecstasy, though he wasn’t able to form any coherent sentence. All that managed to come out were pathetic whines and moans as he desperately tried to pound into you, looking up at you with widened eyes in hopes you would get the message.

And you did. You understood completely. With a simple kiss on his lips and encouraging words, you let him know that it was okay. “I know, honey, I know.” you said sweetly, “Let go for me.”

He whimpered against you lips when you kissed him, hearing your words made him feel a bit more at ease as he felt himself just on the brink of losing all control he had left. But he couldn’t help the way you were making him feel. With his mind beginning to cloud and the desperate movements he made, he finally felt himself release deep inside you, burying his face in your neck as he came. You slowed down your pace a bit as you guided him through his high, trying to make it last as long as possible for him as he just gripped and thrusted into you harder. Near sobs began spilling from his lips as he clung onto your limbs, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths as his body was practically vibrating.

He hadn't meant to be this much of a mess, completely falling apart from underneath you as he chased his high so desperately. But with how unbelievable you made him feel, it was like he had no control over the noises he made t or the emotions he felt. Like you had complete control. And he loved it more than he was willing to admit.

It took him a while to come back down to earth, but you waited patiently the whole time, running your fingers through his tangled mess of hair as he collected his hazy thoughts. Though he couldn’t help but feel a bit ashamed and a bit vulnerable, knowing he didn’t last as long as he would’ve hoped. When he finally gathered the courage to look you in the eye, he feared your reaction, as if he expected you to regret what just happened.

But instead you smiled, “You okay?” you asked gently.

All he managed was a small nod in response, letting out a breath as it was clear you weren’t upset in the slightest. But as his mind wandered a bit, he began to feel selfish, realizing he couldn’t make you feel as good as you made him feel. Leaving him overthinking the things he could’ve done differently.

“I’m sorry.” he then whispered gravely.

Your brows furrowed a little in concern, “For what?”

He blushed a bit with embarrassment, almost not wanting to explain his reasoning for speaking up in the first place. But your gaze remained expectant, and he knew he should answer. “For not…makin ya feel good.” he said sheepishly.

“Hey…” you said softly as you titled his head up to look at you, “You did make me feel good.”

The truth was you enjoyed yourself, even if you didn’t finish, you didn’t care. He was still new at this, and that wasn’t something you were about to shame him for.

He grew a little surprised at your admission, “But…you didn’t…” he trailed off, almost not wanting to say it out loud.

You smiled a little at his lack of words, “It was your first time, Daryl. Don’t be so hard on yourself.” you said, kissing his cheek reassuringly.

He sighed, “I know…but I wanna make ya feel good too.” he tried to explain.

“You will,” you nodded, “Practice makes perfect, right?” you said with a small wink.

He perked right up at that, the idea of doing this again with you hadn’t even crossed his mind. He assumed it would only be a one time thing, but hearing you say that sent a spark of excitement through him.

“So…there’ll be a next time?” he asked, trying to hide his hopefulness.

You laughed softly, “Only if you want there to be.”

He quickly nodded, he would have to be an absolute fool to say no to something like that. “Course I do…I want ya…as many times as you’ll let me have ya.”

Your smile widened as you leaned in to kiss him, wrapping your arms around the back of his neck to bring him flush against you. He groaned softly as his hands danced across your back, suddenly feeling very grateful. He almost couldn’t believe someone as kind and understanding would actually want him, but he couldn’t bring himself to question it for very long. Just simply wanting to live in the moment and not take it for granted.

“Wanna go again?” you asked against his lips.

“Mhm.” he hummed immediately as he deepened the kiss, his response not having any hint of hesitation. It made you laugh softly, feeling him already getting excited all over again. It was safe to say it was going to be an eventful night.

~ Thanks for reading!

[xwritingdixonx]

To Kiss or To Kill. | Daryl Dixon |

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Masterlist

Summary: You and Daryl's relationship did not start kind. It did not begin as a friendship that turned sour over a quarrel. It began with fists and insults and continued this way until unforeseen circumstances leave you discovering that maybe Daryl and you were cut from the same cloth.

Warnings: rivals to lovers trope, daddy issues, language, descriptions of fights + bodily injuries, brief mentioning of homophobia, attempted SA, Reader is mentioned to be bisexual.

Word Count: aprox. 10k

Era: Prison to Alexandria

A/n: This is not my proudest work and I definitely think I could've done better with the material but I hope it can still be enjoyed!

Song recommendations: Ultraviolence - Lana Del Ray, Daylight - David Kushner , Sun Bleached Flies - Ethel Cain

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A lemon is sour from the start and rots with age.

The relationship you shared with Daryl could be described as said lemon.

It was nearing the end of summer. And though this meant the end of scorching heat, the winter proved to be a difficult season for survival. This morning at the prison had begun like any other. Daryl, Maggie, and Glenn we’re set out on a run to find any supplies necessary for the growing community. With all the new folk after the fall of the Governor only a few weeks before, it put more pressure on the group in their endless searches.

The town in which the prison resided did not hold many options when it came to scavenging but there was one place not yet explored. Pike County High School, the only high school in the small town of Zebulon, Georgia. Daryl thought the plan was futile. What was he to find in a high school besides dusty textbooks and inappropriate drawings in the bathroom stalls?

But none the less, Rick sent the trio on their way with a list of items in hand.

The school was as Daryl expected. Papers were thrown about the floors. Windows were broken leaving glass shards to crunch underneath their boots. Desks and chairs were thrown about. And worst of all, there was an eeriness that loomed the chaotic halls. But there was something else hanging in the air, stillness.

Maggie banged her gun on the rusted lockers and waited for any walkers to make themselves known. But the silence that followed was so loud you could practically hear the wind gliding through the shattered windows. Daryl took it a step further and threw a chair down the hall, creating a loud clattering noise as it collided with the wall. Yet still, nothing.

"Alright," Glenn muttered, his uneasiness just as high as the others. "Let's get what we need and get the hell out." Glenn pulled the list from his pocket, "Daryl find the nurse's office, take whatever you find no matter how unimportant it seems. Rick asked us to find some good books for the kids." Glenn passed the list over to a very unamused Daryl.

"Guess I ain't smart enough to find some books."

Daryl walked the halls of the school, crossbow in hand, keeping his ears peeled for any movements that weren’t his own. The silence unsettled Daryl for two reasons. There could be someone residing here which would make sense with the absence of walkers. But he could not shake the thought that there were once children who roamed these halls. Kids who were Carl’s age now. Kids who were planning who they wanted to be, and what they wanted their lives to be. But now their dreams were just as grim as these empty halls.

He spotted it as his gaze wandered from the walls to the floor.

Droplets of deep red stained the tile, varying in size and opacity. Daryl dragged his fingers along the droplets, smearing the coagulated blood. The blood was not as dry as Daryl had hoped.

Daryl drew his bow closer to himself, resting his finger on the trigger, and slowing his steps as he followed the trail of crimson dots. They led him exactly where he needed to be, the nurse's office.

The wood door creaked open, the natural light from the windows lighting the room. The scene worsened in the room. There were now blood smears staining the floors, cabinets swung open and drawers left agape. Someone had obviously barged in in a hassle, with desperate need to help themselves.

What concerned Daryl was the adjoined room to the far left, he could not see into the area unless he approached it directly. Keeping his bow up, he proceeded. Just as the tip of his bow peeked its way around the corner, it was knocked from his hands with a single blow.

Daryl had not known what knocked his bow from his grasp but he sure as hell felt the hit to his jaw.

The punch you had thrown sent a throbbing through your right hand, and the tendons in your arm fizzled with the sudden force. The man reacted quickly, grabbing you by both arms and pulling you away from the wall you had been hidden behind.

You ripped an arm from his grasp quick enough to unsheathe the blade on your thigh. The struggle continued, both of you equally pulling at the other in an attempt for dominance while simultaneously avoiding the cut of the blade. Random objects clattered to the ground in the tussle, including an old coffee mug falling and shattering.

The wound you had acquired on your leg was not helpful in this situation. Had your adrenaline not been so high, you would have dropped long ago. While you struggled to keep yourself standing, Daryl was simply shocked at the brute force of the woman in his grasp.

You paused for a moment, your grip on your knife tightening until your knuckles turned white. Just then you were able to look at him. Daryl saw the determination in your eyes. And though there was determination, there also seemed to be a pleading.

But with one forceful shove, you fell back, your leg buckling under you and your head hitting a cabinet.

A painful gasp left you, feeling the poorly done stitches rip your wound open again. Dropping your knife, your shaking hands grasped at the wound on your thigh as you pulled your back up against the cabinets. Your chest heaved with a mixture of adrenaline and pain. The skin on your thigh seared hot, every nerve around the wound throbbing.

Had you been paying attention, you would’ve noticed the man grip up his bow that was now aimed at you. It gave him time to examine you. You did not look dirty and unkept as other survivors had. Your hair was pulled back into a messy braid at the back of your head. Clothes black, all the way down to your boots. Holsters for weapons hung from your hips and thighs. And a pair of dog tags dangled around your neck.

“Daryl!” Maggie and Glenn came rambling through the door, weapons drawn. Daryl held a hand up to them, signaling that he was fine. The school was not one of great size, it did not surprise Daryl that they’d heard the tussle.

With the arrival of two new faces, you made an attempt to grab the blade you’d drop. But Daryl was quick and kicked the blade away leaving your hand to smack against the tile floor. Now left with no weaponry and not even a stable body to defend yourself, you’d figured you’d start begging to them or praying to God.

“I-I just want to leave. I’m-“ The sudden sharp tingle in your thigh cut your words short. You clenched your jaw tight and shut your eyes waiting for the muscle spasm to pass. “You’re not going anywhere on that leg.” Maggie holstered her gun and met you on the floor. There was a hesitation to her but in her heart she knew leaving you would be a death sentence. “My daddy can help you.”

“Maggie…”

“Glenn.” Maggie’s tone was stern, sending her husband a threatening glare.

While Maggie began to ask you questions, she motioned for the two men to scavenge the room. “What’s your name?”

“Y/n…”

Maggie pulled a handkerchief from her back pocket, scooting even closer to you. She motioned for you to lift your leg, “I’m Maggie. That’s Glenn and then Daryl.” She slipped the fabric beneath it, tying it in a tight knot around your wound. You winced at this, resisting the urge to pull her hands off of you.

“How many walkers have you killed?” Your eyebrows furrowed at the question. Had you known you were meant to keep track, you would’ve started long ago. “I don’t…know…a lot?” Your words were stuttered and shaken considering the pain you felt. You saw the man you had just fought glance at you from the corner of his eye. You began to debate if you should feel guilt for attacking him.

“That’s okay,” Maggie gave you a kind smile, “How many people have you killed?” She watched your face falter and your eyes shift to the ground then back to her. “Eight, I think.” Maggie gently nodded, her tone becoming slightly more serious “Why?”

“I’ve been alone for a long time.”

Maggie’s eyes met yours and for a moment, while you held each other's gaze, there was an understanding. An understanding that only another woman could begin to fathom.

Your arrival at the prison was nothing short of chaotic. The run starting as three and returning as four, though a possibility, was not expected.

A man with a beard pulled Daryl aside beginning to hound him with questions, Maggie supported you as you stood while Glenn ran off shouting the name Hershel. Much of everything after that was blurry. You could remember the man with the white beard mainly due to his kindness and gentle touch while he took care of your wounds. And you remembered the name Rick being tossed about in conversation.

"Let her rest." Hershel patted Glenn on the shoulder, muttering him a thank you for his help.

You lay flat on your back, your head and leg propped up with a pillow. You could not say it was the comfiest bed you'd ever laid in. You weren't even sure it was cozier than where you slept the night before. You fought the tiredness away, unsure of falling asleep in an unfamiliar community. But the medicine Hershel gave you made you drowsy. And soon every muscle felt heavy and your eyelids heavier.

You were unsure of how long you'd slept, only being startled awakened by the clank of metal. Rick noticed his mistake immediately pulling his hand away from the door of the cell, now standing with a guilty look on his face. "I'm sorry. I forget how loud these things are." You took a deep breath in an attempt to calm your beating heart. Rick entered the cell, opening the foldable chair Hershel had previously been sitting on.

"Was gonna drop these off for when ya woke up." Rick held up a glass of water and some type of protein bar. You adjusted yourself into a more proper sitting position, sending Rick a nod. As your mind awoke you became very conscious of your lack of pants, pulling the blanket farther up your waist. You were grateful that Ricks seemed to avert his eyes.

"I'm Rick.” His accent was noticeable.

“Y/n.” Just like your own.

“Maggie and Daryl told me a little bit about you but I wanted to speak with you directly.”

Rick held a certain type of authority to him. He spoke to you politely while still holding himself with dominance. A certain awkwardness became present when Rick spent a tad bit too long racking his brain for a question. “M’sorry about attacking, uhm… Daryl.” You decided to cut the awkwardness yourself.

To your surprise, Rick chuckled at your apology. “Please don’t apologize.” He looked at you, still with a smile on your face. “You were doing what you thought was right.” Rick shifted in the metal chair, resting his elbows atop his knees. "Did you serve?" Rick pointed to your neck, "Is that how you learned to fight?" You instinctively reached for the dog tags hanging from their chain.

"No no, they were my dads." You rubbed the smooth metal anxiously, feeling the indents of the letters and numbers imprinted. "I was an only child, only daughter at that, so my dad was rather protective of me... He had me in every boxing or self-defense class he could afford." A chuckle followed your words, reminiscing on the memory. Rick could understand your father's need to protect, having two children of his own.

"Rick." A gruff voice interrupted your conversation. The man named Daryl took up the doorway. When his eyes met yours, he seemed to falter under your gaze. He nudged his head in the opposite direction, asking for Rick to come with him. "Alright." Rick stood from the chair with an exasperated sigh, "Imma leave this right here for ya." Rick placed the water and protein bar on the chair in his place.

On his way out, he turned to you, "Maggie's gonna bring you up some clean clothes and help you get washed up. That alright?" His kind, yet tired, eyes sought an answer. You nodded and muttered a quiet thank you in return.

Your time in the prison since then could only be described as isolating. The injury on your leg kept you mostly restrained to the bed in your newly appointed cell. So, most of your time was spent with Maggie, Hershel, and occasionally Rick coming and going. Maggie cared for you in any way she could, nourishing you with food and assisting you in showering and changing. She had seemed to take a liking to you, as you did her, and you assumed you could now call her a friend.

However, there was another you don't think you could call much of anything.

Maggie helped you outside to the courtyard after you’d expressed that you were going mad looking at the same four walls. She’d left you with the book of Little Women, a blank leather journal, and a blue ink pen. “Holler if you need me, okay?” Maggie gently patted your shoulder before departing to meet Glenn only a few yards away.

Being outside after your imprisonment for the last 5 days, revived something in you. The heat from the sun's rays provided warmth on your skin but the cool breeze prevented you from overheating. You could not remember the last time you'd been outdoors without your head on a swivel or without the fear of being someone's dinner.

You could not focus on your book or your journal with the people who walked about the courtyard throwing glances your way. Everyone had heard about, the girl with the leg injury, with time. Random passers-by flashed you smiles, small waves, or even shy hello’s all of which you felt inclined to return.

“Y/n?” Though the voice was familiar, it did not stop the annoyance of having to put your pen down once again. You looked to the man, “Hi Rick.” Rick gleamed with a smile on his face “I’m glad to see you out here.”

Rick took it upon himself to take a seat at the table across from you making it obvious he desired to continue this conversation.

"Were you able to think about what we talked about?" Rick came by yesterday evening with a proposition for you. He invited you to join in with the group of people who went on runs for the community. Once you were fully healed, of course.

The only downside to this was who your main run partner was to be, Daryl. Rick saw something between you that you weren’t quite sure you saw yourself.

Daryl felt a wave of awkwardness standing behind Rick as he spoke to you. The same awkwardness he felt only a few days before standing in that doorway. Daryl knew of Rick's plans having been talked to about it only a few hours before.

He felt no need for a run partner. He was perfectly fine going about on his own but Rick thought the opposite.

What if something happens to you?

What if you get stuck somewhere?

We can’t afford to send search parties out for you.

All valid arguments from Rick. But Daryl had no desire to hear any of it. His stubbornness made him deaf.

Daryl could very clearly see you now. Whatever dirt and grime washed away revealed a remarkable woman. Your hair appeared soft and your dark eyes almost sparkled with the sun. He could see the definition of muscles on your biceps, highlighted by the short sleeves of your shirt. How you composed yourself screamed confidence as if you knew you were too pretty for a world so ugly.

And it infuriated him.

“Yeah, I uh...I wanna help any way I can.” Rick seemed pleased with your answer though the person behind him did not. You shifted in your seat, feeling Daryl’s eyes burn into you. In an attempt to redeem yourself, you spoke again, “If there’s anything I can do now, I want to.” Rick nodded at this, “We’ll find ya something.”

You could hear Daryl scoff from behind Rick. And though you tried to ignore it, you could not help the sour look you gave him in return. Daryl saw this as an invitation to continue his pronounced distaste.

“Don’t need someone who can’t walk holding me down.”

"Don't need someone who couldn't fight a girl holding me down."

Your response was quick-witted and more degrading to Daryl's masculinity than his insult to your injury. If you weren't mistaken, Daryl's eye twitched.

Rick stood from his seat to begin their exit, knowing the lengths of Daryl's temper. "You ain't nothing I couldn't handle." The chuckle you responded with and the glint of excitement in your eyes at the looming argument tested Daryl even more. "Sure, Daryl."

It was the first time you'd ever spoken his name to him. And he never stopped thinking of it for days to come. The way it rolled off your tongue and sounded with that southern twang. It left him restless at night and irritable during the day.

When your leg had healed and you'd grown tired of cleaning the library or serving daily meals, your first outing with Daryl was set. And it started just as rocky as it ended.

"Ya get bit, I ain't gonna hesitate to put a bullet in yer head."

"Why wait? I'm standing right here."

You remained quiet after that, not wanting to push the tension even more. But even the simplest of questions left Daryl huffing and puffing. It started with you asking how his morning was going. And it ended with you asking why he was such a prick.

It was a silent ride home.

You'd like to think you'd tried to find his good side in those beginning days but you soon began to question if such a thing even existed. Any time you were kind to him, he retaliated with anger. It brought out a certain type of frustration in you that you didn’t know was possible.

Within your time at the prison, you'd made yourself an esteemed part of the community. You used your [now useless] degree in agriculture to help build the gardens and begin the planting of any seeds you could find. Rick took a heavy trust in you and appointed you a seat on the prison council. And you'd shown your skills in scavenging, even when you had Daryl breathing down your neck.

It was difficult to pinpoint exactly when this whole charade started. Perhaps it had started in the nurse's office, in the courtyard, or on your first run together. But it did not matter where it began because there was one thing for sure, there seemed to be no end.

You both had a hold over another, in a way no one else did.

Daryl hated your confidence because he lacked his own. He hated that you were quick to go toe to toe with him. Because many others were too scared. He despised that you were so smart, a college graduate. And he especially hated when you spoke so highly of your father. Because he didn’t have a father to talk about at all.

But there was always a ting of something in all of his hate. Jealousy.

You hated his ego. You hated the fact that he contradicted everything you said. You hated when he called you names. Princess, he’d say or, miss college graduate. You hated that he never even tried to get to know you; to know that you weren’t this pretentious brat he painted you to be. Despite being with each other on a regular basis, there was a lacking of personal connection.

It was a day familiar to any other. Your hot morning tea whirled about in your mug, your feet gliding gently around the grounds of the growing garden. After all your laborious hours in the Georgia heat, it was gratifying to see the various plants take bloom. Knowing there'd soon be a garden big enough to feed the community gave you satisfaction and perhaps a sliver of peace.

"You comin' or what?"

And there goes another blissful morning pissed down the drain.

Your long braid fell from your shoulder to your back when you looked at the disgruntled man. "We might need to find you a new mattress." You made your way to him, shoving your mug into his chest, "You can't ever seem to find a good side to wake up on." He scoffed, involuntarily taking your mug. The two of you, along with Michonne and Glenn, were set out on yet another run. Not one of great importance nor would it take that long of time but nonetheless it was still time spent around him.

Daryl followed behind you as you continued your way back to the prison, mug still in hand. "Michonne and Glenn are waitin' while yer staring at some fuckin' bushes." It was your turn to scoff, "They're not bushes. It's food. And a lot of fucking work."

Oh, Daryl knew how much work it had taken from you.

In the weeks he'd spent out in the gardens, his eyes worked more than his hands. He couldn't not look. You wore a tank top every day with the same black gardening gloves and dog tags dangling from your neck. The muscles in your biceps were always highlighted from the hours of digging. The blistering sun always had you drenched in sweat leaving your skin constantly glossy. Words couldn't describe the way he felt when it was dripping down your neck and into the crevice of your breast.

He was outraged for the entire three weeks.

"Whatever."

The mug in his hand became very apparent to him. "When the hell ya give me this?" He now strode beside you, approaching the car at the gates. You smiled to yourself, "A while ago."

Daryl would have preferred to ride his bike to avoid being trapped in such a confined space with you. But it was, “A waste of gas” as Rick would say.

You weren’t exactly sure what Daryl had done. But he had particularly did you in today. So greatly that you almost walked home. Glenn had to beg you to come back. Perhaps it was the way he glared at you that threw you over the edge. So cold and hostile. Or the way he stepped all over your feet, cutting you off mid-sentence, always thinking that he was right. You were simply always wrong.

This particular run would change the trajectory of your relationship forever. 

You and Daryl had split in the strip mall, deciding to cover more ground separately. The strip was usually overrun with a hoard of walkers but as of late, they seemed to be diminishing one at a time. It had become clear enough to begin digging at the stores it held. Some random clothing stores, liquor shops, a CVS pharmacy, and dead restaurants.

You were rummaging about the pharmacy, most of it already picked through. 

Examining the bottle of prenatal vitamins in your hand for Maggie, you heard footsteps. Thinking it was Daryl you spoke. "It's not like these expiration dates even matter anymore." Blind to your danger, you turned to face him.

Before you were given time to react to the two strange men, you were grabbed by the back of your neck, pulling at the nape of your hair, a blade held to the side of your throat. The bottle dropped from your hand, clattering to the floor. You grasped the man's arm attempting to keep the blade from your skin but you'd failed; cuts appeared on the delicate skin.

"Stay." The other man reached for your gun belt, unholstering your weapon and keeping it for himself. You kept your calm but your eyes widened with fear. "Scream and you'll die." The short man with the knife moved it away from your throat, his hand freeing your neck. The other man, who had taken your gun, now had it pointed at you.

It was loaded. You knew because you were the one who'd loaded it that very morning.

"Ya can't just come into the place we've worked so hard to clean up and start taking things...we need some form of payment."

"I have my bag." You offered hoping they would merely steal your things and go. Slowly, not taking your eyes off them, you moved your pack off your back. "There's food and ammo and other supplies." Your bag was snatched from your hands with haste. "Thank you." It wasn't genuine, just taunting.

"But that's not what we want." Their eyes looked at you more hungry than any walker. Once you realize what they meant, tears begin to blur your vision. You could feel them begin to come closer to you. Feeling helpless and too stunned to cry out for Daryl, you weren't sure if you should start fighting or begging.

Daryl heard your continuous screeches from down the way, dropping his bag of clothing. "Y/n!" His feet carried him to you swiftly. You cried his name shoving one man off of you from your pinned spot against the shelves. It was foolish of Daryl to begin shooting so wildly.

Luckily you moved to the floor in avoidance of the bullets, covering your head and blocking your ears.

You kept yourself crouched on the ground, deaf to what was happening around you. Until a hand grabbed your bicep and hoisted you from the ground, "Come on, we gotta go." For once you were relieved to see Daryl.

But you wouldn't be for long.

"We shouldn't have split up!" Daryl shouted. He was walking too fast for you to keep up, as he did at times. You trailed behind him stumbling your way over the branches and leaves in an attempt to make it back to the road with his bike. "You always got stupid fuckin' ideas!" Daryl's adrenaline was still pumping, too ignorant to think of you. He muttered to himself, “Course there was people, walkers don’t just clear out by themselves.”

He marched onto the blacktop.

"Ya talk big game just to not do nothing to help yourself." Daryl was angrily throwing the green brush off his bike, removing it from its hidden spot in the treeline. "Always talkin' 'bout yer daddy and what he did for ya." Daryl said this more to himself but it didn’t fail to reach your ears.

"Well, where was he now yuh?" Daryl turned around to face you, his chest heaving. Only to catch you in the midst of buttoning your pants. Guilt dreaded him.

You didn't care to hear his insults. And you had no desire to get on that bike and be so close to him right now. 

"I.." Words couldn't find themselves in your mouth. All you could focus on was the way everything felt frozen yet moving at an intense speed at the same time. Daryl saw the way you struggled with yourself.  

There was a twisting pain within your chest as your panic only grew. "Y/n." Daryl put his frustrations aside, the situation becoming clear to him now. He swallowed down his pride and reached a hand out to you. Before his fingertips could even graise the fabric of your shirt, you took a step back. "No." You spoke gently, looking out to the woods instead of to Daryl; all you could fathom now was the desire to escape. 

"Y/n," Daryl repeated more soft, "We gotta go home." 

"I don't want to." You turned back to him abruptly. He could see the tears irritating your eyes. Where your hands lay across your chest, you could feel your rapid heart. 

"Why not?" Daryl couldn't understand why you wouldn't want to go home. It was safe, it was comfortable. Two things you desperately need right now.

"I can't, I…I can't get on the bike right now." Your frustration with yourself was growing. 

Why couldn't you just get on the bike? 

Why couldn't you breathe? 

Why didn't you listen to Daryl and not split up? 

Why was Daryl being so kind to you suddenly? Was it pity? You hated pity.

"Alright." Daryl watched the tears begin to roll down your cheeks. "We can walk, it's alright." There was no way of making it back to the prison on foot before sundown. Daryl knew this. But it was a sacrifice he was willing to make for you.

Daryl gripped the handles on his bike, walking the heavy machine down the road with you in tow. You were seemingly able to calm yourself down. The only thing remaining now was shame. You were embarrassed that Daryl had seen you so vulnerable. And you were even more embarrassed that he had to save you.

All the countless years felt wasted. All that time spent in the ring or on some thin gym mats. All those tireless nights where your father wouldn’t allow you to rest until you got one more. It was a phrase all too familiar.

You knew Daryl was annoyed having to walk, his huffs and buffs gave it away. The sun was beginning to set. "Daryl we can drive." You tried to persuade for the third time. "S'fine." 

"Daryl, it's getting dark." 

"S'fine!" He shouted back frustrated with the disappearing sun. You stopped in your tracks. "I know somewhere we can sleep."

You could hear the soft sounds of the water flowing down the river bed. The moon allowed a glow onto the water, gleaming with the current. Crickets and cicadas chirped in the night air like music to your ears. Despite the struggles of being in the wilderness alone, nights like this made you miss it. 

"What ya doin' over there?" Daryl asked sitting a few feet behind you at the fire. "Nothing."

You pushed yourself from the ground, making your way back to him. Daryl bitterly smoked his cigarette. You didn't need to ask to know why he was so irritated, you could already imagine. Perhaps catching the fish for dinner was what did it. Or the hundreds of pounds of metal he walked for miles. Or maybe he actually was mad about having to save you. Or the simple fact that he was stuck out here with you. 

You couldn't pick one.

No words were spoken, just the sounds of the wilderness and the crackling of the fire. It allowed you to think.

You began to wonder if you'd ever actually hated him. Because how could you hate someone you'd grown such an attachment to? How could you hate the person you screamed out for in your time of need? There were countless days where he'd anger you so much you thought you might actually strangle him. But somehow you always went right back. You always met him at the gates or stumbled upon him at breakfast. 

Staring off into the fire you began to accept that you all along had been trying [and presumably failing] to win him over. "You okay?" Your eyes looked from the fire to him. His cigarette no longer present, "M'fine." You replied. 

Daryl would be lying if he said he wasn't worried about you. Just because he didn't care for you at times, didn't mean he doesn't care about you. "It happened a couple times out on the road. I could handle it then...I just..." You shifted where you sat, "Got surprised today was all." To hear this wasn't the first time but a time of many, gutted Daryl. 

You had become more afraid of encountering a man than a walker. 

Daryl was never angry with you. He was more angry with himself, unable to protect you from finding yourself in such a situation.

"Wasn't yer fault. M'sorry." Shockingly, Daryl's guilt overshined his ego.

You let out a deep sigh looking back out towards the water. You knew his apology was sincere but you couldn't find the courage to acknowledge it. "I was just thinking about how I miss it out here sometimes. The sounds, the views, the peace."

Your confidence and sharp tongue did not seem present at this moment. Looking back to him, he seemed completely entranced by this newfound gentle side of you. "But that's only one percent of it, isn't it?" Daryl never took his eyes off yours, the fire casting an orange glow within them. "Yeah."

The other ninety - nine percent was the actual survival. All the bloody fights. The permanent anxiety. The sleepless nights due to fear. The painful emptiness of your stomach. The constant blisters on your ankles [that never healed] from running or walking. And the unbearable hopelessness. 

"Were ya always alone?" Daryl had always been curious. You shook your head, "No." He nodded his head and looked away, leaving it at that. He had no desire to make your night even more miserable by talking about the ones you'd lost.

"It was just me and my brother for awhile."

"Meryl?" 

Daryl furrowed his eyebrows knowing he'd never mentioned him before. 

"Maggie's talked about him briefly." 

"All nice things?" Daryl asked sarcastically. 

"Not really." Your attempt to stifle your laugh was a failure, the smile lingering. But this did not anger Daryl the way you thought it would. Instead, he had his own small smile, scoffing and shaking his head. "He wasn't the best at times...but he was my brother ya know?"

You nodded muttering a, yeah. 

Daryl flicked the butt of his cigarette into the dying fire. Knowing this was the first and potentially last time you'd ever speak to another so tenderly again, you continued. 

"I was an only child. My mom died in childbirth when I was eight…so I never got siblings." 

"M'sorry."

"Don't." You didn't say it to be cruel. You grew up hearing sympathy after sympathy, you did not need anymore. "I was never alone though. I had my Dad. And my aunt and uncles helped take care of me so I was surrounded by my cousins all the time...I guess I did have siblings in a way." A nauseating wave of nostalgia rose in your throat, silencing you for a mere second. 

"My mom died when I was young too. 'Cept my Dad was just some drunk asshole, didn't care 'bout nobody but himself." Daryl couldn't deny his slight envy towards you. You grew up with a father who cared for you and your safety. It made him wonder how you'd ended up alone in the end.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't need yer apologies Y/n."

"I know."

The fire was no more. Only red hot embers burning on the rocky gravel. And it made you think that perhaps it was symbolic that the fire was slowly diminishing as your conversation grew more gentle. 

A few minutes of silence had passed before either of you spoke again. "Look at us, talking to each other, treating each other like human beings for once." You joked with a laugh in an effort to replace the depressing mood. 

You actually heard Daryl chuckle even though he lowered his head in an attempt to hide it. His eyes glanced at you, your own cheeky smile dimpling your cheeks. If this is what having a personal connection with Daryl was, it was dangerous.

Why did it take so long? 

Was what you wanted to scream at him.

I could've loved you if you'd just given me a chance. 

"Maybe we have more in common than we ever allowed." 

Daryl broke eye contact with you, staring down at the glowing embers, chewing on his bottom lip. And he did the only thing he ever learned how to do when he felt something. "Night Y/n." 

You didn't know why you expected anything different. 

"Goodnight Daryl." 

Daryl took his vest off, rolling it up and using it as a makeshift pillow. He turned away from you, his back tauntling in your face. 

You stayed up a little while after, too overwhelmed by thoughts to rest. Unbeknownst to you, Daryl could not rest either. In fact, he did not sleep that entire night, only allowing himself ten-minute naps here and there. The only sense of relaxation he felt was when he'd check over his shoulder and see you in blissful sleep. As if nothing and no one had ever touched you. 

When Rick asked what'd happened, Daryl lied. Saying you'd been outrun by a hoard and had to crash somewhere safe for the night. The days continued on, and what happened that day was not spoken of again. But there had come an understanding that Daryl and you were indeed, more in-common than ever allowed.

Patrick approached Daryl and you at breakfast as you mapped the run for the next morning. "H-hi!" Patrick greeted sheepishly, giving a small wave to the table. Maggie and Glenn greeted him first. Then you, pulling your attention away from the map on the table to him; give a polite smile and nod. "Hey Patrick, everything okay?" Rick asked from where he sat beside Daryl. "Yeah..." Patrick was nervous on his feet, awkwardly pushing his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose. "I wanted to ask Daryl and Y/n if I could join them out there?" 

There was suddenly a stiffness in the air. Glances were exchanged between the lot of you. "Patrick I-" Rick scratched his beard awkwardly, finding a response for the boy.  Patricks's confidence plummeted. He had spent hours building up the courage to ask, only to be met with stiff glances. 

"How old are you Patrick?" It was an odd question for you to ask but it did not come without reason. "Uhmm fifteen." 

You rose from your seat making your way over to him as gently as your feet would allow. Come, you spoke gently reaching an arm out to him. 

Patrick began to walk with you. 

"I was younger than you when my father began to enroll me in fighting classes."

Pausing your words, you continued your stroll until you stopped just before hitting the grass. "He told me that you could never be too young to know how to protect yourself...What does that mean to a little girl who only wanted to play with her Barbies?"

Patrick listened to you intentively, entranced by the way you spoke.

Looking out to the green gardens, you seemed lost in thought for a second.  "I don't think your question is outrageous. I just don't think you're prepared." Patrick seemed to understand this answer more, nodding his head.

You knew the day would come when the prison folk grew tired of looking at the same walls and more curious about the world beyond. Especially the children. You'd seen the group of kids over by the fences, close enough to look at the walkers but far enough away for safety. It was often that they were scolded by the adults. 

"I know I’m not a fighter. I’m not like you or Daryl or even Carl. But I just wanna…” Patrick paused, “be brave for once.”

You couldn't help but smile at the innocence of the boy. 

"You can't go out there knowing nothing Patrick." He had finally begun to accept defeat but the long face and disappointed eyes tugged at your sympathy. 

"I can teach you. Just as my father taught me." Patrick's eyes lit up with hope. "Th-thank you Y/n." He gleamed with excitement, reaching a hand out to shake yours. You were truly at a loss of words with no choice but to shake it in return. 

You'd spent day after day out in the field with Patrick. You taught him how to block blows, how to hold and use daggers, and much more. He was skittish and shaky most days but he was trying. In place of your days with Patrick, you were skipping your usual days with Daryl. You truly hadn't thought he'd mind much. If anything, you assumed he'd be happy to finally have a break from you.

"I feel like this wouldn't hurt that bad." Patrick commented. Carl was punching the book Patrick held, having begun to invite himself to the practices. Thick index books were the closest thing you'd find to a punching bag. You chuckled, "It hurts more than you'd expect."

Daryl approached the three of you. You could hear his footsteps. They were gentler than normal as if he wished to not disturb. "It hurts more if you have rings on." Patrick looked at you curiously, "Did you used to wear rings Y/n?" You nodded happily. "All the time.”

You turned to finally face Daryl. "Hey." You greeted, taking the last few steps to meet him. "Hi." Daryl looked about, chewing on his bottom lip. "You ain't been showing up for runs." It almost, almost, sounded as if this upset him. "I've been here," you motioned to the young boys, "You know that." 

Daryl nodded.

Of course he knew. He saw you every day, always wanting to come over and join but never allowing himself to. 

"You really serious 'bout all this?" Daryl nudged his head to Patrick and Carl. You let out a deep sigh. You asked yourself the same question. Was this serious? Did you really plan on taking a kid outside the gates? There was a chance this was all for nothing at all. But what you did know was that it kept your mind at peace and your days busy.

"I don't know. I thought we could at least take him down to the river. It's nice down there, it's not far, would get him outta here for a few hours." 

The river.

"Alright."

"Alright."

You sat alone at dinner that night, needing quiet time after hanging out with teenage boys for the majority of your day. You poked about your rice and veggies, still working on the copy of Little Women. "Hey." Daryl greeted. The day was growing late, the sun beginning to disappear from beneath the trees; he'd presumably just gotten back.

"Hi." You looked from your page, secretly happy he was giving you an excuse to put it down. Daryl's eyes looked anywhere but your own. "I-uh...got something for ya." Daryl dug into his front pocket, grabbing the handful of metal. He placed the rings on the table, making their own clattering noise together as they fell.

You seemed bewildered at this. "What...uh." Daryl chewed nervously on his thumb. He'd searched through this town and the next to find them for you; which could mean nothing at all. “You didn't have to."

"S'fine." You nodded, the smile finally creeping it’s way to your features. "Thank you, Daryl." You were flattered. Flattered to think that for once, he'd actually listened to you. "Do you wanna go get dinner and come sit?" You offered.

"Yeah, I'd like that."

A certain closeness was growing. The arguments slowly became banter. And the war of dominance diminished. You began to work together as partners, mapping runs and brainstorming improvements for the prison. Instead of using your skills against each other, you’d began to find the perfect balance between.

Daryl joined you most days with Patrick. He found that he had no desire to go beyond the gates unless you were in tow.

There were moments when sheer frustration retook hold of you. But never did it reach the lengths as before. It came with reason, with a pleading, instead of merely arguing of who was right and who was wrong.

You turned the rings on your fingers about as you walked to the dining area outside. Daryl was a ways away, smoking his morning cigarette. “Morning.” You greeted, crossing your arms and taking your spot beside him. “Morning.”

The end of summer was near, mornings were chillier than usual but days still hot from the sun. There was a curtain of peace over this particular morning. The smell of Daryl’s cigarette filled your nose along with the morning dew. His presence comforted you. “I think it was around this time last year when you guys picked me up.”

Daryl blew the smoke from his lips, “Yeah, biggest mistake ever.” He joked. This earned a laugh from you. Daryl watched the joy on your face; it scrunched your eyes and accentuated the apples of your cheeks. “Yeah, I bet.”

He couldn’t take his eyes from you and a heaviness weighed within his chest. Because he knew, just as you did, that it was not only friendship lingering. It was more.

“I think I’m gonna go out, make sure the path to the river is clear.” Daryl knew what this insinuated. “We’re taking him out today?” Daryl had begun to hope that all of your time with Patrick was nothing, that it was merely something to fill up the days. “It feels like a peaceful day…” You could hear the uncertainty in his voice. “Besides, Patrick’s not been feeling good, I doubt he’ll even want to go. It’s the effort that means something to him.”

Hmm, Daryl hummed. You nudged your elbow into him, “Keep an eye on him for me, okay?” Daryl hummed in response again. “D…” You nudged him again as if needing a more reassuring answer for your verbal contract. The nickname perked his ears and heated his cheeks. Looking to you, he nodded.

You gave him a thankful smile. “Be safe!” Daryl shouted to you as you began on your way.

Arriving back to the prison you could feel within your gut that something was wrong. The sympathetic eyes that Michonne greeted you with solidified this.

Daryl recognized your footsteps entering the cell block.

“What's happened?" Daryl rushed to stand in front of you, blocking your path. It was eerily silent. “Come on.” Daryl placed his hands on your shoulders trying to turn you away. You shoved his hands from you, slipping past him.

"Y/n.” Daryl could not stop you from continuing on. Your expression was stuck in a state of confusion and shock as your feet guided about the chaotic cell block. It smelled of metallic blood and bitterly sour. Almost as though you'd stuck your nose in a gaping infected wound. When you'd turned your head to glance into a cell, you saw him.

Patrick lay still on the ground, an arrow lodged in his skull. An airy gasp left you, clutching your hands to your chest. It was as if you couldn't take your eyes away. Your eyes still not yet communicating to your brain what you were looking at. But when it did, the only thing you could seem to focus on was the arrow. An arrow.

Daryl watched the realization settle on your features when you turned to him. For once, Daryl felt a sense of fear. And it only worsened when you began towards him. 

It was as quick as a breath. You unsheathed the dagger on your hip and aimed it at him. 

"Y/n no!" 

Daryl caught your wrists, the blade mere inches from his right eye. Though he stopped the blade, your brute force did not stop him from being shoved into the closest wall.  

"I told you to look out for him!" You yelled through your glassy eyes.

He had no words for you, pure guilt blocking any defense or insult.

"I had to." You scoffed at this, "I can't trust you to do anything." 

"Y/n it's not his fault. It was an accident." Rick reasoned with you.

With his back pressed against the wall, he had fully submitted himself to your wrath. His guilt would let you kill him now if you'd like. His hands around your wrist did not hurt nor squeeze to withhold your strength, they began to merely rest there.

Your rapid breathing began to slow to deep inhales and exhales, ones that moved your entire chest. Your eyes remained steady on his, the world drowning out around you. 

While his eyes showed remorse, yours burned with anger; eyebrows furrowed, hot tears slipping down your cheeks.

With one forceful shove, you ripped your arms from Daryl's grasp, his back bumping the cement wall. The dagger made a clattering noise to the floor, having been lost from your grasp in the process. You stood there for a moment looking to Daryl as if waiting for something.

"M'sorry."

His apology only seemed to anger you, your face once again turning hateful. You took a few steps back before making your exit.  

When time came to take care of the ones lost, you helped dig their graves; in defiance of everyone telling you not to. Your hands covered in splinters from the blistering wood of the shovel’s handle. The once thriving and growing prison become melancholy, a heavy cloud of sorrow always above.

You and Daryl had not spoken for days. You'd ditched any planned runs that had been scheduled. But without fail, Daryl waited every morning for you, on the off chance you'd join him again. And when you never did, he kept an eye on you from afar. 

You had become quiet and distant. He seemed to only find you chatting with Maggie or Glenn and on the off chance, Rick. You were on fence duty every day presumably taking out every bit of anger on those poor dead bastards.

You'd been out there day after day, nothing but water in your system, running off of pure spite and grief. You'd be out there till your adrenaline wore off and your body gave up on itself from exhaustion. If Daryl wasn't mistaken he had spotted you crying on some days; but that bloody pipe never left your hands.

You had begun to wake up earlier than Daryl, always managing to slip away from him just in time. You ignored him at every meal and walked by him as if he was a ghost. 

Daryl couldn't deny the itch of missing you. He longed for you to look at him again, to smile at him and call him names. He began to even miss when you yelled at him, as cruel and loud as you could be. 

Daryl couldn't continue on like this. You were torturing him.

He had awoken particularly early this day, ensuring he was in the kitchen long before you; knowing you never skipped your morning tea.

Exhaustion was all you could feel. Your body raged against your decisions every day. Your arms were sore, hands red and raw from gripping the damn pipe so hard. But you could not allow yourself to be around him. You couldn't stand to be trapped in those cells, indulged with pity.  

Wrapping the strap of the fingerless gloves around your wrist, you wandered into the kitchen. Glancing up, you saw him, stopping your steps. The kitchen was dark on this early morning, the sun not yet fully risen. 

Every thought Daryl had vanished from his mind. Every speech he'd rehearsed or apology left him in an instant. He hadn't known seeing you face to face, alone, would leave him so breathless. Daryl could see your exhaustion even in the dim light. Your usually neat braid had been done in haste, it was sloppy and hairs fell messily into your face. The constant emotional distress dragged on your features.  

"I had to see ya."

You crossed your arms over your chest, closing yourself off from him. "So you just waited for me here." Your tone was venom to him. Daryl swallowed sharply, second-guessing his actions. "Ya get yer tea every mornin'." It would be flattering to think he'd memorized your everyday routine if it was any other time. But you couldn't find that now. 

"Was gonna go out..."

He wasn't. Daryl would only go if you were in tow.

You scoffed at him. Had he truly gone through all this effort just to ask you to join him on a sleazy run? 

Your attitude hurt Daryl more than he'd like to admit. "Just wanted to see if ya wanted to come with me?"

You knew why he actually was here. Scratching the skin on your arm nervously, you said, "No Daryl." 

“Why the hell not?” Your mouth dropped agape. Astonished at his mere audacity. “Why not?” You repeated back. Daryl looked at you blankly. Should he apologize? Or should he begin his stubbornness rant about all the ways it wasn't his fault? You shook your head, "You're pathetic."

The fire was lit once again.

You'd insulted his ego and his efforts to meet you here. But most of all, you'd insulted any feelings he'd developed for you.

Daryl's face switched from hurt to a hateful glare in a second. You didn’t care to continue on with him, turning and disappearing into the hallway. Daryl’s anger took hold of him as he rushed after you. “M’pathetic?” He followed after you, stomping like a child.

You ignored him, continuing on, letting the door slam in his face when you exited outside. Daryl following suit in your path did not falter. Carol and Rick turned their attention to the commotion.

Daryl and you spewed insults at each other. You'd reached down in yourself, past the grief and guilt, and pulled any degrading thing you could manage to say to him. And he did the same. No words you said could possibly cut him as deeply as his actions cut you.

"I shoulda left ya out there!" 

"Yeah I wish you fucking would've..." You took a step closer to him. "But you couldn't because you fucking needed me." 

"I don't need you." 

"You fucking need me." You repeated. 

"Yeah? Then you need me!"

"I don't fucking need you! I never needed you."

Daryl lowered his tone, narrowing his eyes. "Ya didn't need me out there, hm?" He watched your furrowed eyebrows falter. Daryl knew he was crossing a line but couldn't find it in his heart to stop. "Where was yer daddy that day, yuh?"

Your glassy eyes looked up at him attempting to form your own degrading insult. "What? Say it, come on say it Y/n." He egged you on.

You only think about yourself, just like your father.

But you refrained, swallowing your words along with your tears. "Fuck you." Daryl watched you walk away, wiping at your face. "Fuck you!" Regret dreaded him. He could have run after you then, apologies spewing from his mouth but his stubbornness kept him still.

The prison fell that same day.

Amid chaos and destruction, Daryl could only find himself to look for you. And when he finally accepted defeat, he could only pray that you'd made it out.

You had fled on your own. Fighting your way through to return to the comfort of the wilderness. After a few strenuous days on your own again, you'd found Carol and Tyreese; joining them with the girls. The blisters on your feet had returned as did the heaviness deep in your chest.

You thought about him more than you'd like to admit. And Carol did her part in reminding you of him on the daily. You'd begun to dwell on how you'd treated him in those final days.

"I regret it deeply now." You'd say to Carol.

"I'm sure he feels the same." She'd respond.

A longing for your life to return as it was among those prison walls struck you down every hour of every day. The wish to go back to that morning and accept his offer. To take his hand and go beyond the walls. Maybe one more day together would’ve fixed everything. And you wouldn’t be left with the guilt of leaving things off on a bad note; never to see him again.

The smoke rose above the tree line, only making you more anxious. With Tyreese and Judith safely at the cabin, you kept guard at the road. Keeping an eye for anyone making an escape.

Kill them if they weren’t one of us. Carol instructed.

But the sound of gunfire made you unsure of anyone’s survival. Fuck, you muttered to yourself out of frustration. You glanced constantly down the road and amongst the trees, hoping for a familiar face.

You turned your last surviving ring anxiously about your finger. A rustle in the woods grabbed your attention. You gripped your gun closely in your hands, stepping towards the tree line. When it was deemed clear, you continued on, your boots crunching on the leaves.

Your ears perked at a sudden crunch of a twig. Whipping your body around, you pointed your gun.

Daryl aimed his bow to you, the tip of your weapons mere inches from the other. Your breath caught in your throat. His eyes were tired, his face bruised. But you couldn't say you looked any better.

Both your fingers lingered over your triggers, though neither of you would shoot. Daryl lowered his bow. Looking at you with teary eyes. You lowered your own weapon, looking to him with the same unsure gaze. There seemed to be a mutual understanding that neither of you had the energy to fight. "Y/n?" Maggie snapped you from your daze. “Maggie?” You rushed to embrace her, discarding Daryl.

The weeks spent on the road proved to be difficult. Everyone grew more hopeless by the day and this hopelessness only grew when it became loss after loss. There was truly no time to heal from one loss before having to mourn another. First Bob, then Tyreese, and then Beth. You’d glued yourself to Maggie after Beth just as she did for you after Patrick.

Daryl mourned Beth in private. You wanted to be there for him, to provide him a shoulder to cry on. But he’d shut you out, just as you’d done to him. And besides, you never even tried, too focused on Maggie to consider it more than a thought.

You and Daryl had become strangers once again. There was no room for forgiveness, no time to spew apologies to each other, and no space to coddle each other through the pain.

Alexandria came to the suffering group, shining a new light of hope and a more secure future.

But this meant you could not hide from him anymore nor him you. The known could no longer be left unspoken.

You’d slipped away from the main house to the house next door that belonged to the group but was yet to be used. Daryl was first to notice your absence, asking where you’d gone so late. When he was told, the urge to follow after arose.

The front door was left unlocked, allowing Daryl entry. “Y/n?” The house was dimly lit, an amber glow looming from across the room. You saw your figure sitting on the couch in front of the fireplace. A liquor bottle sat atop the coffee table reading, Honey Whiskey, along with an empty glass seemingly for him. The other was in your hand, resting on your thigh. He couldn't help but think how perfectly you the liquor was; bitter yet soothing and sweet.

Daryl didn't know what told him to sit beside you but he did not resist the urge.

Nothing was said, the both of you staring off into the gas-lit flames. Your eyes studied the fake logs that were engulfed by flames, comparing it to how real wood burns. Daryl craved for you to speak to him. He didn't care if it was hurtful. Any words, cruel or no, were better than this silence. "Y/n..."

"I forgive you." Daryl went still. You hadn't given him time to breathe.

"What?"

Just then you turned, your freshly cleaned hair falling over your shoulder. The fire cast a glow on your features; highlighting the bridge of your nose and emoting a sparkle within your eyes.

“I said I forgive you.” It was the gentlest tone you’d ever spoken to him in.

“I don’t think I had reason to be angry in the first place. I was just trying to blame someone that wasn’t myself.” You reached forward, popping the cap from the bottle and pouring Daryl a glass. You handed it to him, along with a slight smile. It tugged at his heart.

“M’sorry…bout what I said that day. 'Bout your Dad...Wasn’t right.” Daryl swirled the liquor about his glass, wondering where you’d found it. You took a deep breath before speaking on, “My daddy disowned me.”

The dog tags around your neck suddenly felt as though they weighed fifty pounds. It was a burden you carried around your neck every day, hoping the weight would be lifted lighter if you just spoke highly. "Why?" Daryl couldn't help but ask. You hesitated, your mouth gaping but no words following. "Because I loved a woman." You flashed Daryl an insecure smile, unsure of how he'd react. "I lost her about a month before you guys picked me up. That's why I was alone."

Daryl felt a whirlwind of emotions hit him at once.

Would he have to continue to love you from afar? How many times had he thrown your father in your face like some jealous brat? "I think I resented ya a lot. Thinking ya had a father that rolled out the red carpet for you." Daryl had found his own courage. "I know, D."

"M'sorry."

"I know that too."

After that, a soft silence fills the room. The two of you sit peacefully, content with the weight slowly lifting from the shoulders of your friendship. But there was another topic to relive before you could truly sweep up all of the choked-off fragments and furnish them with conclusions.

“Patrick uh…”

“Ya don’t gotta talk about that Y/n.”

“No, I need to.”

The liquor wasn’t persuading you to talk nor to act a certain way, you’d barely drank any.

A deep sigh left you and you rested your back against the couch. “Patrick talked about his parents a lot. He said that his mom wanted him to be brave…That’s why he wanted to go out, he said that he felt like a coward. He’d always been safe in Woodbury then the prison.” Your words were quick and shaken.

Daryl listened attentively, taking sips of the honey whiskey in hopes it would calm him and his mind. “He thought that if he went out, even once, he would be brave… like us.” You motioned to you and Daryl. A smile rose on your face. “He also just really wanted to impress you, he was so excited when you started joining us in the mornings.” You took a sip from your own cup finding courage in the liquid.

“I know you always thought it was silly but…Patrick reminded me a lot of my cousin. He was my best friend until my aunt moved to a different state. I promised to keep in touch but I started college, got distracted, and only saw him on holidays.”

Your words trailed as if unsure of what was to be said.

“Until he jumped off a fucking overpass.” You could feel Daryl’s sympathetic eyes looking at you. “In his note, he said he knew he was a coward but he couldn’t be here anymore.” Your lip began to quiver but you quickly covered it with a swig of liquor. Daryl was left to think while you choked your tears down.

"They were brave." Daryl said.

You placed your glass on the table beside the couch. "And dead they are." The tears could no longer be drowned in whiskey. You covered your face with your hands. Your body trembled violently, sobs racking your chest. Daryl put down his own glass. “C’mere…c’mere please.”

Daryl scooted closer to you, grasping for you to meet him halfway. You met him gladly.

“You’ve never hugged me before." You said with sadness, your words mumbling against the fabric of his shirt. "I know. M’sorry.” He could hold you all night if need be. You gripped your arms around him tighter, resting your head on his shoulder. A deep sigh of relief left both of you, melting into the other's embrace.

He smelled of pine from the soap he'd used to wash. But the familiar scent of motor oil and cigarette smoke could never be washed from his skin. At first, it annoyed you. You'd complain that the oil gave you headaches and scold him about his unhealthy habit. But now, no four walls of any house could provide you the safety and comfort of Daryl's broad figure.

You pulled away from him but your hands did not leave him. They dragged down from his back to rest comfortably in his own. Your soft skin caressed his calloused hands. Your forehead rested against his. He did not remove himself from you but merely looked down, avoiding your gaze. "Ya been drinking a lot Y/n, ain't in the right mindset right now." You shook your head, "No Daryl...I love you."

Your nose bumped his own as you scooped your head down, capturing his lips in yours. You taste of the bitterly sweet liquor, your lips still slightly damp from the tears that fell only moments ago. He resists before giving in to his longest desires. It made his nerves feel fuzzy.

The kiss turned from gentle to desirable in time, lips moving in sync together. His hands moved to either side of your face, ensuring to keep you close. You began to lay back, hoping Daryl would follow. He was quick too, ensuring his body weight did not crush you.

Needing a moment to breathe, you parted from him. Your back relaxed against the plush couch all your tense muscles turning to putty beneath him. Daryl's head fell to your chest. He felt your own heartbeat, just as quick as his own. "Love ya too."

Daryl's hands freely wondered you. He gripped your thighs, feeling the jagged scar on your thigh through the thin pajama pants; remembering the day you met. "I fell down a hill." Daryl stopped his lingering hands, "What?" There was a ting of a smile on your face. His eyes sparkled with admiration. "I was fighting a walker and I fell downhill. I think I got stabbed by a tree branch or my own knife, I never knew." You admitted shamefully. Daryl dropped his head to your chest again, chuckling.

His laughter sent vibrations through you, triggering a laugh of your own. You bring your hand to the back of his head, stroking his messy brown hair. “Why don’t you stay here with me tonight?” Daryl lifted his head, the fire dimly lighting the right side of his face. He nodded.

"I'd like that."

[hazelfoureyes]

A Doe in Fall (part 10)

⟢HumanAlastor x FemaleBurlesquerReader - A Doe in Fall

A burlesquer with a penchant for conning men, you find your latest game interrupted when your next mark saves you from an aggressive fan— by killing him. The chance encounter left you curious, still half convinced you could complete your normal chase. Unbeknownst to you, you were the one being tracked.

Part 1 - Pretty in Red smut💦 Part 2 - Liar smut💦 Part 3 - A Tragedy smut💦 Part 4 - Enough Part 5 - Too Much Part 6 - Learning smut💦 Part 7 - Recognition smut💦 Part 8 - Trust sexual 🥵 Part 9 - Shiny Things Part 10 - Good Deeds 📍

Part 10 Good Deeds

Alastor takes you out as promised, but work/hobbies call him away. Not that you mind, you have your own hobbies to pick up.

「Warnings/Promises: Human Alastor x Fem!Reader, references to racial violence, reference to a word that’s now very much a slur, Hate for Aubrey, inaccurate portrayal of how easy it was to drink, oh yeah murder, mentions of a dismembered body, bloody shoes, physics hijinks with a corpse, these idiots in love, gators aaaaaye baby, domestic fluff?? Kind of?? Did I do it?!」

I think about Emmett Till often. Though his heinous murder came after the time this story is set, what happened to him wasn’t an isolated incident. So it is referenced here in a sense, because I can’t stop thinking about him when I think about racial violence in the south both what it looked like before and what it looks like now. I don’t say anything explicit and change the act, but it is still important to warn you. If you don’t know about the tragic death of Emmett, here’s a site with links to articles and essays. Be careful, it is awful and his deceased and battered face will come up on some links, as his mother wanted the world to see what they did to her baby. It’s an image I cannot forget and I rightfully shouldn’t. I know it’s off to have such a heavy topic before this love story but this case is the kind that would motivate such a killer as Alastor, and I don’t want to miss an opportunity to remind us of Emmett’s short life even if it’s done in a silly fanfic surrounded by nonsense. So forgive me for perhaps an odd real life addition, I’d be disappointed in myself for not addressing it when Emmett has been on my mind every time I think about the era someone like Alastor could have lived in. An era that did exist and people did live and suffer in.  An era not far removed from us, my father was alive when this happened.

Part 10 - Good Deeds

minors if you interact I will interpret that as a deep hate for me as a person so MDNI 👌🏼

“I’ve got to speak with the valet, go on ahead and find a table you like.” 

You didn’t want to do that at all, but knew Alastor wouldn’t ask if he didn’t want it. Well, he didn’t really ask, did he? He was certainly in his element, the shining and towering hotel every bit as pristine as his own public image.

It was as if every head in the room spun around to look at you. Everyone’s hair freshly styled, jewelry shiny and heavy, clothes immaculate. Your dress was lovely, no doubt, but no one looks at the elephant in her tutu at the circus and proclaims, “A ballerina!” This was, rather obviously, not your scene.

Alastor had presented the dress to you so sweetly, though. You woke up to find it hanging on the closet door hook, the first thing you saw when you opened your eyes. He had either waited for you to fall asleep to hang it or woken up before you for just the reason. It was red, his favorite color for you. The latest fashion, loose and straight. No corset. The neckline showcased a large, flat bow. 

“Partly a gift for me,” he had said as his hands slid down your sides when you had gotten dressed, “Such softness shouldn’t be hidden behind rigid boning.”

You settled into a large seashell shaped booth, the back coming up and over like you were the speck of sand yet to form into a pearl. The table was small, a glittering pattern under its shiny veneer. Everything was…glistening. Even the darkness past the windows seemed to be sparkling back at you. A few people turned to look you up and down, smiling and beginning to speak to their group before even turning back to them. 

You could wither, or bloom. So you learned back as if you were bored, legs crossed and feet gently shaking with anxiety or boredom, you hoped no one could sus out which. 

It was so odd. In your usual haunts, newcomers were greeted with curious smiles and maybe the tiniest suspicions. You were being picked apart to the bone by sharp stares and even sharper tongues, no matter how silent their jabs were to you. 

“They’re probably jealous.” Your head snapped up, when had Alastor made it in? “They look at you and know, ‘oh, that’s the kind of woman my husband would rather have a conversation with.’” You laughed, you absolutely could have stolen the attention and more from at least one of these women’s husbands.

“Perhaps they recognize these earrings, gone missing from their jewelry box earlier this year.”  You weren’t above accepting a woman’s stolen jewelry. It was her husband's fault anyway, might as well enjoy it. 

Alastor’s finger came to your chin, lifting your face further into the light, “Give em a good look, darling. I want them to eat their hearts out.” The blush that swept across your features was so fierce, the difference in temperature between your cheeks and your arms caused a chill to run down to your shins. He took a seat beside you, scooting up close and flashing that smile. A smile that had you chasing him into dark alleys and grabbing dead men by the ankles. 

A waiter came by, placing a drink in front of Alastor and asking what you’d like. You were so used to being in such spaces with the kind of men who answered for you that you didn’t reply immediately. When Alastor brought his drink to his lips, you realized it was you who was expected to speak. 

“Oh! A corpse reviver please.”

The man smiled and left with a nod. Alastor choked, hitting his chest with the fleshy part of his palm, “That was intentional, wasn’t it?”

You danced in your seat, “I’ve never been somewhere that has the stock for it that I was…allowed to order what I want.”

Alastor set his drink down and leaned back, shoulder pressing into yours teasingly, “I can’t imagine anyone disallowing you a thing.” With a sigh, you reminded him of the things you did to get your marks drunk and off their guard. You were surprised when he nodded like he remembered. “I saw that! You would sit so quietly on their laps. I remember thinking you were much more boring than you had initially made me believe.” You recoiled, and he shot you a look, “Who stalked who first, hm?” 

With a huff, you let it go. You weren’t actually sure the answer to that anyway. Focus let free from Alastor, you began to notice the looks were back. But no longer cutting into you, but wide and devouring. A few smiled at Alastor, some tipped their heads to him and offered a look of recognition. “Aren’t you popular.”

“I haven’t been out in awhile. They’re probably curious.” He took another sip, “Should be, atleast.”

A prideful smile slid up your face. You uselessly tried to mask it by licking your teeth. 

Something that happened when in public with Alastor that was unlike you was the tendency to become small. Not shrinking to provide him space; it was a turning in of your shoulders and touching of your knees in a subconscious effort to curl into a little ball of joy. Actively fighting the tug, you leaned back and opened your chest. An exercise in mental focus. 

“It’s weird. How you can be friends with my kind of people and….well, whatever is happening here.” Your hand waved at the room before you both. 

“My friendship with these people compared to our friends at the dives is…. A light bulb compared to a fire. One was manufactured to fit a need, one exists somewhat naturally.”

Tall and slim, body flat from collar bones to knees, a slip of a woman entered the room and you felt a shift in the atmosphere. Her hair was short and pitch black, fashionable to say the least. A few heads turned, a few upturned lips shifted into sneers. Side glances, hushed words, intentionally heard huffs. You turned to Alastor to find his face was as confused as your own. 

“Who is that?” You said it low, not knowing if she was friend or foe. 

“That would be Mrs. Aubrey Debreaux. Popular socialite and frequent hostess.” A sip of his drink, speaking about her like a character in a novel. “This icy reception is news to me though. She’s usually the life of the party.”

“She’s a real wet blanket now…Your circles seem really fickle. Always a bit of gossip.” You realized as soon as you said it that, well, that was the point. Alastor needed the gossip, and, well, he clearly enjoyed it.

“That’s what the wealthy do. Gossip and pretend the drama is as stressful as someone looking for their next meal.” Swirling his drink absentmindedly, his eyes followed Aubrey through the hotel bar. When you asked if he knew everyone there, he said it was his job to know people.

“Your job is in radio. You host a show, Alastor.” You laughed through your nose.

“Well, my other job.”

“I’d call that a passionate hobby.” Your hand came to rest half on his and half on the booth bench low and hidden, not wanting to monopolize, but he quickly took it and held it on the table. Another struggle to keep your shoulders from drawing inward.

The room moved on, forgetting you both were there and eventually about Aubrey too. Or so you had thought. When you drink was starting to mellow you, you turned to Alastor to admire the view. You’d come to enjoy that silence, the kind that only existed between people comfortable enough to know they didn’t need to entertain each other to enjoy each other’s company.

He was scanning the bar still, elbow on the table as he rested his chin there. From a distance of space or familiarity it could be seen as boredom. But up close and personal, you could see the wheels spinning behind his eyes.

“Golly, when in Rome!” Alastor hooted and grabbed you by the hand with one of his and carried his drink in the other, “Let’s go gossip. Bring your drink.”

He pulled you into a group of four people in a circle talking. They opened and let you both in, smiles warm. A clamor of excited ‘how long has it been’s, ‘how are you’s, and ‘you look well’s.

You’d expected him to ask for gossip like he’d said, but realized that’d be pretty conspicuous. Instead he waited, and when Aubrey passed by one of them rolled their eyes and he had his opportunity.

“What’s that look for?” He asked. 

Everyone got quiet and passed a glance between them. Finally a woman in a beaded dress and finger wave bob piped up.

“She reported a young boy touched her on the street.” Alastor watched Aubrey cycle through the groups as the friend spoke. “Grazed her hip with his hands, made a comment about white women as he did it.”

Alastor’s head whipped back around. “He got taken away that night.”

You gasped, hand coming to your mouth in sincere horror, “Just for touching her? Is he still in jail?” 

The woman’s lips pursed together, no one looking at you.

“Bless your heart. He didn’t touch her and he didn’t make it to the jailhouse, sugar.”

Suddenly the way everyone was looking everywhere but at each other sunk in. 

Panicked, you looked to Alastor. His expression was still, like the calm waters of a deep and foreboding bay. What horrors lie underneath? His tongue wiped across his teeth, and you reached out to take his drink from his hand. The action snapped him out of his daze for a second, expression softening a tad as he nodded a thank you.

If he shattered that glass now, people would remember. And when Aubrey went missing they may recall Alastor’s dramatic reaction. You knew his smiles intimately, the ones that were true and the ones that were illusions. The expressions of joy and the mask for his rage. The smile painted on his face now was nothing short of shallow.

You spent so many days in a bubble with Alastor, shielded by his grace or by the accepting and illegal circles you ran in that you sometimes forgot the reality of life. A dark privilege you hadn’t seen until you were the one looking naive for once. 

That’s right. The world was a bad place, of cruelty and injustice. Not just for you, or for parts of you, or for sides of you. Not just for women with smart mouths or a love of dance. No matter how safe the comfort of your friends and the dark halls you all commiserate in, no matter the like minds and mixed complexions of your peers, you were all just one cruel voice from being dragged into the night. Just a single accusation from being a whispered story in a glittering hotel bar. A headline no one would write. 

And some of you would be mourned more than others. 

You took a second, blinking rapidly to dry your eyes. 

“Apparently, she did it to get Hubert to leave his mistress’s apartment and come home.” A short man whose name you never got took a drag of his cigarette, “Worked. He’s been yapping all week about the state of New Orleans society and the importance of protecting the fairer among us.”

Alastor was quiet still, lips tight. You’d seen the photos in his home. You’d never discussed it, no need. Things can’t become normal if you’re always pointing them out. Plus, that was his piece to share. 

“Glad to see most of us here aren’t too keen to welcome her. I’d hate to have to find another bar.” Someone said, glancing around the room. “George just started making my martinis right.”

“Care to dance?” Alastor abruptly turned his entire body to you with a slick swivel on his heels.

You nodded, offering small polite goodbyes and setting your drinks back on the table before turning to him.

His open palm was outstretched and offering you a dance. You spread your hand over his and felt him hold you firmly before pulling you into him. 

He held you so close, much closer than anyone else on the dance floor. A scandalous lack of distance between you two. Quiet, Alastor’s eyes were distant. You were in front of him but he wasn’t seeing you. You let the song carry on a little longer for appearances before sighing into a smile.

“Why are we dancing when you have work to do? You have your tools.” Looking up at a man was rarely a view you enjoyed but the way his eyes slid down his nose and landed so sharply on you made it worth it. A look that said he’d devour you if he didn’t adore you so much. Your hand snaked behind his back to touch the hidden outline of this trusty little knife. He briefly wondered if this could be considered foreplay, the way he felt your hand on his lower back and running over his weapon. Much more intimate than he’d ever let anyone else be.

As your bodies swayed, the lights slid across the curve of his eyes and lit that bright honey brown color like a diamond twirling in the sun. The facets of his irises mesmerizing you. 

How terribly did you love him? 

How far would you fall for him?

“This would be a long one. You’d be waiting… could be a couple of hours. I need to be out of sight before she leaves.” A chill. Oh, you’d forgotten for a second, Alastor was a killer. He didn’t do it for ‘justice’ alone, he enjoyed what he did. Immensely. His voice had a note of giddiness and anger that didn’t mix well, but was oddly arousing. 

“Correction, I’d be dancing for hours. Drinking. Letting handsome men waste their money on me.” 

“Oh? Can they buy me a drink, too?”

You brought up your pointer finger, “You remind her of her humanity, and I’ll get a man to buy you a drink.” 

He linked his finger with yours. “I’ll need to give her special attention. She’s earned it.”

You loosely understood this wasn’t attention like you’d be given. This was attention that ran opposite affection. 

“I’m not here to be in your way, Alastor.” A quick kiss to your hand, one you hoped no one else saw. While no one here would be bothered by Brady, you still wanted to keep some semblance of confusion on what you two were to onlookers. 

His laugh was louder than you expected, a few heads turning, “Impossible. I’m always going wherever you are, dear.”

Would you never get up again?

“I’ll stay at the bar. If they close, I’ll just go to Beth’s.” Your fingers lingered in his, “Be careful. The best good deeds are done in the dark.”

A kiss to your nose. So gentle despite the topic. You could imagine it, the violent death of a woman. You could hear the sounds. Hers, his, the knife’s. A pang of guilt set in before you could remind yourself why this woman was going to die. A tiny smile settled on your face, he offered you a gentle command in return, “Understood, honey. Be safe.” 

You let him kiss your hand again and bow out of  the dance. You were doing it, it dawned on you as you watched him walk away. Truly kissing him goodbye at the door as he went off to work. The closest you’d ever gotten, atleast. 

He stopped by a group and said some quick goodbyes, apologies for leaving early, and left the hotel bar. 

You knew he had killed women before, Alastor was all for equality, but a part of you worried. Women tend to scream louder, and be heard more often, than men. A man screams and people just…keep walking. What would he do? Where would he do it?

With a sniffle, you let the jealousy of just what he would need to do to get her alone flutter away. Taking a seat back at your table, you sipped your drink and watched the others dance and chat. How odd, they could sway in such large places with big windows and bright lights with no fear of cops. Your scenes were dark, dusty, never seeing the sky. 

“He left ya?” One of the earlier women came by, someone you vaguely remember him nodding a ‘hello’ to at some point in the evening. 

Thankfully you were still quick on your feet. “Well, we came separately, of course we’d leave separately.”

A laughed, “Of course.” She leaned down, touching at your hair for a second, curiously, “Don’t hold your breath. But, it is nice he got you in here, huh? Must be a treat for you.” 

Your own laugh was just as abrupt as Alastor’s earlier, your hand coming to hide your smile. All you could muster was a nod. Yes, you stood out. Yes, you didn’t fit in with these people for many reasons. But, it wasn’t your first time in nice spaces. First time not pressed into a man who’d been made to believe he was more important the whole time, but still. 

It took two more drinks for Aubrey to leave. But there was a problem. As she was trying to bow out of the room, a man kept hooking his fingers under the loose belt of her boxy drop waist dress.

With practiced skill, you took note of where her eyes lingered on him, how her hand came to his arm but didn’t actually press him away. Not earnestly.

The pushy man saw it too, every little soft ‘no’ was a half ‘yes’. And Aubrey seemed to like that. It was almost ironic, given what she had done, how she egged on the younger man before her now by pretending she didn’t want him. His hand landed on her hip forcefully, her hand on his chest gingerly. He leaned in close, she pulled away barely.

The next act was the most classic to women of your era. The false exit.

Aubrey whispered something, he nodded eagerly and his many hands returned to himself.

She smiled at the back of everyone’s heads, as nearly no one would look her way, and she slipped out the doors.

You couldn’t stop yourself from shimmying as you slid from your booth. Barely a step away, you leaned back and grabbed the last sip in your glass. You swished it around your mouth like listerine, and swallowed it. Before you got too close, you pinched your cheeks until your eyes began to water.

You’d just found a way to make yourself useful.

“Whoopsie Daisy!” You giggled, shoulder colliding with the man’s chest as you stumbled past.

“Watch - ooh, hey,” the free hand that had come to keep you from getting closer quickly softened, curling around your waist. The same hand that’d just been on the socialite. You were sure to look up and sigh into him, your breath soaked in alcohol. “You okay, doll? Had a bit too much?”

With glassy eyes you nodded, closing them and letting your head nod lazily, “I lost my thing!” You laughed, hitting his chest.

“Your what? I happen to be a thing.” 

How quickly he forgot his target when easier to pick fruit appeared.

“No, silly!” A practiced hiccup, “my little…”

“Your little…?”

Your fingers wiggled in the direction of your hip.

“Purse!” A beaming grin. He asked if you needed help finding it. “Well, how else am I gonna get another drink!” The hand on your waist fell to your hip and slunk lower. 

“Oh well, I could help ya with that.” He leaned in, looking around first as if he had a secret, “I have a room upstairs.”

You tutted, “No no, I am a married woman!” He lifted your left hand, turning it over in a dramatic search for a ring. “Well, engaged…” you diverted your gaze. He lifted his hand to his brow then and scanned the room like a sailor to the horizon. “He’s working late.” You whined.

Why did his kind of man always want the taken woman? Did they think the chase was more meaningful then? Did they feel like they’d won some tug-of-war with an invisible, unaware opponent?

Maybe they were hardwired to hoard resources.

You let him seat you at the bar, and when he ordered you a drink you asked to know your savior’s name. William.

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Alastor was none the wiser, smoking a cigarette under the streetlamp just off to the side of the hotel awning. He didn’t smoke often before you, but he found the lure of sitting on the porch passing a pill between you both too hard to fight. And soon enough the habit grew from a drinking pastime to just… something to do with his hands.

As Aubrey appeared, waiting for her driver to retrieve the car, Alastor tossed the butt to the street and walked up on her.

“I’m quite cross with you, Aubrey.” His tone was smiling as his hand slid behind her neck and tugged her away from the safety and lights of the awning.

“Oh! Alastor, I’m actually waiting for my car.” She struggled to keep up with his pace in her heels, weakly pointing back to where the valet had stood earlier. She resisted a little, the palm on the nape of her neck silently shutting her down.

“Nonsense. We have business together.” Alastor let his hand fall to her upper arm as he yanked her into the closest side street. “I hear you’ve been a very bad girl.”

Aubrey huffed, pulling back against him once, then twice, but ultimately acquiesced when she could see his car down the street.

“Fine, you can drive me home then.” A misplaced giggle, her survival skills dulled by ego.

He tossed her roughly against the car, hand gripping her face tightly. She tried to say his name, but his hold was so firm her jaw was locked.

“You’re going to get into my car now.” Alastor’s eyes had lost their pupil, an expanse of a seemingly endless dark brown in the heavy shadows left by the lamp’s light. When he let her face go, she rolled her eyes and pulled open the back seat door.

That wasn’t what he had meant, not there, but he closed the door behind her and got into the driver’s seat. He hadn’t brought the tarp tonight, not expecting to need it, so maybe the backseat was his best option regardless.

When he pulled away, she reminded him he didn’t know her address.

“I’m not taking you home. I told you. I have a bone to pick with you.” Alastor found himself incapable of putting on a ruse for her. His patience was entirely lost in his unraveling anger.

“Oooh? A bone, you say. Well, well.” Aubrey leaned forward onto the front seat, hands snaking down his shoulders and chest so she could nip at his ear, “Finally letting me have a ride.”

He had to set his right hand in the darkness of his lap to hide the tremble, a disgusted rage manifesting in uncommon ways. 

As her fingers found the buttons of his waist coat, Alastor struggled to see the road in front of him. His vision was going white, and then red. His blood pressure was so high he was nearly blind. 

And when two hot fingers broached the small space between buttons of his dress shirt and touched the bare skin of his chest, the car came to an abrupt halt. The force threw her into the backseat. 

Alastor slammed the front seat door shut before opening the back and caging her in. “I can’t stand another second of your existence.” She crawled backward, making room for him. “I’m going to fucking kill you.” 

Aubrey settled her back against the opposite door, “Oh, the petit mort.”

His head hung low in frustration, a growled  “No, the big one.” as he raked his fingers through his hair to keep from punching his own car seat.

“So I’ve heard.” She pulled up the hem of her dress slowly.

“For fucks sake Aubrey! I’m not using double entendre!” His hands wrapped around her neck. “Must I really remind you of what wrongs you’ve committed?!”

A brief panic finally came, “Wrongs?? Excuse you.”

He could have sworn the snap in his brain had been audible to her as he lost his last bit of patience.

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“Excuse me.” You settled back into the seat, having taken a bathroom break to down some water in secret. You weren’t trying to actually end up blacked out.

“Anyway,  that's how we secured the riverside house.” William leaned into you. You tried to sip your drink and found it empty, having managed to finish it absentmindedly while he rambled on about himself earlier. As you stared at him you let your eyes lose focus and drift into plans for the morning. You’d like biscuits. Alastor had some sausage he’d picked up the other day, maybe a little gravy and some eggs. It’d be like a Sunday meal nice families ate after church. You assumed. Out of the peripheral of your daydream you saw him tap the bar twice and hold up two fingers. “Charge to 1033.” He said. With the clarity of someone who wasn’t pretending to be drunk you quickly held up three.

William shot you a confused look.

“One for my darling.” He made a show of looking around, the bartender pausing. You gave him a confirmation nod, “Three, please.”

“And is he in the room with us now, Helen? I’m beginning to think he’s imaginary.”

It seemed a fine enough name to give him.

“No! But I made a promise. Or…,” you returned the lean, head resting on his shoulder, “are three drinks a little steep for you?“ With a huff, he pulled out a pair of C notes and set them on the bar. The bartender nodded, reaching for the top shelf. You whistled at the sight. Too much money for the total seven drinks he’d ordered, if you weren’t somewhere Alastor frequented you’d have slipped them under the lip of your stockings when the man wasn’t looking. He was charging the room anyway, the large bills were just for show…

“One reviver for the miss, one brandy for the sir, and a rye whiskey neat for the beau.” The bartender set the drinks down on red napkins. The whiskey sat between you both, and after a beat you realized you hadn’t actually told him what to make for Alastor. And come to think of it, your last drink hadn’t been a reviver at all but a brandy ordered by William.

“Ya know I stood up another woman to help you,” he said it into your cheek, stealing your attention by breaking your line of thought. His arm around your shoulder curled to hold you closer, “Don’t I get a reward for that?”

His breath reeked of sickeningly sweet brandy, the taste sticking to the back of your throat. Your head tilted back so you could look at him down your nose, right hand coming to rest on his thigh.

The heat of his body was radiating through the fabric of his pants and made your stomach turn. How many hot and sweaty bodies had you had the pleasure and displeasure of touching?

A smirk painted your face, remembering seeing sweat sticking to Alastor’s forehead the last time he fucked you. What had you done for that reward? Ah right, the somehow shocking act of not withholding praise for how well planned out his greenhouse was. How impressive he was to you in so many ways. You could have lingered on that recollection, on how Alastor set down his coffee and kissed you. And how he didn’t stop until you were both left undone and flustered. But movement stirred away the pleasant memory to bring you back to an unpleasant reality.

His hand roamed down your arm, uncomfortably warm palm on your exposed skin. 

“Oh, I know you did.” You said.

William chuckled, absolutely no idea what you were talking about and not particularly giving a shit. “Did I mention I have a room here?”

“Ten thirty three.” You repeated. 

He looked genuinely shocked, “How’d you know that?” The man was absolutely mystified.

“I— you just…,” your mask slipped in the face of such abject stupidity, “Lucky guess.” William drank his brandy slowly, mentioning you should bet on the ponies together. You nodded. 

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Alastor didn’t care for strangulation. It took so much time and wasn’t particularly satisfying. No pleading, no screaming, no blood and gore. Just…. someone flailing beneath you and turning purple. Boring. 

He brought up the accusations before he began to squeeze, and her panic transformed to relief. “Oh that?” She tried to sit up, but he pushed her back down, “Are you really miffed at me about that?”

“Yes, Aubrey! You condemned an innocent child to a horrid death!” His hands loosened, all of his neurons firing off to feel pain in his own heart. 

She rolled her eyes, “I wouldn’t call them children. You seem so upset, hun. Did you have a mam-?”

The rest of the word was barely squeaked out of her, he couldn’t let her finish it. He wasn’t sure what face he made. But whatever it was, it scared her. The carefree way she’d been handling the interaction finally died, and he could register actual fear in her eyes then. 

But the rage just … withered. How many children had his mother loved and doted on before her last, much kinder position? How many Aubreys had she raised. It was nothing short of an overwhelmingly violent sadness that laced his finger together around her neck and tightened, the full weight of his body coming down to crush her airways. He wanted such sentiments to be smothered out of the world like the air in her lungs. If he killed enough, could he make a dent in their influence? He could try. For her. For his mother. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“Ya know, I could take real good care of you. If that’s what’s stopping you from coming upstairs.” 

With a deep breath, you gulped the drink halfway down. “Your fella doesn’t need to know. I could even get you your own place, you could wait for me there when he’s late with work. Have dinner ready. Slip off my shoes like a good girl.”

“Trust me; you’ve got a better chance of her smacking you with your shoes than slipping them off like a maid.” Alastor was resting his elbow on the bar behind you, head leaning on his hand. “Hey doll. That one mine?” He pointed at the glass.

“Oh? Alastor is the fiancé?,” William gave off a snide laugh as he was interrupted, Alastor standing up and walking to come between you two, “This guy?! Everyone knows he’s a frigid bitch. You must be a dive alley-cat if you’re—,” Alastor’s fist connected with the man’s jaw, eliciting a sickening crack. He needed both hands to keep himself from falling down with William as he was knocked back out of his bar stool. Alastor’s feet slipped on the spilt brandy, causing him to seize the stool for momentary support.

Alastor took the glass of whiskey with his non-dominant hand and downed it. He cooed, “Top shelf, Georgie?” The bartender nodded. “Good choice. Picked a worthy sucker, sweetheart. Ready to peel?”

You watched William try to stand, glass stuck to his palm. He did manage to get on his knees, shouting at the staff who stood motionless and unphased behind the counter. They didn’t say anything at all, oddly, until Alastor extended his swelling hand to you.

“Have a good evening, sir.”

Alastor flashed his signature smile and guided you out of the hotel bar. You only got a few steps before quickly running back and snatching one of the 100$ bills from the counter. William would’ve taken it back from the bar anyway. What a waste!

When a waiter offered Alastor a warm and familiar look you had to wonder, did people really not know what he did in the darkness of the New Orlean’s alleys? Did a part of them not feel some kind of debt to him? Or was he just painfully friendly when socializing?

“Just to be clear,” Alastor let the doorman open the lobby door, “It’s not the accusation of sex work that compelled me to sock him. It’s the implication you’d be cheap.” He waved the valet from the car and opened the door for you, “If you chose to sell your companionship at true worth, his daddy’s money couldn’t even buy him a kiss.”

“Aww,” you smiled at him through the thin windowpane, “Would you really be so cavalier about such a job if I did?”

“Would I? Gosh that’d make retirement much quicker for me.” He slid into the driver's seat and the door shut with a sharp ting. As he took hold of the wheel he reclined to let his hand settle behind you on the backrest, and then you three were off. 

“Oh by the way, Aubrey’s in the backseat.”

You turned slowly, first coming into view were her tiny, shining silver shoes. Your eyes kept traveling; stocking covered calves and then the bottom of her dress just past her knees.

Alastor’s coat draped over her torso and shoulders caused you to flit to him, confirming his jacket was gone, and back to her. 

Her face looked like that of a sleeping passenger. 

No blood.

When the car was a few blocks from the hotel, you leaned back and lifted the jacket. Her abdomen was clean, the white of her dress pristine. At first her neck seemed clear of cuts or abrasions until you rode past a streetlamp and a beam of light revealed the slowly forming collar of bruises.

Special attention.

For a hair of a moment you began to gently cover her again, before remembering her crimes and dropping it on her unceremoniously.

“Trunk not good enough for her?”

“Got interrupted. Booked it back to you.” He shook his head and patted the seat in tandem.

What luck that just as he felt sure she was too far gone for revival, he let go over her neck and sat up in time for someone to notice him. Fishing in his jacket draped over the seat, he found his cigarette case just as—

“What exactly are you two doing?” An officer was flashing his light through the passenger side back window.

Alastor froze, Aubrey motionless between his legs and a cigarette dangling unlit between his lips. “You startled me, officer! We were just canoodling. But she’s gone and fallen asleep before the main event.”

The officer’s brass light shone down but couldn’t reach the dead woman’s face past the shadow cast by the car door and glass. “She alright?”

Alastor’s eyes drifted down to the deceased socialite, “Truth be told sir, she’s had a bit too much of the giggle water.” Fishing your lighter from his waistcoat pocket, he lit this cigarette before setting the jacket over Aubrey like a gentleman.

“Alright y'all better get lost. Tell your moll this ain’t ladylike.” The officer tapped the window with his knuckle and when she didn’t stir just left with a huff.

Alastor was quick to leave the backseat and drive off, circling around at the next block to head back to the hotel.

“Is… everything alright?” You asked, very obviously concerned.

“Peachy! I just said we were necking before she passed out drunk.“ he leaned over and kissed your cheek, “Anything exciting on your end?”

Patting his leg you beamed up at him, “Always so quick on your feet! I don’t know why I worry so much.” His face lit up and you wanted nothing more than to launch into a praise filled rant that fueled his smile. But, you moved on to the question at hand. After a moment to think, you remembered ‘the best good deeds are done in the dark’. “Nope! Just got tipsy on William’s dime. An odd woman did touch my hair…,” you recounted every second, leaving out why you chose William, to Alastor. You hadn’t meant to, and he hadn’t actually asked, the evening’s events just seemed to flow out of you. The way he always added little comments and nodded made it feel like a conversation and not just you rambling. 

When the car was pulling into the driveway, you asked Alastor if you could drive it behind the house. Puzzled, he put it in park and let you sit between his legs. You started slowly, but quickly began to accelerate. As you approached the house you turned sharply to the left, right side tires ever so slightly leaving the ground. A sharp correction to the right to straighten out. One of his hands clutched you at the waist, the other gripping the seat.

He tried to form some kind of words but they came out a jumbled and panicked mash of sounds as you barreled toward the greenhouse. 

You slammed your foot on the brakes and Aubrey flew off the back seat and hit the floor with a loud thud.

“Ha!” You slapped the wheel, “I’ve been wanting to hear that sound the whole drive!” 

He used both arms now to squeeze you appreciatively, “You’re just the bee’s knees.” Alastor nuzzled into the back of your neck, truly feeling his heart flutter. You made him skip a beat. So many days and nights not even imagining such a pairing.

The best scenario he could think up was a partner who wouldn’t ask questions, who didn’t care to know, who was maybe a little too naive but otherwise capable. Even in his wildest dreams he hadn’t dared to think someone would exist who could support him.

And not just in the killing, which was a hurdle of course, but the other parts of him. The little sacrifices you made for him without complaint. 

What did he do for you, he worried. Your body was his on the occasions he wanted but never did you ask for him. You shared the housework equally. Yes he drove you around but your skills with the car were still new. Insignificant things, like making your coffee when he awoke first and waiting for you after work. With the detective still looking for connections, he couldn’t even properly introduce you or flaunt you around to his circles.

Like a flash of lightning taking down a tree, insecurity shook him. What on earth was keeping you there? Of all the people in New Orleans, how was he any more worth your time than the next?

If anything, he was nothing short of troublesome. His hold on you twisted from thankful to desperate.

Even the lovely evening out he had promised you, he’d left you alone in a strange place. A stranger had bought you more drinks than he had. 

“Would you like to go to the woods with me tonight? To dispose of Aubrey?” His lips swiped across the fabric of your dress as he said it.

The sudden advancement into his hobby took you by surprise. You hugged his arms against you, “Really? Are you sure?”

“If you don’t want to…”

“Is that what I said?”

“Well, no….”

“Don’t put words in my mouth! I absolutely want to go!” Your arms squeezed his.

He chuckled into your shoulder and gave your hip a pat, “Let me get her packaged up. You go rest your feet and I’ll come get you when I’m ready to go.”

You watched from the kitchen, the light he hung from the greenhouse ceiling setting the entire space aglow. When he finally emerged, his sleeves were rolled up past his elbows and his hair was falling into his face, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose before he could push it back into place. He waved from the porch, and when you made it out to him he was already pulling out small bundles.

“We’ll bury the pieces in separate places.” He dragged out a small trash tin with the lid already clapped down. “And this goes into the water.”

The packages were like Tommy’s, but smaller. They fit easily into the trunk, and beside them he snuggly fit the metal bucket.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The Ford was parked down a dirt road far from sight, taking a parcel at a time and a shovel, you followed him into the woods. 

You had to ask, why not just his land? Wasn’t that safer? Easier?

“Well, a skull found out here is easier to act shocked about than on my property.”

The ground was still soft, but you could imagine it was rock solid in winter. “Isn’t this dangerous? Aren’t you slowed down in the colder months?” You kept your eyes open wide, adjusting to the pitch black of the forest. The trees were too close and too full still to see the stars. But soon they’d brown and die, revealing the sky’s light. Revealing Alastor.

“Eh it’s mostly busy during mating season because the hunters come out in numbers. But in general I avoid being here in the very early morning hours.” He paused and you reached out for the shovel for your turn, “It’s not too bad overall.”

“They mate in fall. It’s almost fall now.” You widened your stance for balance and began to dig. 

“Yeeees but I’m not alone!” He chirped.

“Fine… just, don’t come out when I’m not able to join you. Just wait or, I don’t know, burn them or something.” You tried to dig fast, wanting to spare his injured hand another turn.

“Very ineffective, brings too much attention and the body never burns all the way. It’s still identifiable in many cases.” Alastor said it quickly, as he’d had nearly a lifetime to think of these things and test them. 

You huffed, “Well, fuck. Okay. Still.” You leaned over and offered your index finger, not looking at him as you did. He laughed before wiping his hand clean on his pants and hooking his with yours. 

A small scream erupted from you, startling him. Your short heel sunk into the dirt when you leaned to lock fingers. The sudden loss of balance startled you. “Sorry… flat shoes. I need flat shoes…these are gonna be the death of me.”

Alastor’s hand came to his heart, pounding in his chest, “Of us. My heart nearly stopped.”

You dug many holes, all of them quite small in radius, just wide enough to slip in what you needed to. After each was deep enough by some standard you didn’t know, he would untie the twine around the package and let the contents spill out and down into the little cylinderical pocket of dirt. 

The first package had her hands. Then next was her feet. Her arms in pieces and then later her legs. The hips, the chest and shoulders, and finally, her head. You were grateful for the darkness, not wanting to see her face now that it was no longer attached to her body. 

The brush was so thick and the woods so dense that you found it hard to distinguish the burial spots once they’d been filled in and covered up. He explained most people came out there with a purpose, not really noticing some disturbed dirt here and there. It’s not like they’re people sized.

“You’re just something else, ya know that?” You said it into the shadows and didn’t see him wince. But you somehow, accidentally, knew to clarify, “I’m always so impressed by your way of doing things. You’ve really thought it out well huh? I know I should worry less but it’s hard.”

Because of the shade you didn’t see the way his shoulders relaxed. You never made him regret your inclusion.

Alastor carried the bucket as you slowly made your way through the darkness. You could hear the sounds of bugs, though you couldn’t see any.  The water surprised you, his arm coming to stop you from walking into the bayou.

“In winter they’ll get really still, so I slow down then too. But we still have time, it’s not too cold yet for them.” He took off the lid, the smell of copper blossoming from the tin.

With practiced moves, he tossed the viscera as far as he could into the small inlet marsh of the river. 

Within seconds the water frothed and rolled with the snapping of powerful jaws.

“Gosh they’re so neat.” You said, reaching out into the darkness for his hand. You couldn’t see him looking at you as you watched the prehistoric animals dispose of his crimes.

He wanted to kiss you. To confess every little happiness you filled his formerly hollow chest with. But he held back. He knew better. He’d tried before, once. When he thought settling was better than nothing. It ended terribly. It was better to just exist beside you for as long as you’d entertain his company. If you knew, he thought, of all the futures he imagined with you, you’d just feel tied down by his hopes. You weren’t a small bird he could hold in his home. 

You promised to not get in his way. The least he could do was not cage you with his love. He wouldn’t hold you back.

“Alastor.”

“Yeah?” He said dreamily.

“I think… ” You fought the urge to scream at the sensation between your toes, “Aubrey dripped into my shoes.”

Alastor yanked the bucket away from you, the angle he haphazardly held at it with a single finger to hold your hand having caused the liquid remains to leak out.

“Ankle boots. Ankle boots, no heel.” You muttered, the shoe rinsed off in the water with a paranoid speed now squishing under your sole. The action was enough to draw attention to your shore, long and round snouts moving toward you in the night as you got rid of Aubrey. It was time to go. 

The drive home was dark and silent. The bucket and tarps rinsed with the gas can full of water he always kept in the oversized, custom built trunk. It had taken longer than you had realized, which just brought up renewed worry for his sleep schedule.

When you finally made it home and into the bedroom, he mumbled it was too late to shower. A coordinated grumble between you that you’d both just wash the sheets in the morning. Alastor sat on the end of the bed and bent down, your hand coming to his shoulder to stop him. 

Exhausted, aching, and quite confident you smelled of sweat coated dirt with the tiniest hint of dead Aubrey mixed with alive William (blood and brandy, respectively), you lowered yourself to your knees. You untied the waxed laces of the right shoe, made of a shiny brown leather, and slipped it off. 

Alastor felt his throat tighten as he had to blink to keep tears away. You always seemed to listen when he spoke. Really listened, even when he was just being playful. Another tiny sweetness piled onto the mountain you were currently burying him under. Another ounce of inadequacy tipped on his self measured scales.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Hush, I don’t have to do anything.” You said it and he laughed breathlessly knowing he’d heard it before and praying he’d hear it forever. “I want to.”

You set the left shoe beside the right. When you didn’t stand but instead stared at him patiently, Alastor undid his pants and lifted his hips to push them down. You folded them neatly beside his shoes. Feeling up his legs as if you couldn’t see them there in front of you, you found his sock garters. 

“Keep the socks, please. It’s getting chilly.” He undid his shirt and folded it on his lap. 

When he was in just his underwear and socks, you looked up at him and wondered if he knew. That this was the closest to expressing “I love you” you had ever been. The act itself perhaps far louder than any words could be.

Sitting back, he patted between his legs like he had in the car. As you sat, he undid the buttons down the back of your dress. Why were so many women’s clothing items made in a way that required two people?

In the mirror above the dresser you took in the sight. When the dress fell to your waist he kissed your shoulder and met you in the reflection.

“Quite a pretty couple, if I do say so myself.” He rested his chin where he had just kissed and smiled at you. “What did I do to deserve your attention?”

“Affection,” you corrected. “Aubrey got attention.” He nodded slightly. “I think it’s karma.” You watched his brow arch. “You’ve earned me. Whatever that means, or looks like. We were put together for a reason.”

It was the sappiest thing you’d ever said and a year ago you’d have laughed in someone’s face for saying it. If a character in a novel spewed it out in a confession you’d have closed the book. But you meant it. Every single word was part of the fact this was supposed to happen. The idea that any timeline existed where your paths never crossed gave you the shivers.

Alastor closed his eyes, exhaustion catching up quickly as comfort opened the door for it. That didn’t make any sense to him at all. Why would anyone, god or the devil, give him something good just for the sake of being a good thing. He was very plainly bad. There must be a catch. That fear he felt before, the fear of wanting something too much, reappeared. Turning its ugly head to him as if called by name. 

Why? He could feel something, someone, setting their sights on him. 

When he opened his eyes, you were there still, looking at him. A smile too sweet. He felt the compulsion to tell you to run. That if this was his karma, it would end the way he deserved. And he didn’t deserve happiness. He didn’t deserve you.

But instead he leaned down, lifted your dress, and unclamped your garters. He wanted to be selfish. He wanted to cling to what good he had now. Even knowing he couldn’t possibly get to keep it. His fingertips delighted in rolling down the delicate nylon. He watched the red stained end loosen around your toes, a mental note to burn them before he continued his undressing.

“Lift your hips, my love. I’ll get you all ready for bed.” As he pressed forward and bent into you so he could slip off the stockings he turned to look at the you in front of him, “And I’ll keep you warm.”

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ⋆Masterlist.ೃ࿔*:･

˖ ݁𖥔.Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult.𖥔 ݁ ˖

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[sleepynoons]

Locked Eyes

Jing Yuan finally returns from his Grand Tour, but by the bounds of society's customs and traditions, you cannot marry him. This is a romance story told through letters exchanged, secret rendezvouses, red silk embroideries.

jing yuan x afab!f!reader, regency!au, sfw

word count: ~15,300

cw: explicit language, slight suggestive content

notes: the regency era is too complex, and i got lazy with my research, so this is not accurate!!! best read on desktop because there are some long paragraphs... would also appreciate reblogs + comments!!!

infinite thanks to @staraxiaa, for always being a fantastic and incredibly insightful beta-reader, and for watching me lose my sanity over the past 1.5 weeks. and to io, wherever you may be, this is for you. you made this piece possible, and even if we do not talk anymore, i hope you are well and happy. every day, i am so grateful we met, and i hope you can enjoy even bits and pieces of this story.

YOU HAD met Jing Yuan in your early years, by chance, peering at each other through the relentless beating of the sun’s rays and the glittering of the sea’s many jeweled crests. At the time, the boy had, you thought, equally dazzling eyes, as golden as the chains that adorned your mother’s neck and wrists, the same in reflecting your curious, admiring gaze.

Now, the gold is shades darker, matured and cured, a reflection of his much more grown state. Even from across the room, past the rotating crowd of other noble families, where you peer at him over the top of your lace fan, you can deduce his transformation, his broader, fitted shoulders and chest, inappropriately loose, long hair, tall stature that dwarfs those lingering near him. Most importantly, though, you cannot help but smirk at the flicker of red when Jing Yuan adjusts the collar of his tailcoat. The flash of color is meant to be discrete, though to observant eyes, it might as well also serve as a challenge.

For now, this will do.

A call of your name from your older brother pulls you from your watchful perch. Beside him is another man, another introduction, another attempt at your mother’s instruction. Your foxy satisfaction melts into your typical countenance, and you curtsy as the two gentlemen approach you. You know this conversation will result in nothing, but you entertain your brother and the baron he has brought over anyway.

–

You have never been the daughter your mother wanted. Perhaps, when you were once little, you were on course to becoming favored, but you have grown, enough, at least, to develop a pointed sense of your own being. Your brother says you think too much, that you are unable to see the bigger picture, and perhaps that is why your mother does not take too kindly towards you. After all, why would anyone favor another that watches, observes, judges their every move?

Even now, as she sits across from you, informing you of the baron and his lineage weeks after your introduction to the man, your mother is aware that while her directions may escape your memory, her movements do not. The shuddering of her fingers, an instinct that comes with age; the adjusting and readjusting of the pleats of her nightgown, a glean into her deep-set fear of abandonment; the twitching arch of her brow, the permanence of her distaste and disappointment in you.

“Mother,” you interrupt, “I suppose you are willing to sacrifice the nobility of our family name in order to satiate your sole desire to marry me off?”

She harrumphs. “Incorrigible.” The word is equivalent to being spat on. You give her some reprieve by pulling out your handkerchief and dab at your forehead, as if she really did. “You dare to claim you exhibit even an ounce of the dignity and lavishness you have been raised in?”

“Not at all.” You cease your acting, slipping the cloth away, and stare straight into your mother’s eyes. The briefest thought, that it is your fearlessness, a lack of tact, that your mother wholly detests you for, flickers in your mind before you extinguish it effectively. No matter. You say, “But we must not forget I still bear your husband’s last name. Regardless of your personal feud,” and you raise your chin towards her, “your husband would never allow even the likes of a woman such as myself to tarnish the family’s honor.”

You can see the tightening, working, grinding of her jaw. She grits, “You must have someone in mind, do you not?” She throws down her fan, the lacquered wood snapping in half when it collides with the ground, and rises on her haunches, towering over your seated figure. “You whore. Who is this man that you are seeing? Do you not understand what a scandal –“

You tilt your head, less than impressed. “There is no other man. That is your job, to find your only female kin a suitable proprietor. I would never do something on your behalf.”

Your response simultaneously placates yet enrages her further. “See yourself out now. And do not appear in my sights again tonight.”

“Of course, Mother.” You finish the last sip of your tea before standing to curtsy and exit the drawing room.

You pad through the darkening halls of your father’s manor with purpose. Instead of returning to your bedroom, you make your way to the third of four floors, veer towards the right end of the hallway, and knock on the last door.

The door cracks open before you can identify yourself.

“I am no postman, My Lady.”

“Oh, Fu Xuan!” You giggle and clasp her hands in yours, holding her fingers up to your cheek. “You are absolutely wonderful to me.”

“I would prefer if you kept your correspondences to a minimum. The servants are already gossiping about the frequency in which letters are delivered to me, and in due time, your mother will begin to pry into this matter.”

“Please, it is only every fortnight!”

Fu Xuan huffs, retracts her hands, and crosses her arms in front of her chest. “You would not believe how bored your servants are.”

“Well, then, I do apologize. Perhaps I should have a more extravagant fight with my mother next time? At least she might knock over a teapot or something. That should occupy the maids for a day or so.”

“My Lady, if I may presume, it seems you will no longer have to meet that baron?”

You flash a wide grin at your governess. Born in an unconventional household, Fu Xuan is educated, beginning her academics at the age of no less than three, and prepared her whole life to work as a teacher. At first, your mother was against employing Fu Xuan because you were already struggling to conform to the set of traditions and expectations she had placed upon you then, but after meeting the young academic for a brief hour one morning, Fu Xuan and her adept way with words convinced your mother otherwise.

To you, Fu Xuan is more than your governess. She is also your closest confidant, similar enough in age to understand your perspectives yet more than practiced to offer wisdom when required. Though she was shaking her head as you proposed your strategy, Fu Xuan nonetheless agreed to help send and receive letters on your behalf to avoid the hawkish gazes incessantly monitoring you, to deprive them of another chance to pierce and tear at your person.

You walk over to her desk, cleared of everything except for a paper envelope and a small butter knife. You pick the former up, running a pointer finger across the wax seal, and release a soft, muted sigh. “You have always been so keen, Fu Xuan. How could you tell?”

“My Lady, your strengths have never lied in deception.”

“Oh, please!” You feign offense, dramatically setting the back of your hand to your forehead with faux urgency. “I am always excited to see you!”

“Please read the letter, so I may rest.”

Fu Xuan pulls out her desk chair for you to sit in, and you take the small butter knife in your unoccupied hand. Carefully, you prod the tip underneath the seal, gently pushing and easing its grip, until the wax plucks off neatly.

The envelope is thin this time, slimmer than many of the previous letters you have received, and you feel a pang of disappointment, resounding and clear in the hollows of your chest. You pull out a single sheet of paper and unfold it carefully, as if it might tear and dissipate into dust if you so much as brushed a finger a degree too harshly against the fiber.

Dear Lady,

I would like to foremost extend my condolences regarding your father’s condition. Word has reached the far edges of my relatives’ stays in Bath, and when I had visited a week ago, my family had discussed the news over lunch. I should have returned for a brief stay by the time this letter arrives in your hands, and do give Lady Fu Xuan my utmost thanks. I believe I shall see you at the dinner party that is occurring in just a few days time, and, if the chance arises, I will see to it that I am introduced to your brother.

Regarding your question in our previous exchange, my thoughts on the matter vary. Perhaps we may reach an impasse on the issue, but it is an overwhelming hurdle to pass such aggressive tax revisions without unanimous agreeance from many of the other men on the Royal Council; this is hardly achievable in the current instance, and I would advise My Lady and myself to not fancy ourselves with ill-conceived hopes. However, I do concede that your suggestions come from willful intent and are what is best for the common people, and therefore, I will do my part and pass on word to my father and his heir. I sincerely apologize that that is the extent of my powers. I am also aware that this writing may be shorter than before, and I hope My Lady is not discouraged, though, it may be presumptuous of me to assume My Lady would ever have such moments of wavering.

Once my tour has been completed, I can assure that there will be plentiful recounts of my journeys and more debates to be had about the state of affairs I come across. I bring your embroidery with me at all times.

– Your most faithful friend  

Jing Yuan, ever thoughtful, always considerate, never one to miss a single detail. Jing Yuan has always been thorough, that has been clear ever since you witnessed those dense, molten golds, and you are glad that he actively reciprocates your efforts in conversation, despite how inexperienced and eloquent you may be in comparison. On cue, Fu Xuan pulls out a drawer to grab a quill, a sheet of paper, and a well of ink, setting them beside your dominant hand. A maid will come to check on you very soon, judging by the rising of the moon, so you must write with precise decisiveness.

Sir,

Many thanks for your condolences to the Marquess. He is recovering and should be able to return to his post in a few morns. I did, indeed, witness you at the dinner party, and I am a little dimmed at the lack of correspondence between you and my brother. Instead, I was subjected to quite a drawling meeting with this baron from somewhere in the South, and the Marchioness has been encouraging his affections for me since. I managed to escape the impending engagement, after inciting a fit from her, but good Sir, while I do not mean to expedite our efforts unnecessarily, I would prefer if we could bring our exchanges elsewhere soon. Paper simply does not compare to the excitement and passion one feels in speech and gesture. Miss Fu Xuan is also beginning to fall under scrutiny, and I would never put her in harm’s way.

As for my simple questions regarding the rumored tax revisions, I thank you, truly, and can only implore My Lord to use the full extent of your ability, despite slim chances at approval. I hope your travels are safe and felicitous, and do write to me next month. I will be awaiting your full return.

– Your most affectionate friend

There is very little time for you to look over your reply. Quickly scanning, you pause only for any glaring errors, and at the lack thereof, you set your quill down and fold the letter in half.

“I must go now,” you tell Fu Xuan as you stand.

“I shall see you tomorrow, My Lady.” The two of you share a soft embrace, cheek to cheek, before you creak the bedroom door open and traverse with light steps to your own chamber. You make it in time, already shuffling into bed when one of the servants arrives to snuff out the candles lighting your room.

–

You remember the soft pulses of warm wind against your arms, the crisp, slightly briny scent of the sea and sand the breeze wafted to your nose. There were many families, children and women and men alike paddling in the sea, while others lied underneath umbrellas on the shore. If there is anything you and your mother have ever agreed on, it is that the beach is truly a healing, almost spiritual location.

Although your mother forbade you from wading into the waters, in fear of the sun burning your visage and hands, you did not mind staying behind on the sands in the first place. The feel of the dirt and grains and cracks of shells felt foreign against your palms, your nerves much more accustomed to the smooth, flat texture of grass blades and rough cobblestone. The beach sands were harsh, sometimes sharp, sometimes rounded from years of natural erosion and other children’s curious touches. You also took delight in the colors of the shore, glittering hot white and beige and speckled pink, winking at you as you scoured for conches and clams. The large sunhat you were wearing kept perturbing your digging, constantly sliding down your forehead and obscuring your vision, yet every time, you would pull it back into place and continue shoveling with curled fingers, until the sand transitioned into wet, moist sediment.

Your mother could not prohibit your burrowing for she was under another umbrella with her acquaintances, and you took much delight in being able to cause some mischief right in front of her without repercussion. But more than petty vengeance, you wanted to find a memento to bring home. Though young, you were already aware of some rift between you and your parents, and you were not guaranteed attendance on such trips in the future. The only way you could comfort yourself was by digging for that perfect shell, with its spirals and grooves and gradient of pearlescent white and baby pink, the ones described in the simple novels Fu Xuan lent you.

But the area around your feet offered little reward, and you were dissatisfied by the chips and scraps remaining in your palm as you sieved through the sand with your fingers. You gave up a little saddened and frustrated, as children do before they lose interest. Then, suddenly, you felt a soft tap on your shoulder, and you peered over to see an outstretched hand with a piece of something bright and orange. You glanced up, and that was when you first laid eyes on Jing Yuan.

“What is this?” you asked, voice muted and withdrawn in the face of a stranger.

“A piece of coral,” he answered. His voice was light and energetic, warm and welcoming, what you imagined playing and frolicking in the sea might feel like.

“What is coral?” He grinned wide, and you decided then that you liked this boy with wild white hair and generous hands. He did not shun you for speaking in questions, did not criticize your lack of knowledge, did not comment “little girl” under his breath.

“My mother says it is a type of rock, found on the ocean’s floors.”

“How did you get it?”

His grin softened into a gentler simper. “She gave it to me. She has these beautiful coral necklaces, and one broke two nights ago. She and her maids could not string it back together, so she gifted me the beads.”

The way he spoke so adoringly, lovingly, about his mother was foreign to you. But even then, you knew how important this woman was to him, and you could not understand why he would give you a present that was meant for him.

“Should you not keep this bead for yourself?”

He shook his head adamantly. “I can share.”

“But this is not something to be shared, yes?”

He paused for a moment, considering his response. He cocked his head to the side, rubbed at his temple with a knuckle, carefully stringing and knitting together the words he wanted to say.

“I want to,” he decided, with a tone of finality. “That way, I will not be the only one to remember my mother.”

You would later find out that Jing Yuan is the illegitimate child of one of the honorable dukedoms. Your brother had informed you but elaborated no further. It was then that you learned that it is customary for those of different castes to separate themselves from each other.

–

Jing Yuan listens to you well. You receive his next letter exactly a month later, timed intentionally no doubt, during a luncheon with Fu Xuan. Your father was still recovering in his chamber, and your mother was away for the weekend to spend some time with her younger sister. It has been a while since the last time you could so openly indulge yourself.

Dear Lady,

I believe I must offer my condolences to both Lady Fu Xuan and My Lady herself; I hope this report is delivered not even an hour too soon. Alas, I am also deeply perturbed at the notion of you being engaged to a baron, of all potential suitors. Though I will not fault the Marchioness, for you are of age and she must feel the pressures from the Marquess and other prying persons, it truly is deeply troubling that she has had to resort to such dire methods. Rest assured, however, that I will do my best to build an alliance with your brother.

I am to complete my tour before the New Year, in time for the coming Season, leaving us ample time. I only pray that the Marchioness does not rush My Lady into another introduction in the meanwhile.

“My Lady,” Fu Xuan interrupts, “your countenance is slipping.”

Without removing your gaze from the letter, eager to continue reading, you simply reply, “He will be back in less than two months.”

I am eager to see the familiar fields of the Duke’s estate when I return, but more than that, and I hope My Lady does not take my affections so lightly, I am delighted to reunite with you. As of this writing, I have only just arrived in Rome, with its famed colonnades, brilliant masonry, and fine arts. If my travels allow, I shall ensure that I bring some trinkets back with me to present to you. I will say no more regarding my tour, as My Lady and I will have more than sufficient time and space to discuss all that I have seen and experienced in the past three years.

However, this is where I have to mark the end of good news. My communications with my father have been unsuccessful, and the revisions we have agreed upon will not even reach the table of the Royal Council. The Duke has made it clear in his returned correspondence that he will speak no further on the issue, and therefore, that is the limitation of my influence. While this outcome may be discouraging, I hope My Lady’s interest in the politics and machinations of our nobility will not wane, and I will continue to improve upon myself to aid in seeing your efforts to fruition.

Before I forget, I must say that I had arrived late to that evening party and could not identify you or your brother at the hall. Next time, I will be more vigilant. Do tell how My Lady is faring, and perhaps we are only a letter or two away from being able to speak to each other in person.

– Your most faithful friend

You do not even bother to respond to Fu Xuan’s calls for you to finish your meal. Rushing out of your seat, you head straight to your brother’s study to write your letter in answer. Fishing through the drawers, you manage to find a dwindling well of ink along with an old, ragged quill, but they shall suffice.

Sir,

How excitable that My Lord is to return so soon, but surely, you jest. Upon the conclusion of your tour, you will have met many characters of people, and therefore, will not feel a need to see such a lively creature as myself. If I had the privilege of my own tour, I know I would lock myself in my room upon its finishing for three days or longer, with no disturbance, not even from Lady Fu Xuan, to record and digest all that I have experienced. There are also the remnants of your mother’s garden; though they may be bare in the midst of the winter snow, I am sure the winding branches and thick brushes are welcoming, familiar sights.

That said, I will hold My Lord to his word and shall comment no more on the matter of our formal introductions. I will continue to educate myself, to silence any hesitation or doubt you may have of my fancies towards academics. It pleases me to know that My Lord has such adoring concerns for me, as I to you.

– Your most affectionate friend

Just as you seal your envelope, waiting for the wax of your family seal to harden, a knock comes from the door.

“This is your own room. You ought to walk in and out as you please.”

Your brother laughs, always amused at your quick wit, and pads over to the front of the desk.

“You behave as if this room belongs to you. It looks like someone has ransacked my drawers for ransom and treasure.”

You roll your eyes. “There are none of such wares here. Your most pitiful sister could only employ an abandoned quill and a leaking pot of ink.”

“But you finished writing, nevertheless. To whom may I inquire?” He attempts to peer at the back of the envelope, hoping to catch a glimpse of a name or an address, but you slide it off the table before he can see.

“A friend.”

You know this answer will not satiate your brother’s endless curiosity, one of your many similarities. “Do I know of this friend?”

“You will,” and you wave at him to dismiss his other queries.

Unwavering, he says, “I see my ‘most pitiful’ sister has tricks up her sleeve. I am eager to see what surprises you have in store for me.” You nod cheerfully in agreement.

Aside from Jing Yuan, your brother is the only other male figure in your life that encourages your willingness to explore and learn. In the first place, he distastes the act of patronizing or critiquing you, and only provides guidance when even Fu Xuan cannot convince you of your wrongs. So when he brings up the debates and discussions that have occurred at the Royal Council, you are ever grateful for his generosity.

“I am sure you have heard recent word of the revolts happening in the slums. Such news has reached the ears of those in the Royal Council, and the Dukedoms have unanimously agreed to patiently wait for silence to befall the common folk.” He glances at you to see if you have anything to say. You blink, urging him to continue. He takes a deep breath, and suddenly, leans forward, bending at his waist so you two are now nose to nose. In a hushed voice, he says, “In fact, in the upcoming Season, they plan to raise the taxes again.”

You huff, frustrated. You mutter, “Relentless, they are.”

Your brother echoes your sentiments, wearing a solemn expression as well, and mumbles, “Indeed. How cruel, too, to decide the fates of so many right before the New Year.”

“I am confident Father agrees?”

“Regardless if he does or not, a Marquess cannot possibly rebuke the demands of a Duke.”

Both of you can only sigh. Without lingering for too long, though, you rise, preparing to send off your waiting response.

“Be well,” your brother says as he accompanies you to the study door, “for I have heard this winter will be sinister.”

Rather than feel a chill in your bones, though, your blood rushes with renewed warmth and vigor. An initiative, a motivation to take action, something you have never experienced before, appears in your mind, burning into your thoughts so you will never forget. This is a chance, you think. An opportunity I will never be bestowed again.

–

In and out, through and through, back and forth. You wet the tip of the thread with a flick of your tongue and string it through the silver of the needle. In and out, through and through, back and forth. You tie a small knot at the end of the thread. In and out, through and through, back and forth. 

Stitching did not come naturally to you. If one studied the pads of your fingers at length, one could discern the faint scars of scratches and pierces of the tender skin, remnants of your debacle with the needle before you learned to seamlessly wield it. Now, after many years of practice, you have come to enjoy the meticulous process of creation, watching as each push, pull, and tighten amounts to a stroke of an image.

At first, it began with tambouring, straightforward enough for a young girl to grow accustomed to the pricking and stringing motions of a needle, decorating spare handkerchiefs and old dresses that you could no longer fit in. Then, when you received some canvas and a circular wooden frame from Fu Xuan for your birthday, you transitioned to the needle and began to acquire knowledge of the many different types of stitches and patterns. From there, your practices extended beyond the frayed edges of cut cloth. From lace trimmings of your skirt to the cuffs of your brother’s shirts and coats to the reticules your mother had long abandoned and forgotten about, your work started to resemble that of the many renowned seamstresses in town. Of course, many did, still do not, look favorably upon this talent of yours. Embroidery is considered a lower form of art, incomparable to the ways of music or sketch or paint. But, still, you seek comfort, when your mind is much too tense and worn, in the rhythm and coming together of fabric and lines.

“What is it?” Disinterested, convinced that whatever you have conjured up is of no importance, will always never be important, your mother looks outside of the window panes, more content to watch flakes of white drift from the graying sky.

You are not swayed. You clear your throat and say, “We are mother and daughter. Occasionally, the blood that binds us does show in our behaviors.”

Your mother sighs. “Out with it, foolish girl.” She casts a glare at you before her eyes flick back to the scenery outside. “I require total peace, so hurry with your speech.”

“I simply want to request a tea party with a few of the other ladies.”

Eyebrows furrowed, your mother peers at you as if you have sprouted the Devil’s horns atop your head. Incredulous, she asks, “Why such a change in heart and mind?”

“Well, to ease some of your concerns, I think it is best that I learn from those you deem proper enough. Further,” and you stare at her intently now, “your dearest son has informed me that this winter will be particularly harsh. How can we entertain our guests when we are all inside for so long?”

“Is the usual routine of games and food and good laughter not sufficient?” Your mother is fully facing you now. Inwardly, you chuckle with much delight.

You speak slowly, stretching out the silence between each phrase to heighten pressure and suspense. “Fair,” you muse, “but all of our fathers are getting older, too. See your husband, Mother, his state is faring worse and worse. Perhaps... us ladies can spend the time more wisely.”

“I see.”

All you can do is wait as your mother mulls over the idea, letting your suggestion sink, ruminate, digest. You cannot push anymore, so you bid a good night and return to your room. Even without the tea party, even if you have to bear the burden yourself, your work awaits you.

The next morning, you are surprised to find one of your mother’s maids carrying several letters outside.

“What are these messages for?” you ask.

The maid does a brief curtsy before answering, “The Marchioness is sending out invitations for a tea party, My Lady. It is set to happen immediately, a week from today.”

The outcome is even better than you had anticipated.

You rush to the morning room, where your mother is eating bread and chocolate. 

“Mother, thank you,” you say, a hand over your heart as you bow.

She huffs and finishes chewing her bite. Dusting her fingers, she replies with arrogance, knowing you owe her a favor, “I have also gone ahead and asked for layers upon layers of cotton, linen, and wool to be delivered to the estate. Let this be a reminder that you owe everything to your noble upbringing.”

You are much too giddy to smartly reproach her.

–

The tea party is loud and boisterous, filling the usual silence of your family’s manor with tall tales, news on the men’s recent fox hunts, and scandalous romantic couplings. You hear that a baron was caught with his mistress of several months. A Duke’s son fell off his horse because he was severely inebriated, but thankfully only broke his dominant arm and nowhere else. An older earl and countess were blessed with another daughter. 

You sit in a rocking chair and let the conversation float freely in your mind. For once, your mother has truly outclassed your expectations, presenting you with an occasion, an opportunity, so bountiful that you are almost compelled to forgive her historical grievances towards you. You sew together sheets of linen, piling in wool and cotton, before closing the seams. The other ladies also work with unparalleled diligence at having been given a purpose.

“What a wonderful idea!” one praised with joy. Another said you were “incredibly thoughtful.” You smirk within your thoughts, concealed by a pleasant countenance on the outside. Even the accompanying men nodded approvingly at your intentions.

At the beginning of the party, you announced to the many guests, “Please, do enjoy your time here at the manor. I am incredibly gracious towards you all for making the cold journey to this distant estate. However, I urge all of the ladies present to work as quickly yet dutifully as your hands can, for we need to make as many coats as possible. There is no such thing as too much warmth in this never ending cold.” Everyone agreed with solemn expressions before breaking for Chinese green tea, gingerbread, and walnut cake, filling the air with festive cheer.

You pause for a brief break. As you curl and uncurl your fingers, stretching out the strained joints, you glance over at a couch. In a day’s work, the couch is covered in layers upon layers of coats and thicker shirts. Some are small, others are longer, few haphazardly put together, but all will still do. Then, you look around the room, passing your eyes over the faces of all of the guests. The women, more than there usually are at such parties, sit in armchairs around the room. The men stand in between, wherever there is space, holding onto glass cups of wine and emptied coffee cans. Though you have never felt like you belonged in such groups and communities, you cannot help but find today’s gathering rather agreeable and successful. Is this what it feels like to start something and see it through to the end?

Well, not that you are at the end. You count in your head and conclude that there is still a month before Jing Yuan returns. When he does, then you will be able to see your work to completion.

At the thought of him, though, you feel a faint flicker of concern. It has been a month since your last letter, and you have yet to receive one in return. You try to comfort yourself with reminders that Jing Yuan is busy and there is always the possibility of mail getting lost or delayed in transaction. But, in that case, you must try again.

Later that evening, when all of the guests have dismissed themselves and the drawing room brims with clothes, you slip to Fu Xuan’s room and draft a quick message by melting candlelight.

Sir,

My sincere apologies for disturbing your journey. As I have not received a reply since my last letter, I wanted to send another one to let you know that I am, at least, faring well. Winter is rapidly approaching, and I hope My Lord is not experiencing any disorder or illness yourself, that is, if Rome is experiencing such volatile weather as well, I would not know. If possible, since you insist, shall we wait in your mother’s garden when you return, as we did years ago?

I patiently await My Lord’s presence.

– Your most affectionate friend

–

A knock on your window wakes you from your restless sleep. Already half-awake from tossing and turning, you hear the curt raps against the glass pane and slowly blink awake. The person is patient and remains silent, as if knowing you would require a few minutes to get dressed and prepared. 

You pull on another two layers of gowns and a thick shawl. You also grab one of the coats you sewed. Finally, you grab two pairs of gloves, one much larger than the other, and pad over to open the curtains covering your windows.

The sky is overcast, large clumps of clouds blocking the moon and stars from your vision, but occasionally, faint streaks of light pour through the cracks of the grim overhang. And right as you see him, a single ray casts its brightness over the man waiting outside, as if to anoint him prince or king or some holy spirit. His hair gleams the purest silver, and he adorns a coat, one that is seemingly a little too small for him, with floral patterns adorning the length of its sleeves. He flashes a close-eyed smile, and you cannot help but also beam at him.

Firmly, you hold the top sash of the window while pushing the bottom panel up. As soon as the bottom panel is lifted even slightly, a gust of biting air enters your rooms and flurries around your figure. You shiver at the chill but continue to lift until the window is fully open and slip through.

Holding onto your arm with one hand and your waist with the other, he helps you out of your room and onto the tiny balcony with him. When you stand, you two are pressed chest to chest, but by now, the streak of moonlight has disappeared and you can only make out faint traces of him.

“Good day, My Lady,” the man whispers.

You take a deep breath, basking in the sturdiness of his frame against yours and the ticklish sensation against your ear from his breath. “Should it not be ‘good evening,’ My Lord?”

“The day is anew, so I shall be the first one to greet you in this early morn.”

As your eyes adjust to the darkness, his features come into clearer view. The strands of each hair, the creases of his lapels, those molten golds. You cannot stare for too long, lest you blaze and melt as well.

“I will go down first,” he says, “and be there to catch you when you jump down.”

“Yes, yes,” you agree, though, not without a tinge of sarcasm. “As we have done before.”

He nods, maintaining his grip on your waist for another moment, before he releases you, leaps into a nearby tree, and swiftly climbs down to the ground. You, on the other hand, pull yourself up to sit on the balcony railing, and when he motions with waves of his hands, you take a deep breath, feel the pounding of your heartbeat against your ribcage, and propel yourself off with a push of your legs, holding onto your belongings. He catches you, arms knowingly finding their way around your waist and under your knees, as if he did not simply perform a feat of great strength and balance.

“Jing Yuan,” you gasp.

“Oh, now we are using names?” he jests. You are still too excited to reprimand him, and he laughs at your awestruck state before saying your name. He carries you over to where his horse stays, neighing and nosing at the ground, and helps you get on. By now, you have recollected your breath and can say much more.

“Jing Yuan,” you call out. “Your coat is much too small for you. Wear this one instead.” You toss the one you have been clutching onto this entire time, along with the larger pair of gloves, into his arms. “It may not be as comfortable, but it should keep you warm.”

“It seems My Lady has become quite cold-hearted in the years we have spent apart.”

“No, I know why My Lord chooses to wear what he has adorned. But I cannot have you falling ill on me. I need you.” The sound of your last three words seem to soften something in Jing Yuan because when he looks up at you, his gaze is full of longing and yearning.

“Then, we must leave here immediately,” he replies as he mounts onto the horse, sitting in front of you. “Hold on tight.”

And with a tug of the reigns, the two of you are racing through the fields and roads that surround your family’s estate. You bury your face into Jing Yuan’s back, feel the scratch of the linen against your cheeks, and submit to the roaring of the wind in your ears.

Three long years since you have been on the back of this very horse, holding onto Jing Yuan as so. Mimi, a most peculiar name that Jing Yuan imagined, was only a young mare at the time, but she could at least withstand the weight of your younger selves, quite strong for both her sex and age. In the past, the two of you often made such arrangements, every fortnight or so, him greeting you at the window as he did this evening, you leaping into his arms, the two of you escaping to the safety and privacy of his mother’s garden.

You do not know how long it takes to reach his estate from yours, but Mimi must have gotten faster because you arrive before you can fully adjust to the jostling of horseback. With a tip of his chin, the gatekeeper of Jing Yuan’s manor obeys and cracks the gate only enough to let your party slip through. Mimi’s hooves clop against the gravel of the driveway as Jing Yuan slows her down to a slight gallop and guides her towards the left side of the estate, where one can enter his mother’s garden after jumping past a few evergreen hedges.

He gets off first before helping you down. From above, you can see the tips of his reddened ears and scoff, frustrated.

“What is the matter, My Lady?” he inquires, attentive to even the smallest shifts in your disposition.

“I must apologize, My Lord. I should have brought a tippet.”

“Do not concern yourself with such trivial matters. Yanqing has already prepared warm clothes and food for us.” He sets you down and guides you to an open space nearby that is hidden behind granite pillars and dry rose vines, where, on top of a picnic sheet on the floor, lay two oil lamps that illuminate a spread of covered tableware and articles of muffs, coats, and blankets. If you recall correctly, this area used to host a small table and two chairs, allowing Jing Yuan and his mother to nibble on biscuits and talk about the day’s events during spring dawns and summer dusks.

“Yanqing must have grown considerably,” you say as you take a seat. Jing Yuan nods, sitting right beside you, and drapes a blanket over your shoulders.

“Much has changed,” he muses. “He is at my shoulders now. He has taken great care of Mimi.”

“You did not bring her along with you?”

Jing Yuan tilts his head, as he always does when he is about to tell an interesting story. “I had to travel by boat several times throughout my tour. There was no way to bring Mimi, for she is terrified of the ocean.” You perk up at and listen intently, eager to drink in all of the details of his travels.

Jing Yuan speaks of meeting the British envoys and French royals. He recounts the myths behind the statue of the Tiber. He speaks of the many hurdles he experienced as he made his way from one country to the next, once needing to barter with a driver over ten cents for an additional mile, another time having to locate a luggage that slipped into a raging river. He describes the cuisines he ate in masterful language, the fragrant breads, seasoned fish, decadent pastries, hearty stews. He lists cultural differences, how the Austrians bond over musical theatre and opera, the way Italians pore over their massive collections of literature, the Portuguese’s peaceful lives separate from war and political strife.

“I wonder how Portugal does it,” you mumble.

Jing Yuan leans down to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. “My Lady,” he mutters, “there is no such thing as a complete utopia in this world.”

“But did you not just prescribe their land as such?”

He hums, tracing his finger from behind the shell of your ear, down to your pulse point at your neck, back up to the under of your jaw. “A Grand Tour is still only a tour. One does not visit the slums or the rural villages or the dirty outskirts of cities, if it can be avoided. We will never fully see or understand how the common people live. How they survive.”

You can feel the intensity of his stare. He is testing you, urging you to look back, to taste the raging of flames and anger and frustration in his golden eyes. But you cannot, or rather, you should not. It would be too presumptuous of you to act like you still know how he thinks, understands, perceives the world.

“You are right, My Lord,” you manage to croak, throat somehow parched, despite the cup of warm milk you only just finished. “We will never truly know.”

You want to say more, but you do not know if you should. Instead, you shut your mouth and lean against Jing Yuan’s shoulder.

Unexpectedly, he shrugs you off. He even pulls away from you. Then, he taps at the middle of your spine, causing you to sit still and upright.

“Speak,” he instructs, voice low yet stable, as if he is waiting with bated breath, patience wearing thin. “I know you have your own thoughts, so speak your truth.”

“My Lord, I…” You falter. It has been a while since you have been allowed to speak so openly about such serious matters, and you are no longer accustomed to late hours past your curfew, neither of which aid you as you attempt to string together some semblance of eloquence. “In reality, I… I will never have the chance to know. To know how it feels like to go without food or shelter. Or to withstand this severe weather in the barest of threads. Or any degree of suffering and hardship, truly. But…” You take one hand out of the muff and place it on top of his gloved ones, running the pads of your fingers over the glazed leather. “But I cannot sit idly by and do nothing, no?”

Jing Yuan interlaces his fingers with yours and asks, “What can you do?” It is not an admonishment or an ironic jab, but instead, a genuine question with hopeful intentions.

“Jing Yuan.” The punctuated way you utter his name alerts him, and he tightens his grasp on you to let you know he is listening. “Forgive my impertinence, but perhaps, I have found a way. Your coat.” You nudge your chin towards his chest, and he finally examines the thick wool keeping him warm.

“Did you make this?”

You nod. “And many other ladies. I hosted a tea party a few weeks ago where we gathered together to make many. Though they may not be lined or hemmed properly, they should last a few winters.”

Jing Yuan shuffles to look around at the coat that he is wearing. You watch as his eyes dart from the collar to the sleeves to the buttons. As if coming to some sort of internal agreement, he nods and releases an interested hum.

“I wonder how you convinced such noble families to partake in charity?”

You chuckle, shaking your head before resting it on his shoulder. This time, he does not shake you off. “They do not know that it is for charity. I simply requested that we do it under the guise of my father’s illness, and bless their hearts, they agreed to assist in making as many winter pieces for the noblemen as they could. My Lord, women can be quite determined if given a meaningful task.”

Jing Yuan laughs at your last comment. “That I know well, for My Lady is a prime example of such fortitude. But will they not realize some of the clothes will be missing?”

“Oh, of course, I addressed that as well. I told them I would be sending the pieces we made to the seamstresses to get it properly fitted, which would require some time and patience. My Lord, you ought to know that, while many noble ladies know how to embroider, that is the extent of their talents. None of them even know how to put together a dress for themselves! At the very least, they can do rudimentary work in sewing together large pieces of fabric and stuffing cotton. Regardless, in the meantime, I will continue to sew as many as I can to substitute for the missing amount, and I will be sure to distribute the coats to their intended owners before the New Year. Speaking of which…”

You nudge at his chest with the point of your elbow. It takes Jing Yuan a second to react, the exhaustion beginning to penetrate and muddle his senses, before he realizes. 

He chuckles again, softer, quieter. “I understand why My Lady said she needed me earlier this evening.”

“Would you be willing to support such an endeavor, My Lord?”

Without a single word, he brings his arms around you and sets his head atop of yours, embracing you with comfortable tightness and security. “Of course, anything at your behest. Let me know when, and I shall act upon your instruction immediately.”

“On Saint Thomas’s Day. Visit as many families as you can, especially those with children.”

“Then it shall be done.”

With that, silence fills the space around you. You should be even a slight bit cautious and careful, with the way Jing Yuan surrounds you whole. You both are much more grown, after all, and if someone, anyone, were to see the intimacy the two of you are sharing, it would tarnish your reputation irreparably. But three long years it has been since the last time you felt his touch. Three years since you could feel his hair graze against your cheek, his fingers hold at your waist, his chest press against your back. And more than anything else, these past three years have cost you the sound of his voice. He sounds different now. More worn and fatigued, yet simultaneously confident and articulate. You have been deprived of his lips ghosting your ears, his hot breath trailing against the lines of your neck, each of his words sending tremors through the flesh and bones of your body. 

“Are you warm, My Lord?”

“Yes, much due to this coat of yours.”

You huff. “You should not have worn such an ill-fitted coat in the first place. It does not fit you anymore.”

He strokes at your side and banters, “My Lady, I truly do hope that you are not, in reality, ignorant as to why I chose to.”

Of course, you know. The way the coat stretched to accommodate Jing Yuan’s growth is only another sign, in testament to how much he has transformed since your last encounter three years ago.

You still remember doing, undoing, redoing many of the countless florals that are strewn across the expanses of the sleeves. The red thread is bold, in contrast to the crisp white of the article’s linen, and you remember how, at the time, you were embarrassed by your brazenness to choose such a distinct color. You had wanted to change it to something else, perhaps a muted blue or yellow, but it was too late, and you had to see Jing Yuan off before his tour.

Seeming to know where your mind is wandering off to, he says something that steals your breath and sets your heart ablaze. “I wear this coat whenever I can.”

You can only roll your eyes, and you are grateful that your frostbitten nose and ears do not give away the warmth in your face. “You foolish man, Jing Yuan.”

Somehow, his hold on you becomes stronger, and you feel as if he is swallowing you, overwhelming all of your senses with only him. “I think it is romantic. It is My Lady’s first gift to me, after all.”

That is true. You close your eyes, allowing yourself to be coddled, and think back to when both of you were much younger and even more so naïve, not yet fully aware of fate’s unfoldings.

After your encounter at the beach, you did not meet the boy again until a few years later at a party. Your parents were unacquainted, but as soon as you saw him, you escaped your mother when she was too busy meeting other guests and pulled Jing Yuan aside to say your much belated thanks. When he was younger, Jing Yuan was mischievous, feisty, energetic. He delighted in your spontaneity as well, and as children do, the two of you decided to meet up after he learned to ride. There was no discussion of details or logistics, only an intangible promise that somehow carried more trust than any vow or oath. 

Yet, he found you. And he brought you over to this very garden, to a small shed where his mother was awaiting the both of you.

You remember his mother in vivid detail. One could describe her as the embodiment of the nobility. Her posture exuded dignity and discipline, her choices in fashion tasteful and elegant, a woman of such gentleness and compassion that you had wished many times she was your blood mother as well. Jing Yuan’s mother was also responsible for introducing you to embroidery. Had she not, you are sure you would never have touched the needle and string in this lifetime. You practiced so diligently, hoping to impress and astound her with your talent. But truly, regardless of what came of your fastidious efforts, she always caressed the top of your head and praised you, repeating honeyed words and phrases until you almost believed them. Jing Yuan would watch the two of you work and occasionally try his hand at your activities, though he was never much good, too impatient and easily irritated as young boys are.

But then, in the spring of your twelfth year and Jing Yuan’s fifteenth, she was gone. There were no more traces of her, and the shed no longer stood where it once was. How ironic, you remember thinking wistfully. The tulips, pansies, and hyacinths his mother labored over were in full bloom, yet she would never see those sun-kissed petals and brilliant green stems. She would never witness Jing Yuan’s rapid improvements in the sword or your ability to peruse a text meant for grown men. She would never see the two of you grow up to become the man and woman the two of you are today.

And Jing Yuan did not cry when he told you. But you could see the sorrow and emptiness hang from him, outlining the lines of his face, scenting the tear stains on his button-up, creaking in his joints. You stood behind him, watching as he raised his head to look up at the sun, so bright and gleaming and proud. How ironic, you remember thinking wistfully. And he told you everything, answering all of the questions you never voiced or had.

His mother was the mistress of a Duke, making Jing Yuan an illegitimate child. But because his father was a Duke, no one batted an eye, and it never caused a stir, simply a passing comment made as the nobles greeted each other over mealtime before moving onto more extravagant rumors. And, as Jing Yuan described, he did not suffer much either. The Duke still gave him the education and training befitting of a high-ranking noble’s child, and he was granted unrestrained freedom and privileges. But the one thing Jing Yuan deeply, wholly wanted his whole life was never satisfied.

Although Jing Yuan was allowed to do whatever it is he wanted with no dispute, his father maintained distance and never showed much of an interest towards him or his mother. His mother had always been sickly and was often in isolation, yet despite the circumstances, the Duke only slipped farther and farther away. Jing Yuan had longed for a complete family, but to no avail. And his mother passed away, accompanied only by a physician and two maids, when Jing Yuan was away for a hunt. How ironic, you remember thinking wistfully.

Afterwards, the two of you became an inseparable duo. You visited more often, almost once or twice every week, and though you never cared much for, or rather, did not know much of, affection, you began to let your fingers linger on his shoulders as he helped you down from Mimi and to sit in a way such that the cap of your knee would brush against his. And when you were not in the presence of each other, the two of you established a line of communication via letters. These letters would bridge the physical gap between the two of you and proved extremely useful when Jing Yuan went on tour.

Aside from letters, when he was away on tour, Yanqing would deliver some clothes to your estate, hiding a bag of shirts or tailcoats in a bush, of which you would collect when you and Fu Xuan would return from your afternoon strolls. These were articles prepared for Jing Yuan during his brief returns, usually due to some family emergency or duty for the Parliament. At this point, you fully embraced the color red and its flare and passion, choosing to take on the burden of a crimson so bright that you are left with no choice but to ensure that every stitch is perfect. You adorned his clothes with the subtlest of details, only meant to elevate them around the collar or cuffs or pockets.

And that is how those three years passed. Now that he is beside you, the time apart feels both painfully enduring yet incredibly effortless. Though he was not by your side, it never felt like he was far away, definitely not across oceans and mountain ranges and plains with names you have never heard of. Regardless, all that matters is, in the present moment, Jing Yuan is truly here, and you are with him.

–

The events leading up to Christmastide and the holiday itself flurried by. As planned, Yanqing had come to collect the coats you and Fu Xuan had left in bags behind a bundle of trees, and on Saint Thomas’s Day, Jing Yuan went out to deliver them, spending the day outside and reporting to you promptly when he returned home later that night. Through the grapevine, you heard of the countless praises the nobles showered upon Jing Yuan and his father, and from Jing Yuan himself, many of the common folk were at a loss for words, shocked that the son of a Royal Council member would dare to tread into their territory.

The end of such festivities also signaled the beginnings of the new Season. January was spent preparing the finest laces, silks, ribbons, jewelries you would be donning at the never ending series of parties, picnics, hunts, and other gatherings for the next few months. This time, though, you were eager, hounding all of the maids, Fu Xuan, even your mother to assist in the wake of your unprecedented enthusiasm.

Presently, you are en route to your first ball. You and your mother are in a coach, while your brother rides on horseback. It is dark outside and the snow is incessant, but the ambience is full of excitement, the hopeful chattering between young ladies and lords, as well as the charming music from the band playing inside, drowning out the howls of the wind. As your party nears the assembly room, you can clearly see the size of the gathering, dozens of middle- and upper-class families present and attendants rushing about to answer calls for help.

Your coach stops near the edge of the driveway, and your brother takes your hand as you step out.

“I heard from Mother that you were fervently awaiting today,” he says with a smirk, brushing off the snowflakes collecting on your shoulders. “This is your third season, so what could possibly be so unique about tonight’s party?”

You open your fan, concealing everything below your eyes, and shrug. Behind the fan’s ribs, though, you are smiling widely, unable to feign even an ounce of indifference.

“I simply hope this is your sister’s final season,” your mother remarks as she exits the carriage.

As soon as the three of you step into the hall, your brother is hounded with warm greetings and impatient requests. Your father had fallen ill once again, and given his series of absences, many have turned towards your brother as the patriarch of the family.

“I shall tend to these matters. Do enjoy your time, dear Sister!” your brother calls as he gets pulled away.

You and your mother walk over to a group of ladies, many of whom attended your tea party and took part in your ambitious project. One lady in a pale pink gown, in particular, seems to be at the centre of the conversation, as all the rest are peering at her with palpable expectation. You can hear bits and pieces of the conversation as you approach.

Another in tea green pokes at her. “Miss, please share! We are begging you to tell us how!”

The lady blushes deeply, fanning at herself. “Friends, there is no how! I simply met the man at a closed gathering the week before.”

“What is his demeanor?”

“Is he of your rank or above?”

“Have you garnered affections for him yet?”

Questions are flung at her, and she simply responds by closing her fan and tapping at one of her cheeks at each query.

When the arguably most important question is asked, whether or not she wants to be engaged to the man, she places the tip of her fan against her right cheek, and everyone breaks into surprised gasps and delighted murmurs.

Then, as if staged, the music in the room diminuendos until the band tapers into silence. There is a brief shuffling of sheet music before the musicians break into the first country song of the evening. A gentleman comes over, a son of an earl from a glance, and bows in front of the lady in the pink, holding his right hand out in search of her left. The other ladies, you and your mother included, watch with intent and rapture, and follow the extension of her elbow as she lets herself be taken. As the pair slip away, mutterings break between the remaining women before they, too, are asked, one by one, to dance with other single gentlemen.

As usual, you excuse yourself to the corner of the ballroom, finding a seat that ensures an adequate view of the dancing attendees. There are rumors that you do not participate because you are not well-trained, but truly, it is only because you have very little interest in dancing with men you have never met before. 

From here, you can observe the subtlest of details without disturbance. You notice a younger boy slip into the room with refreshments, bound to gorge himself on bread and butter even though dinner is scheduled in two hours or so. An old couple stands at the tailend of the dancing line, half a beat behind everyone else, chuckling to themselves as they attempt to keep up with the steps they know by heart. The mothers of many of the debutantes are lined against the walls, their eyes not on their respective daughters but rather on the many potential suitors in the room, cherry picking the perfect son-in-law. 

And then, a flash of red. You see it at the edge of your periphery, and your head whips to the left. You do not see the red again, but instead, a dense cloud of white. You are about to leap up and pace forward, but you catch yourself and hurry to rearrange your expression to one that is more neutral and acceptable.

Jing Yuan comes to stand before you, followed by your brother.

The latter says, “Dear Sister, this is Lord Jing Yuan.”

You bite at your lip to prevent yourself from reacting to the comedy of the situation, and curtsy towards Jing Yuan as he bows to you.

“Pleased to be in your presence, My Lord.”

“I should be thanking My Lady.”

Your brother chuckles. “The two of you are too stiff. Sister, Lord Jing Yuan has just returned from his Grand Tour and is the son of Duke…,” and he prattles on, listing facts and details you are already aware of. Jing Yuan is also amused and glances at you every so often, but you avoid returning such stares and focus your attention on the sound of your sibling’s voice.

However, soon thereafter, the Master of Ceremonies interrupts all activities, including your trio’s brief exchange, and calls for mealtime. Jing Yuan dismisses himself, returning to his step-brother’s side.

Suddenly, your brother grabs you by the shoulder. Your eyes widen in surprise, and you shake your arm in response, urging him to loosen his grip.

“What a miracle!” he exclaims. You furrow at him with confusion. “Sister! Lord Jing Yuan himself rushed to greet you. That is unheard of!”

It takes you a second to understand, to remember that there are customs and traditions in society’s place, and the oddity of the situation finally dawns on you. “Brother,” you respond, “tell me how you encountered him.”

“Well, I paid the Duke, his father, a quick greeting on behalf of our family, and Lord Jing Yuan was there as well. When I was about to take my leave, he followed after me, and asked if I had any time. Can you believe it? He asked if I had time!”

“Yes, yes, please proceed.”

“I was worried I had done something imprudent in front of him and the Duke. I began saying a flurry of things, but he simply asked if I knew of any ladies that are seeking engagements, as he is in a rush to get married himself. I should have asked why –”

“Brother.”

“Ah, dismiss that thought. Anyway, of course, I had to say that you are of age, and he requested I direct him to you. I resisted, because as our father is only a Marquess and him a part of a Dukedom, it is only proper that I bring you to him, but he said he needed to be somewhere quieter and hurried us off.”

Your brother takes a deep breath and waits for your response. With much effort, you remain stoic.

“How peculiar,” you muse, with as even a tone as you can muster.

“Dear Sister, perhaps…” The two of you share a quick look, his expectant, yours knowing.

After a lingering moment of silence, you can only sigh. “We shall see.”

Ecstatic, your brother takes your shoulders with renewed vigor, lightly shaking you back and forth. “How auspicious! Of course, I will miss you, but Sister, you would be much happier away from our estate! You must seize this chance!”

You go along with his antics and incessant chattering, making slow progress towards the dining hall.

–

The third month of the year promises a multitude of changes. Primarily, fox hunting ends in March, therefore the men are rushing to organize their final hunts. As the men are occupied during their outings, the women pass their leisure time inside, rather impatiently, too, for Easter and the height of the Season, which will be at full throttle within a few weeks’ time. For noblewomen in particular, they also have the option to accompany the hunts, and on this late morning, you and your mother stay in a carriage to support the participants from afar.

Today’s hunt is small, exclusive to a few select Dukes and Marquesses of the nobility. Your father, now recovered, and your brother are present, and you notice Jing Yuan and his step-brother are also members among the group. 

Truly, Jing Yuan stands out amongst the crowd. Again, you are reminded of his towering and broad stature, and even when he is not speaking, he carries a solid aura of authority and a command for respect such that the other attendants do not dare to mention, let alone mock, his birthright. At the moment, he is running his hands through Mimi’s mane, and even his trust and care for her alone are superior to the mediocre handle the other men have of their horses.

The hunters seem to be strategizing, plotting out routes and dividing themselves into smaller groups, and with each passing second, your interest dampens, and it seems your mother is also growing disinterested.

With a flick of her wrist, glass-beaded bracelets clinking and clanking, she speaks, “The white-haired man, is it?” 

You nod.

She huffs through her nose, but she is not unhappy. She is silently beckoning you to question her.

And so, you inquire, “Mother, what are your judgments of Lord Jing Yuan?”

She leans towards the window and narrows her eyes. “A man of benevolent nature… Quite handsome as well… But a bastard child, is he not?”

You shrug. “What does it matter? His father is a Duke.”

“It does not change that he is born from the womb of a wicked woman.”

A striking flash of anger and urgency erupts in your gut, and you are close to hurtling uncouth insults at the woman sitting before you, but there is no need because your mother finishes her thought before your outburst can materialize.

“That brings me great pleasure,” the absurd woman says, with a twisted snark, “for you do not deserve happiness in your marriage. While I may be gone, misfortune shall always befall you. You will always suffer from your ill nature.”

Without a word, you swing the door of the carriage open and step out, in need of space. You strut to a group of barren trees, sparkling with melting dew, and lean against the trunk of one, looking off at where the hunters and their hounds are racing after the scent of foxes.

The biting cold does nothing to cool your raging internal heat. The echoes of your mother’s spiteful words act as fuel, a permanent well of dark, staining oil, spinning and stubborn in your mind. In fact, you become more bitter and sensitive at their persistence, and if anyone were to say one wrong phrase or make one wrong move towards you at this very instance, they would, for sure, catch your ire. 

How dare she. Even in your most distant memories, the thought of Jing Yuan’s mother brings warmth, a tight embrace, an affirming kiss on your forehead. In comparison, your own blood parents have done nothing more than bring you into this world. Even the jewels, fabrics, food, shelter they provide you are done out of obligation; given the option, they would abandon you without hesitation.

The taste of acid and iron surprises you. You are usually tame, capable of extinguishing any sign of anger or disappointment, so to find yourself so outraged that you have bitten open the inside of your cheek serves to worsen your temperament. You refuse to let that woman, only bound to you by blood and flesh, grate at your nerves, but it seems, this time, she has poked at your most sensitive vulnerability.

Suddenly, a loud neigh from a horse rings through the field, and you turn your head just in time to see Jing Yuan, a crumpled body, and Mimi leap through the air and land near you.

“Jing Yuan!” you cry, hands clutching at the sides of your skirt, annoyance and frustration set aside.

He tugs at Mimi sternly, and with a kick of her front legs, she rears to a halt. You rush over as Jing Yuan hops down with a man on his back, the latter wearing a deep-set frown and releasing low groans.

“What happened? Someone, please –”

Jing Yuan intervenes with a call of your name, shaking his head. “No need for your people. I shall bring the Marquess to his carriage and stay with him till he reaches his estate.”

You could care less about the injured man. “And what about you? Are you injured, Jing Yuan?”

He nods. Then, under his breath, he mutters, “Careful, for we are being watched. But thank you.” Something in his eyes glitter, a light diamond yellow, a new color so beautiful and mesmerizing. You force yourself to tear your gaze away. “I am fine, My Lady. Please, take care.”

You clamp your mouth shut. With that, he paces away, doing his best to carry the injured Marquess steadily.

You do not see him again for the rest of the day. But his heroics, over the course of an evening, become the talk of the town.

Two days pass, and for the first time, Jing Yuan and you meet during the daytime, accompanied by Fu Xuan. A nearby promenade has been kept cleared, as more and more folks spend time outside, and it is only proper that the two of you extend your public interactions beyond simple greetings, primarily to discourage and drive away any suitors who still retain hopes in having your or Jing Yuan’s hand.

“My Lord has certainly come under scrutiny,” you say, playful and amused in tone.

“Ah, the nobles do love their entertainment, I suppose.”

“Do not be so bashful, My Lord! I have heard of everything, and what you did during the hunt is truly an accomplished feat.”

“Tell me, then, My Lady, what you have heard.”

You switch your parasol to your other shoulder and tilt it up so that you can better see in front of you. There are other prospective couples, as well as their respective chaperones, but all eyes seem to be on you and Jing Yuan. With no fan in hand, it is difficult to signal to your partner, but he, too, already seems aware of the prying stares.

You begin to tell, “I much prefer the noble ladies and their recollections. Their recountings began before the hunt even started.

“You were steering the conversation, as if you were a general and the others your cavalrymen, planning every possible move and route.”

Jing Yuan stifles his fit of laughs with the back of his hand, and you do as well.

Resuming, you say, “Then, the group broke into partitions of four or five men each. The hunt seemed already destined and fated for success, with you in charge. However, many of the noblemen are elderly, yes? So as you and Mimi galloped so freely under the blue sky, the other men in your group struggled to keep up, and one Marquess with very little talent in horseback did not jump over a jutting root in time and came tumbling down with his English thoroughbred.”

Jing Yuan claps when you finish. “I am surprised you know what a thoroughbred is, My Lady.”

“I do not. To me, a horse is simply a horse. But, more importantly, what does My Lord think of my rendition?”

You glance up, only to see that he is watching you, and immediately, you turn your cheek the other way.

“I think,” he muses, “that My Lady is an excellent bard.”

“A bard?” You feign shame, because you already know how hyperbolic the noblewomen are in their gossiping.

“Indeed.” He continues to tease. “My Lady seems unmatched in her lyricism, rhythm, and most importantly, exaggerations. A true bard in nature.”

You cackle out loud, at which Fu Xuan shoots you a swift glare. You calm yourself and ask, “Exaggerations? A bard only makes songs of tales they hear from their journeys. My Lord, then, must tell the truth himself, as he is the protagonist of this one.”

“It pains me to say, then, that the story would no longer be as interesting.”

“My Lord does not aspire to be a bard or a court jester, so please speak.”

He sighs. “I did no such leading or commandeering. I simply listened from the side. Though the noble ladies are not wrong that it was an older Marquess who felled, it was not due to his own carelessness. Rather, one of the younger hounds must have caught the trail of a fox, and ran in front of the Marquess and his horse. His Lord was only trying to protect the little one, but injured himself in the process. I happened to be riding behind the Marquess and assisted him in returning him home.”

Jing Yuan, ever observant, always humble. You do not know if he is dismissing the finer details of his saving the Marquess, but you cannot even pinpoint where to press him further.

You settle with a simple platitude. “My Lord’s kindness knows no bounds.”

He does not say anything, only closes his eyes and takes a deep breath of the winter-spring air.

“What plagues My Lord?”

“My Lady, tell me another story, one from your childhood.”

You still, and he takes two steps forward before he pauses as well.

You turn around to face your governess. “Fu Xuan, shall the three of us sit somewhere?”

“Yes, My Lady,” Fu Xuan replies. “There is a bench around the bend.”

Between you and Jing Yuan, neither of you speak until you both sit down. Fu Xuan finds another spot, a shady patch underneath an old willow, to supervise from afar.

Your bench is located beside a fountain, a large stucco vase with carved borders, emblems of flowers and reeds, gilded bronze around the circumference of the bottom. The water splashes past the rim, wetting the surrounding pavement, amusing the toddlers that belonged to some of the lounging women.

It is not rare for Jing Yuan to ask about yourself, to request to learn more about who you are in the moments when he is not by your side. While it is not always enjoyable, especially when you reflect on the less joyous memories, you do like that he is the only person in the world that knows so much about you, your strengths, weaknesses, likes, dislikes, fancies, displeasures.

But on occasion, he asks you to share because he does not want to speak about himself anymore. Today, as you judge the crease between his brows, the white of his knuckles, his hair free of its usual braided cord, this seems to be the case.

You speak of the many sleepless nights you had in December, how you had pricked the pads of your fingers several times from trying to sew by dim candlelight, hurrying to finish as many coats as possible, lest the noblewomen became suspicious. You speak of the shelf of books your brother had lent you when you were only ten years of age. You finished the literature within a fortnight, and your sibling was shocked, jaw agape, from your intellect and efficiency. Lastly, you speak of the morning of Jing Yuan’s departure, how you refused to come out of your room because of how distraught you were from bidding goodbye, needing to lie to the maids that your tears were only a result of a gut-wrenching stomach ache.

The entire time, the two of you sit side by side, shoulders brushing against each other, staring straight ahead, never at each other. But you do not need to see to know that he is listening with rapt intent to each and every one of your words, and you feel empowered to continue and please him with whatever he wants to hear.

Many hours pass, from high noon to late afternoon, finishing well past lunchtime. The atmosphere has relaxed, and Jing Yuan himself seems more at peace, and you are grateful that you have an eternity to indulge him.

When the three of you retrace your steps back to your family’s coach, he grips onto your hand as he assists you into the vehicle. His grip is tight, restricting you from sitting down, and you glance over your shoulder to see him resting his forehead against the back of your hand, nose brushing against your fingertips.

“A fortnight,” he mutters, loud enough for only the two of you, and promptly releases his hold.

You bring your hand, the one Jing Yuan held moments ago, to your cheek, basking in his lingering, escaping warmth, and nod in understanding.

You repeat, “A fortnight,” and he closes the coach door behind you.

– 

It is uncharacteristically cold for April. Frost forms a thin sheet over all of the foliage and herbage, the rabbits and woodchucks still slumber in their dense burrows, the moon silvery and thin in its wake.

You tuck yourself into Jing Yuan’s hold, where he sits behind you with his legs propped on either side of your figure. He grabs another blanket and lays it over your knees down to your feet, and sets his chin on your shoulder.

“I wish your mother’s shed was still here,” you admit through gritted teeth.

A little sleepily, he agrees. “I, as well, but please bear with our conditions for tonight.”

You are grateful, though. The worst of winter is past, and there are no clouds to conceal the stars or moon, meaning outside, you can make out his features and expressions with little effort. Before, you would have to strain and squint at his visage, but there is no need anymore and you think Jing Yuan appears softer, younger under the placid moonlight.

“My Lady,” he says, “if it is not inconvenient, I have an inquiry to make.”

“Yes? What is it?”

“Why is it that you never look at me?”

You startle, jumping in your skin, not expecting such a jarring interrogation at this hour and place.

“Of course, I look at you. What can you possibly be insinuating?”

If you sound offended, you do not mean it. Rather, you are, to a minor degree, disgruntled at being caught. Internally, you have been well aware of your sudden shyness towards Jing Yuan. Before his departure, you had no such fears, but since his return, upon seeing all of the ways in which he has transformed and grown, you can no longer allow yourself to be so bold. You cannot look at him with wholly pure intent.

“Apologies. I meant that My Lady does not seem to look me in the eyes anymore, as we used to. Have I done or said something to deserve such avoidance?”

“Do not be foolish, My Lord.”

“And what is with the use of ‘My Lord’?”

“Do you not refer to me by ‘My Lady’?”

“Only because you seem so insistent on such etiquette. If I had a choice…” He takes a sharp inhale. “I would call you by your name all the time.”

The chill of the atmosphere does not seem so acute anymore. You feel a rush of heat, from the crown of your head all the way down to the lengths of your toes.

“How improper,” you mumble.

He laughs. He knows you could care less.

To drive his point further, he enunciates your name, rolling the letters and phonetics out with the curve of his tongue and a caramel sweet, taffy-stretched tone. He then whispers, “You seem to only use my name when you are quite agitated or excited.”

You swat at his arm. “Jing Yuan!”

Your reaction causes him to bark out true laughs, ones from the gut and stomach, and he nuzzles his face into the side of your neck. You want him to press further into you, to bite and nibble and mark at the tender skin, to meld into you so you always have him with you. You need more of him, all of him. Being by his side as a confidant in public, a lover in private, for eternity will never satiate your greed.

“My Lady, you never cease to entertain me! You are absolutely darling.”

“You are totally arrogant.” You shrug his head off of your shoulders, to your own disdain, only for him to place his chin on top of your head, entrapping you once again.

“My Lady, I believe I am not so arrogant. Rather, my actions are demonstrations of my affections for you, and the latter seems to grow at an astounding rate with every moment we spend together.”

He utters your name again, so sincere, full of unconditional respect. This time, you are forced to look at him, scooting yourself forward and twisting your back halfway around to soak in those melting, incandescent golds, brimming and spilling over with unfiltered love, loyalty, trust. You cease, completely bewitched and spellbound.

Slowly, he leans forward until the peaks of your foreheads touch. He is still staring at you, you are still unable to breathe. His hands have come up to cup your cheeks, and by sheer instinct, yours grasp weakly at his sleeves.

“Finally,” he breathes, “you are looking at me.”

Shuddering, you try to nod, but his hands keep your head in place. Regardless, he knows.

Jing Yuan, ever knowing, always understanding. He can see through you at all times, and you do not mind that it is him. In fact, you want it to be him, always him, and you have been waiting for this moment. Since you saw him on that sandy beach, with the orange coral bead and crystal clear waters and damp earth. Since you saw him standing alone in the garden, his back turned to you, tearless yet grief incarnate. Since these three long years, where he was seas and mountain ranges and plains separated from you, only brief moments of respite when he would return for business, yet never to interact.

You, who have waited this entire time, can finally see him again. You have no reason to disallow yourself. You have an eternity to indulge him, and an even longer infinity to indulge yourself in him.

The oil lamps flicker no more. The hawks and owls no longer cry. The vines and stems of the flora no longer sway in the wind. 

The only movement is from Jing Yuan, when he purses his lips and takes a deep breath.

He whispers your name, as if it is a prayer, an oath, full of promise and reverence. He says it once more, twice more. Then, he closes his eyes briefly before looking up at you again, a fire and determination now smoldering in bright gold.

“I have kept you, yet you have patiently, without any complaint or excuse, waited for me. You, the only person in the world who has witnessed me a mischievous child, a brooding boy, and now, an older man. I cannot fathom being with another, and this has been true since I first met you.”

You can only gulp, and staring wide-eyed, anticipate his next words.

“You cannot imagine how many times I begged my mother for permission to visit you during the day. At the time, I could not understand her unshakeable refusal, and even now, I am still resistant in some ways. Did you know I became jealous of my mother? I have never been adept with delicate work, and at one point, I was convinced you only came so you could sew with her. I would leave the shed to shake off my anger with the sword. And then my mother was gone, and I thought you, too, would disappear. But, of course, in light of all of my deepest fears, you stayed.”

There are traces of tears in his eyes, but he is more preoccupied with brushing away the ones that stream down your face. You do your best to cease the trembling of your lower lip, the blur of your vision, the cries that threaten to spill out. 

“I was frightened once again, when my father announced the beginning of my Grand Tour. I knew you would come of age as soon as I was scheduled to leave, and I wanted to propose right then and there. But my father does not know who you are, and not even the illegitimate child of a Duke could get away with marrying someone of a lower caste. A coward I was, am, indeed. Yet, we maintained correspondence, and we wrote to each other at length. Many times, I wanted to abandon my Tour, but your curiosity and eagerness convinced me otherwise. 

“It has always been because of you. I am who I am today because of you and your endless affections. And it is my turn, now, to let you know that my love for you goes beyond words and actions. My existence is solely yours.

“May I?”

You nod vigorously, desperately, longingly.

He presses tender kisses to the apples of your cheeks, the tip of your nose, the corners of your lips. After, he takes your hands in his palms and kisses at your wrists and knuckles and joints and fingertips.

Finally, he sits up, and you raise your chin to follow his eyes.

He says your name, this time firm, grounded, determined. “I love you. Please, let us never part again.”

–

The Season has reached its peak, and at long last, June permits enduring hours of sunlight, hot, humid evenings, a myriad of blossoms of all distinct shades and colors. Your brother guides you into the ballroom, your mother trailing behind the two of you, feathered fan concealing her rather displeased disposition.

“I still cannot believe it,” he gasps with incredulous wonder.

“No? Will I have him come to ask for your permission again?” you reply, indifferent, more concerned with identifying Jing Yuan amongst the crowded halls.

“No, no, no need for that, Sister! I am, well, rather, well –”

“See, Brother! There he is!”

Adorned in a handsome cream ensemble, Jing Yuan stands near a table of refreshments, collecting two glasses, one of which you presume is yours. You rush to his side, your brother in tow, and curtsy when he notices. And, as you suspected, he bows and hands one of the cups over to you and the other to your brother, already turning around to grab another for your mother.

Your brother takes a nervous sip before exclaiming, “Lord Jing Yuan! Good evening!”

“Good evening!” Jing Yuan greets, festive and light-hearted.

“I wanted to give you my thanks, again, Lord Jing Yuan. I have never thought my younger sister would marry anytime soon, but you have truly done her a wonderful service. How could I –”

Your mother coughs and interrupts your brother. “Son, cease with your rambling. I could hardly stand the fuss you are making, let alone imagine how exhausted Lord Jing Yuan must be.”

Jing Yuan shakes his head and intercepts. “Not at all. Brother-in-law, I understand that our engagement has only been newly confirmed, so your surprise is inevitable.”

The boisterous chattering and guffawing seem to quiet down, passersby slowly redirecting their attention to your quartet.

Your mother seems to notice as well and fans at herself. “How could the son of a Duke possibly have taken an interest in the daughter of a Marquess?”

The encompassing crowd falls into a hush. All are thinking the same question, almost bloodthirsty in their intrigue to know the answer, and they flit their eyes between you and Jing Yuan, wondering who will speak first.

You, for one, have no interest in such public or dramatic gestures. You put your glass back down on the table and comment, “Mother, Brother, My Lord, the dancing is about to commence.”

Someone whispers that they have never seen you dance before, adding another layer of suspense.

Jing Yuan extends an arm out, and you take it without a shred of doubt or hesitation.

But before the two of you leave, you pause to speak with your mother. “Oh, Mother, please, take my fan!”

She glares at you, and you smile back, taunting and urging her to keep watching you, to see what you can and will do.

You can imagine the way the room will uproar with shock and rage as soon as you step out. You know your mother will splinter your fan in her wrenching grip, and your brother will have to figure some way to placate her. You know you and Jing Yuan will reminisce on this memory with much jest and delight.

And so, you do it.

Committing to putting on a show, everyone watches the flick of your wrist, the extension of your index finger along the frame of your fan. You direct your gaze to Jing Yuan, who is already looking at you with unreserved adoration, and slowly draw the fan across your cheek, dragging out the moment for as long as you can.

You hear the gasps, the cries, the confused mutterings. But the Master of Ceremonies, always in a timely fashion, calls for everyone’s attendance in the ballroom, and you drop the fan in your mother’s upturned hand before Jing Yuan whisks you away.

Now everyone knows you and Jing Yuan are lovers, to be married in a little over a month. Though you would prefer to be married already, you remind yourself that your shared happiness has already begun, and nothing will change that. 

Hand in hand, you and Jing Yuan, along with many other couples, approach the middle of the ballroom, taking your positions in the dancing circle.

“When was the last time My Lady danced at a party?”

“Never before, actually.”

“Then, I must be blessed to have your first dance.”

“And many more, of course.”

“How many more? And just dances?”

You raise your head to stare at him, right as the Master of Ceremonies gestures at the band to begin. Jing Yuan’s eyes shine a brilliant gold underneath the glow of the chandeliers, clear and proud in their affections for you. Jing Yuan, always loving, forever yours.

As the waltz begins, you rise en pointe, and he clutches onto you so that your chests press together and your faces are only a breath apart.

You speak, the words you articulate only for him to hear.

“My existence is entirely yours.”

[sarahreesbrennan]

Quick Evil Note

To all my wicked darlings, I have now received rather a lot of messages asking me about the influences of Long Live Evil. And I wish to get messages about LLE and truly appreciate the ones I do get! And I wish to answer them. But answers about influences are tricky.

The book has been out in the US for a little over two weeks, and it’s going so well so far, I couldn’t be more delighted and appreciative about its reception.

But also I’ve been informed (not asked) that two of my characters are obviously somehow both Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy of Harry Potter, and Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji of Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation. (Very puzzling as I don’t think these pairings - and one isn’t a pair - have much in common with each other or with mine. Vague hostility against a vaguely academic backdrop for a bit? For the record… in the book everyone is an adult and I don’t even have any academic backdrops to be vaguely hostile in front of…) This hasn’t happened to me in a long time, because I haven’t had an original novel out in a long time due to illness, and it is upsetting to always be discussed differently than writers who didn’t openly link their real names to their fan identity.

I have very different feelings and new appreciation for fandom than I once had. It’s been amazing to see and meet people who have stuck with me for decades. People are generally way more open and affectionate to and within fandom than they once were. Love matters to me a good deal more than hate. But getting death threats in your early 20s for excitedly telling your Internet friends you were going to publish a book does mark the psyche, and so does having your characters dismissed as other people’s characters.

And we can say there is nothing wrong with fanfiction or writing fanfiction and there isn’t! Fanfiction is great and can be genius. Terry Pratchett wrote Jane Austen fanfiction, and didn’t (and shouldn’t) have people saying Captain Wentworth = Captain Vimes. Still, when a TV show is discussed as ‘like fanfiction’ or when Diana Gabaldon said she didn’t like fanfiction and many said ‘YOU write fanfiction’ it isn’t intended in any kind spirit, even when it’s fannish folk saying it. And it’s just generally odd to have everyone call your apple a tomato, and has had professional consequences for me in the past.

However! All the asks I’ve received have been very kind, and I do want to answer them. I do want to talk about my influences because they are manifold and because I actually think it’s important to always talk about influences. I don’t believe stories exist in isolation - we tell tales in a rich tradition, and also a story doesn’t come alive to me all the way until it’s heard or read.

Long Live Evil is a love letter to fandom: it’s chock full of references to many many stories I’ve loved, to fairytales, myths and legend and Internet memes and epic fantasy and meta. My acknowledgements are endless partly for this reason. I do owe a great debt to many portal fantasies and archetypes and musicals and jokes about genre and plays through the ages, though I do think of my characters as themselves and nobody else.

I was frankly tempted to go ‘Yes I stole EVERYTHING! Bwhahaha!’ But while I am thoroughly enjoying and finding great freedom in my villain era, I do want to talk sincerely to you all as well, especially when asked sincerely interested questions.

But I’m a little scared to do so and have people say ‘AHA! Now we know what it’s fanfiction of’ (it’s happened before) or ignore me and go ‘we know the truth!’ (it’s happened before) and to feel like I’ve injured my book. Long Live Evil means more to me than any other and I really want to get talking about it right, and make sure it has the best reception I can give it.

So. Questions on all Evil topics very very welcome but answers to influence questions may come slowly. Bear with me. I am working on this!

[seaofreverie]

Sparkstember Day 19: Lil' Beethoven (Ride 'Em Cowboy)

First of all, let this very important fact be known: the love I have for all three albums in the Lil' Beethoven trilogy cannot be overstated. I think I can safely call them my favourite pieces of art ever made. You know, when you look forward to something and it not only lives up to all your expectations but it's also just SO SO much more? Something about this neoclassical / dada / deconstruction of pop music / whatever-you-should-even-call-it approach is absolutely PERFECTLY suited for my tastes, and I didn't even know I was looking for something EXACTLY like this until I found it.

I think the circumstances of my first hearing of this album are pretty funny and something I got pretty lucky with actually (I often think about this with Sparks in general, as much as I wish I've known about them sooner I also do feel like they appeared in my life when I needed that the most. But anyway.) I was very eagerly looking forward to hearing it and finally seeing for myself what the genius of this album is all about. But I insisted that I can only do it through a physical format because yesss, let's make it even more *special*! The moment I've been waiting for! So yeah let's gooo, I need to wait until my CD arrives in the mail (that was one of the longest weeks of my life). And then I started to wonder, well, maybe I actually won't like it that much. To hype myself up to this extent and then be severly dissapointed - would have sucked!

Well, I was NOT dissapointed. Instead I was perplexed, confused, but also very intrigued and quite, ok not just quite, *completely* amazed already. That was the initial reaction and I think it's a rare but very beautiful moment when this happens - no need to *fully* grasp it right away, but enough to be all like "oh that was SOMETHING. I need more." As I said after that first listen (and I actually have my whole LIVE reaction to hearing LB written down lmao, that's how much of a big deal this was for me), I felt like it actually has to grow on me a bit still, gradually but surely with each next listen, rather than the 1st listen being THE prime listening experience. And that was very true! But it wasn't even gradual, it was very fast, seriously. And something very important that stood out to me right away too were the melodies - something about them, and that continues into HYL and ECOTD too. It's this classic feeling of: this always existed, or at least it feels like I've known it for years already. And as I listen more and become more familiar with them the magic still grows.

It's of course no coincidence to me that an album that relies so much on extreme levels of repetition is so addicting, even hypnotising. And once upon a time I thought that I couldn't like something that's too repetitive and therefore could be considered monotonous or "predictable". But nothing is predictable about LB actually. (Besides... ok, I'll get to that one bit later). But yeah, it's good for the brain. And it's been said before by others but this music definitely has this certain neurodivergent appeal thanks to all this, and, well, I love that aspect of it so much and I definitely relate to it on some level that goes even deeper than just song topics and instrumentation choices. It's in the structure and the fundaments of it all too.

I legally can't finish this without a dedicated paragraph to the 2004 Live In Stockholm performance because HOLY SHIT. Feeling so lucky again that all three of these albums got this treatment and we have recordings of these half-concert-half-performance-art pieces that we can now marvel at. I will say that like, a pretty big part of the sum of the appeal that LB has as an album is stored in this show and its visual and narrative elaboration on its themes. And also it's just so fun to watch! Sometimes I thought about how this might be an even better introduction to LB / this era of Sparks / Sparks in general than the actual album but well, never had a chance to test that and you know. Maybe shouldn't recommend Sparks with one of the most leftfield things there is to be found from them. Either way, very good, very important, felt like experiencing the power of LB for the first time all over again.

So now, please hear my exact reasonings for why I so deeply love (almost) every single one of these songs......

The Rhythm Thief

NO song made such a big impression on me the first time I heard it as this. I might have gotten more used to it after all this time but man, The Rhythm Thief, you will always be the realest one to me. This is what made me look forward to the whole album so much and convinced me that it would be like nothing else I've heard before. And that turned out to be so very beautifully true!

How Do I Get To Carnegie Hall?

I could listen to this one a hundred times in a row over and over and not get sick of it one bit. That's it, idk what else to add, beautiful and ethereal in every way

What Are All These Bands So Angry About?

Mostly I just want to direct everyone's attention to the bridge section, at the 2:26-2:52 time mark, which as far as I can say is the most heavenly piece of music ever made. Feeling like that Winnie The Pooh soul leaving his body gif each time I hear this

I Married Myself

Aromantic anthem, to me. Not that much to say actually but it's just, a very sweet and pretty song even when it might be taken as just this sort of ironic piece, I think it's this situation where a song can be taken more or less literally and it doesn't lose anything, rather the sincerity takes on a new sort of meaning? Because yes, maybe this hyperbolic situation (marrying yourself) COULD be the solution to the heartbreak of failed relationships. Ever thought about that??? Ok, stopping right here and leaving my I Married Myself analysis for another day

Ride 'Em Cowboy

My mind is blank on this one suddenly. But it's so good believe me. I love it a lot. It just has this LB spirit that makes it very addicting to listen to

My Baby's Taking Me Home

This was sort of the first Sparks song I've ever heard, or maybe that I quote-unquote purposefully listened to, and I think that's pretty important considering that it was the moment that ultimately lead to... all this. This song has always been incredibly beautiful and powerful to me, but lately it just makes me emotional to an extent that makes it hard to listen to most of the time. I WOULD sell all my material possessions for even one chance to experience this song live by the way

Your Call Is Very Important To Us. Please Hold

Earns soooo much as a live version, but even without that I think it's genius in the same way as The Rhythm Thief, and maybe the most disquieting piece here overall... If we ignore the next one maybe

Ugly Guys With Beautiful Girls

Sitting there hearing the intro of this song all like "huh, this is so chill and calm... too calm..." and then being hit with, well, everything that's going on in this song afterwards was truly THE MOMENT back in the day (and re: the predictability thing. idk though, it's not like, really an issue). Later on I decided that this sort of narrative nature of the song makes it have less replayability value than the rest (???) but I abandoned that opinion soon enough, thank god. I love it how long it took me to realize that this song and the ending of MBTMH are the only times when drums appear on this entire album (I mean no, I'm not very proud of that fact actually, as the self-proclaimed biggest LB fan in my area. And The Rhythm Thief literally saying "say goodbye to the beat"... come on man). So yes, sometimes less is more! I adore this song now it's such a treat I would gladly terrorize my neighbours with it

Suburban Homeboy

Ok, I'm sorry Suburban Homeboy fans but this is the only song here that I'm not a HUGE fan of. I still think it's brilliant and an incredibly fitting ending for the whole thing - the mood whiplash is amazing as this is the only "vaguely happy sounding" song on here, per my words from months back. And what's better than yelling WE ARE THE SUBURBAN HOMEBOYS! (I'm actually awaiting today's Sparks karaoke rating reveal very impatiently lol the reveal happened before I posted this and I'm very happy about it)

One more actually, a quick word on Wunderbar because it gave us two things that we might have not been able to do without: 1) this whole album actually (the fact that LB exists because of Wunderbar giving the Maels the idea to continue meddling with this style. Up there as one of my fav pieces of Sparks trivia) 2) anddddd the 21×21 performance of it of course

[moyazaika]

could you imagine a rapper yandere that disses anyone that even MENTIONS their darling/"girlfriend" is a way that isn't worshipping. and he disses hard.

When I say "girlfriend" I mean, the rapper knows the name, address, occupation, phone number, email, etc, has a shrine full of photos that he hired people to take over someone that doesn't know anything about it.

reader is just another person who listens to music and knows his name in passing and his reputation for dissing anyone who talks "bad" about his girl. reader respects it, but doesn't really listen to rap so they move on with their life, completely unaware that THEY are the girl.

it's a complete coincidence that the features and traits that he raps about are the exact same as them. There are plenty of people with that trait.

and no one bats an eye that no photos of the "girlfriend" exists to the public. It's no surprise someone with his level of fame would want to keep their girl private.

"I saw you yesterday at your grandma's, it's a real shame what happened to your grandpops, I need some new fertilizer in my garden, been growing some bad crops, your girl Morgan so bad you're getting blowjobs from your grandma?"

*camera noises*

(I'm not a rapper, apologies for ✨cringe✨)

hey so please don’t apologise i actually fucking love this idea. 😭😭❤️‍🩹 this would be so so cute bonus points for being set in the early 2000’s so we’re in that era of pop and rap where it’s rlly just a few big names dominating the charts, the fun awards shows, cool fashion; y2k baby!

and in this new age of music you’ve got this chart topping rapper who (unlike the other guys in his genre) seems to be rapping not about his opps or his cars or his cash or his bitches but… how much he loves his gf. it’s incredibly endearing.

if only his gf actually knew she was dating him!

and when he stays on top of those charts, wins all those music awards; there’s bound to be jealousy and bitter envy. other artists complain. celebrity interviewers and journalists eat it up; “so what do you think of this mystery girl that seems to be the subject of all his music?”

his competitor rolls his eyes, “dumb as fuck, the both of them. always banging on about how lovely she is how pretty and smart she is… this bitch is a one hit wonder, you feel me?”

… he did not like that. drake vs kanye 2.0 ensues except this time there is no coming back for the poor soul who has the balls to say that. rapper ‘bf’ puts the poor guy’s life on blast.

‘industry plant? least i’m not a plant by the government / makin’ sure them anti bullying campaigns is working.”

okay, that’s not so bad right?

“your funny’s up, but your syndrome’s down, like your money after i put this out—but your dick stays up / when you drive ‘round and look for little boys to spend a night with in town.”

oh! well. looks like nobody’s going to mention this mysterious girl rapper bf adores so much ever again :’)

[evilminji]

Back on my: Holotuber Jedi Youngling - OC Thoughts >.>

Prev <-

You think folks debate at first? Shtick or Real Thing? Like? No... no WAY could that be one of those Mysterious Mystic Space Cult Kids. No WAY. They would NEVER let their kid be unsupervised on the Net.

But like... (and since I'm a She, gonna use She, but realistically could be any pronouns here) she LOOKS like she's recording from a...? Is that a closet? This one looks like a vent. THIS video is definitely some sort of maintenance area. So she's definitely sneaking...

Ooooh! Thaaaat's a Jedi! REAL FUCKING JEDI. Just dropped down silently behind her. Arms crossed. Mouse droids be snitching. BUSTED.

:T

"Uuuuuuh, h-heeey, Master Uvalii. Fancy seeing YOU here!"

"Yes. Quite interesting isn't it? Since you should not be able to access this area at all, much less to achieve holonet access. Of which we are both aware you are expressly Forbidden To DO unsupervised."

".........I can explain?"

"Please. Do."

*feed ends, chat goes fucking NUTS*

Like? Oh SHIT. Baby Jedi in troooouble. But also? Oh no! What's gonna happen?! Are they gonna be okay?! S-should they TELL somebody? What do Jedi do to kids who disobey them? Does anyone actually KNOW? What DO any of us know about them!? Someone find their Com Code! MA! MA, I need you to yell at space monks! An adorable CHILD MIGHT BE AT STAKE!!! D:>

Even coming BACK on? For a supervised feed? Going "no, I'm just in trouble. Have to right paragraphs and meditate on 'why I felt the need to do this' (even though I KNOW why, not that they'll LISTEN. They just hope I'll meditate until I come to an answer they LIKE)" under the offscreen supervision of a teacher or Creche master?

Whole ass Net gonna be like "youngling! Blink Twice if they're holding you hostage! We can afford bounty hunters! We got a group pot thing going already!!! Aaaaaaaa-!"

Like? *waves at the camera and chat* she TOLD you. They don't believe you. This is part of WHY she wants to do what she's doing. Palpatine's and his Master's machinations have been building for a while. Eroding trust. The Jedi have become strange, dangerous, semi-mythical cryptids with magic powers we must HOPE are benevolent.

Not people.

Why would they expect some unfeeling, magical, sword-wielding space legend to be patient or kind to children? To even have the capacity? We are said to kidnap children and be unfeeling. Can not reach enough people to show otherwise. To reveal the mundanity of our lives. The traditions. The norms.

Food, children, laughter.

The Common Good.

And like? She obviously isn't gonna name Sith-ly NAMES. Not on CAMERA. But her lil "why I wanna play the tooka game and chat about lunch" speech? Convincing. Calms chat down. Still in trouble, mind you. But... provided it's SUPERVISED? And they work out some sort of effective moderation? Alright.

It's a matter of SAFETY, youngling. And no matter HOW much good you wish to do? They will NOT be sacrificing children to achieve it. That is NOT the Jedi way. There are plenty of old masters who would live nothing more then to ramble all day into cameras, if only to here themselves talk. (Oh? Good to know. Guest speakers pog?)

Like? Imagine making a game. Have a "mystical sage" character you TOTALLY BASED of Jedi in it. And your feed gets? Flooded with XD reactions in response to some smol bby streamer playing it? You go to check it out. Cause you're kinda a big deal on your planet. And?

Oh No™

That tiny streamer? Is a tiny JEDI streamer. Who is sitting there, in the stills, going O.o like "Wut." And the next still? Her lil friends are pulled in. The next? A teenager. The NEXT. An adult. The one after THAT. A few adults looking over her shoulder. Then a CROWD. All deeply, deeply confused looking.

The comments are DYING. Howling with laughter. The Jedi were so earnest. Trying to identify which Era you must be referencing. Which sect. But the head dress... cultural, maybe? It doesn't fit with the features though. Could be adopted. A hint at, I believe the term was, "lore"? No, no, those are DEFINITELY padawan beads! But so MANY? In THAT order?

They aren't even connected to a braid! And he's supposed to be a Master, right? But, wait. Perhaps it's meant to suggest he is a Padawan of the Force itself? A student of life? No, that wouldn't make sense! Stolen? It could suggest he has TAKEN the beads? Is regurgitating stolen texts without true understanding? Much like wearing bead he did not EARN?

They keep going and going. Ripping your character design to SHREDS. Picking it apart. Not even meanly! They are genuinely confused. AND IT ONLY MAKES THE CHAT LAUGH HARDER. Because it devolves into a MARATHON, after the game has been paused, of chat spamming different character names? For the Jedi to go "???" Over.

T...that's not? What? How does he even EAT in those robes? And those ones don't seem very non-humanoid friendly. Is he FLOATING HIS SWORD WITH THE FORCE? WHY!? Just keep it on your belt!!!

And? Now every game developer in the galaxy is PARANOID AF. Either make their mystics Very Obviously NOT Jedi rip offs... or shoot a "if I pay you $20 will you consult on something real quick" email. It's just... just easier man. Last guy got laughed into oblivion. Oof.

They can bill it as "Realism" or something. See guys? WE do or reasearch! Give us your credits!

Oh YEAH? Says the growing fan base of this Funky Lil Monk Child. Then put you game where your communication organs are. Send her the game, you cowards.

Do It.

Cut to "oh no, guys! The sorta-jedi died! What? Next objective? No. No we gotta give him a funeral! Oh good, we ca-BURY HIM?! What!? No!!! I could understand if he was from a race that held beliefs that bodies must be returned to the soil from whence they came, but this guy is a SORTA-JEDI! Absolutely NOT!"

"Let's cut down some trees. WE are building him a PYRE. Never ran one of these, but I can look it up. Gimme a moment. Okay. Draaaaag, him on to it. Where's his weapon. There! Thanks chat! On it goes too. Okay. Looking it up..... got it. Ahem...!"

*hold funeral for the sage character by burning his body*

*mods are IMMEDIATELY created to change the "burial" scene to a "Funeral pyre" with somber music*

Just? I can not let go? Of how the subtle shift would spread? Not in shining senatorial halls, but in class rooms and living rooms, dingy pubs and long hyperdrive flights? Anywhere boredom might be found and "hey check this out" might spread? Where someone else, might overhear and get curious?

Lik?? Imagine being the bounty hunter, who fuckin HATES Jedi, thinks they're sanctimonious BASTARDS, hearing someone snort laugh. Just... just fucking CHOKE on their cheep beer. Oh? Now everyone's interested. What's funny?

It's a teeny, tiny, lil jedi youngling. Playing that new Bounty 5 game. Unrealistic as hell. But they are going "I am a MASTER of stealth. A LEGEND of the hunt. You will not see me. I am sneaky. So, so, sneeeeakyyyyy!" As they concentrate on sneaking through back alleys.

Only for their character to fall RIGHT of a ledge, bounce against three buildings, smash into a parked Speeder, and roll right into a cut scene. Where they are call the "greatest bounty hunter of all time".

They look so incredulous.

"Are you SURE? Cause I'm fairly certain that phrase alone is banned for the trouble it causes, near most Bounty outposts. Could be the concussion talking though!"

They are? A sarcastic lil SHIT. Roast EVERYTHING. Know a surprising number of them. Given that they gave the Duros support character a modded in hat. Named him Definitely-Not-Cad. The fake look mustache REALLY sells it. Yeah, Bane. Clearly not you. YOU don't have a mustaches. *watches as she unleashes the Not Cad Bane like a highly tactical meat thresher on legs* brutal lil shit. They like her.

Granted, it's only BECAUSE it's not real she does so.

But I just? Have so many ideas? Spam the Galaxy with "this is who we are. We are people. Develop bonds with us. Care about us. KNOW us." Because the Sith can not possibly kill us all. Can not stop truth, so widely spread. Light dies, when you smother it in closed hands, hidden away in dark and long forgotten places. When you let fear dictate your actions.

It thrives in the open. With people. With the chance to SPREAD. Grow. Bloom.

It's about talking and caring. Being heard. What better place? Then on the screen in their pocket?

@babbling-babull @hypewinter @hdgnj @legitimatesatanspawn @spidori @spidori

[ibunyang]

pirate au go brr. sorry quick lore drop about this au

so it starts with moleswift(DUH...) as pirates they were first mate and his captain (swifts) captain, they were probs looking for something to make them immortal idk fountain of youth pirates of the Caribbean core, they find it they drink from the fountain and mike dies almost instantly compared to norton and he has to get traumatized to see him die in his arms

Norton realizes he is immortal under the full moon like he's full skelly under the light, so he's just actually a dead man walking. Mike's dead tho but he gets another form of immortality (constant reincarnation)

Anyway, norton and every iteration of Mike throughout 500 years

< soul and sparrow - i think this was his ronald of ness era where he was still trying to hide the fact he was immortal so he kept changing his identity, the first ever time he met another mike that found in a barrel at like 19 years old.. maybe idk, sparrow grew part of his Golden Rose crew, during the whole time… and mike looked up to him as his captain.. until smth more… Ronald projected swifts the most on sparrow, and honestly ended up having to leave him when sparrow was realizing that norton wasnt aging at all since they met, he had to leave him bc he was having an existential crisis about being immortal and not aging at all anymore no matter how he tried to hide or ignore it, so he left sparrow (and the crew, basically fakes his own death.) this is when he just embraces his immortality at this point, after being kind of a recluse for a while

< cocoa and soul - maybe 100 years after sparrow, and hes given up trying to fake his identity, he has the face paint and everything, hes mostly known as soul now.. cocoa is the owner of an inn and he meets him every time he docks at his towns port, hes nice to him kind.. much softer than sparrow or swifts, but still as cocky and confident in himself (he notes that this mike smokes) cocoa lets him stay over whenever he wants to (hes trying not to get attached to this mike , so hes thankful for the fact that hes not a pirate or a sailor, just someone he can come home to any time, his light house per say.) he didnt have to do a painful goodbye with him, just a letter and the occasional sack of gold and jewels to spoil his favorite chef.

<pomegranate mike, and soul honestly pomegranate was probably part of a traveling merchant boat that got destroyed at sea, luckily souls crew was around to fish them out of the water, this mike tho wasnt interested in anything that he had to offer preferring the life of being free with his guild at sea or anywhere, he loved to entertain but staying with soul probably felt like a cage. he probably asked soul to take them to the nearest port, hes was a nice equally fun mike, but wasnt interested or too scared to commit to soul. (Wahh da one that got away) soul respects him, of course, but it cant be denied he was hurt over this. and he grew a little bitter because of it.

<cunning and soul.. - at this point 300 years passed already…pomegranate was the last mike he found and he didn't stay with him long and let him go without fighting because thats mikes choice man WHATEVER anyway, this is nortons sad emo boy era or as i like calling it weezer norton era. he became relentless, ruthless and his name was known through the seas, hes travelled the world at this point and his immortality has never failed him yet. he learned magic from patricia at one point, and now he has a crew of ghosts he necromanced into life to man his ship,- really kicking up the visuals in my head here but he has a literal ghost ship, its a physical ship but everyone on board is probably a ghost or a zombie (WHATEVERR MY AU MY WORLD BUILDING I SAY THEY EXIST.) anyway (onepiece reference i guess) when he saw cunning in one of the meetings for idk pirates or smth, tagging along with hollow (also a pirate bitch on his ass for the past years hes annoying as hell), he ws down right pISSED. (he hasnt seen a single mike reincarnation in 300 years, hes tried sleeping around getting over him, but NOTHING really compares to his soulmate.)

BUT anyway basically, in this au Hollow is looking for Alice (eternity whatever) and Soul knows where she is so he makes a bargain, he'll give Hollow Alice in exchange he gives him of of his most trusted men. (Points at cunning.) IF he gives him Alice in a pretty little bow for him, he can have cunning for himself.

Cunning is like "pft. Yeah right. You're not gonna find her before we do." And soul is just smiling (horny depressed and has been blue balled for years at this point, u don't know what this guy can do) so he just smiles.

Hollow, surprisingly agrees. "OKAY if u find her before we do I'll give my end of the bargain." Cunning is a little upset at this, but he's determined he'll find Alice before soul. (eermmm)

Soul wasn't lying about knowing where Alice was tho, so he kidnaps her and takes her to hollow. Like a sack of potatoes.

"Gimme gimme." smth like that and mike is so distraught about this he's crying, verbatim; " I don't want to be that bag of bones property- I'm not property " but he's already at souls shoulder and he's kicking and screaming. He's such a bitch in this au I LOVEE BITCH ASS CUNNING WHINEY WHORE. nortons kind of an ass here and hes sort of using him as a way to distress the last 300 years away. Before he spoils him with everything hes gotten (for mike.)

So it's just rough hostage core treatment for the first couple of months until he starts using the money he's been hoarding on mike to spoil him.

But anyway, after cunning dies in idk when, 🤷‍♂️anyway when he dies kay the next one and final one is quinlan, he's an immortal vamp/witch and hes the only mike who remembers every mike reincarnations memories, he knows that soul is out there looking for him but he doesn't care about that rn, in this life he's looking for his mom, and ignoring souls horny whale calling in the back of his mind until they inevitably cross paths BEC they are SOULLMATESS AUGRGRHSHAHAGGZ In my head the way they meet went like this "Mole."

soul looking at him in surprise bec ever since someone misheard his name being soul and he grew tired of correcting people its mole, he hasn't heard that name in years. he wasn't even sure if this was his Mike, he doesn't have the blue eyes he used to have they were more green/gold… and each mike he's met always had swifts eyes. So thats why he's like emo. Do u get it anyway, this is their reunion in the middle of an pub that cocoa bean used to run, they standing in front of each other and quin almost looks too relaxed when their EYEESS MEEETTT FUCKKK anyway, "Swift?" and theres just that LOOK thats unmistakably mikes on his face that mole just couldnt help but take him into his arms like a the sad depressed man he is. They kiss and they start sailing together forever until they turn to ashes.

THE ENDD

[ghost-bison]

Doctor Who: 1x08 The Satan Pit (2006) / 60th anniversary special 2/3 Wild Blue Yonder (2023)

I frankly love that parallel. One scene taken out of each of the two RTD eras.

First there's the colour palettes. You can see that they're polar opposites. RTD era1 was warm all the time as talked about in this post (which I love dearly, I keep referencing it in my posts), and then we have RTD era2, which has a more modern-looking, colder palette for science fiction.

But it's also a directing choice for the mood I think, cause on the one hand, we have Rose who, we all know, would even give up on seeing her mum again if it meant she got to spend the rest of her life with the Doctor (quite like Donna back in series 4 actually, who was very prompt to say she was going to travel with Ten forever). On the other hand we have Donna in 2023 who's now got a daughter and a husband and who hadn't even planned on doing a trip with the Doctor in the first place, let alone at the edge of the universe. I mean, they were just supposed to go see Wilfred! On one side we have Ten who's slowly recovering from the trauma of the Time War and falling in love for the first time in a while and re-learning that he deserves to be loved, too. On the other side we have Fourteen who, just as Donna put it, is "staggering", and as Fifteen said, is "running on fumes". He's got FOUR regenerations worth of trauma on Ten who was already struggling as it was with one (since the Time War I mean. Maybe two if we count Nine, cause who knows what he's been through between his regeneration and meeting Rose). Fourteen went through losing Rose, Donna, Amy, Rory, River, Clara, Bill, and he went through Pandorica, billions of years imprisoned by the Time Lords in his own personal hell, finding out about the Timeless Child, etc... and now, on top of everything, he's got to deal face to face with the guilt of what he did to Donna as she's been given back to him. Anyway, it's dark, when you think about it. No wonder the colours are so much colder in Wild Blue Yonder.

Then there's the music. In The Satan Pit, the soundtrack, The Impossible Planet, has a mystical quality to it. It's slightly creepy (I mean, it IS an episode about Satan), but it's mostly mysterious. Ten and Rose are only 500 years away from home. But in Wild Blue Yonder, Fourteen and Donna are 100 TRILLION YEARS away from home. The soundtrack from that scene, The Edge of Creation, isn't just mysterious, it's eerie and ethereal and perfectly encompasses what it would feel like to stand somewhere so impossibly alien it has become supernatural (if you can't tell I am obsessed with that track and episode lmao).

I love the contrast between Rose and Donna and the questions they ask. Rose's question is cute, she's like "I've seen it in films, is that it?", it stems from a place of curiosity, like she doesn't really realize the deep shit that they're in. She's just a kid. Whereas Donna's question, it stems from a place of dread: "Where's the light?". It almost has a "The Licked Hand" quality to it (if you don't know that story: the girl is scared, she puts her hand under the bed, her dog licks it. She goes into the bathroom, finds her dog dead in the tub, and written in its blood are the words 'humans can lick too').

Then, finally, there's the order in which things have been done: in The Satan Pit, Rose remarks they're "a long way from home". Ten takes a long look at her, and seeing that she seems a bit scared, he explains to her how long it would take to get home. In Wild Blue Yonder, Fourteen first explains to Donna how long it would take to get home, and only THEN, he takes a long look at her, and finally Donna says "that's my family, over there". It parallels Rose's sentence in the sense that they both talk about home and how far away it is, but they use different words for it with a different meaning behind. Donna is more specific on what she'll be returning to when it's over (her family), whereas Rose, who isn't as grounded as her, just says "home" (which, for her, probably just means the place she grew up). I also love the contrast between Rose's "a long way" and Donna's "over there". The first implies foreign, the second implies close enough to see. What's interesting about this bit is Donna is further away from home than Rose is, geographically speaking. But for Rose, Home is actually the Doctor, just him, so she has no problem saying she's "a long way from home" since she doesn't mean it in the same way Donna would. So for Donna, when she says "over there", it's because the Home she's talking about is closer to her heart, and she's probably trying to reassure herself that she'll see her family again (I used to do something like that when I was in primary school, I'd travel all the way back to my house in my head to kiss my parents on the cheek because I was so homesick).

So that's that I guess

[miloformula123fan]

Hey! Could you do fic about Fernando Alonso x baker!reader from prompt? Tag me later! Thanks

of course darling. im so sorry it took me this long to get it out for you <3

Please keep requesting - y'all have awesome ideas we agree on a lot of stuff :) - my guidelines are here, and if you want some prompts, they are here.

also feel free to come in and start chatting to me in my asks, would love to get to know y'all better

and if you want to be added to my taglist lmk :)

and my masterlist is here <3

fernando alonso x baker!reader

“Hola, welcome to pan y amor, what can i get for you?”

“Your number?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Oh are you taken, my apologies. ”

“...no I’m not taken, just wasn’t expecting you to be so bold. How about you buy something and if you like it you can have my number and take me on a date?”

“I am not usually this bold, I apologise. Okay then, what would you recommend, mi sol?”

“Well, I mean, I have to recommend our natillas de leche, unless your allergic to something in them, then I’d try and think of something else.”

“Not allergic, though if my trainer heard how many of these I was eating.”

“Trainer huh?” as Y/N passed over the natillas. “so , you’re an athlete?”

“F1 driver, Fernando Alonso” he held over his hand to shake, after paying “i’m from here, so I like to come in and spend time with the locals”

“Oh, well I’m not the biggest f1 fan, but I’m sure happy to help the locals, maybe you could introduce me to F1.”

---

“Darling, I’m trying to make some brownies before the bakery opens, you cannot come in here and distract me.”

“Can I make something to help?”

“Do you swear that you will follow my instructions to a T?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Okay, you can make some caramel slices. You need to grab almond meal, vanilla protein powder, rice malt syrup, coconut oil, peanut butter, and dark chocolate, did you understand that?”

“Yes chef!”

“Okay good. It needs to go in the fridge, and then you can work on the strawberry lemon scones and then when i'm working on the tiramisu you can work on the orange loaf.”

“You’re telling me that when i rock up before my girlfriend officially starts work to hang out with her, all that happens if I have to do unpaid work.”

“Well i can’t pay you a f1 driver wage, because i can’t afford it and also you are not an f1 driver equivalent baker. I don’t even know if it’s worth giving you these ingredients for fear that I cannot sell what you make.”

---

“Okay, welcome back to pan y amor, as you know we in Cogollo, are massive f1 fans, so we have made some pumpkin cream cheese muffins to celebrate Fernando’s 33rd win. We had a little birdy tell us that this was his favourite flavour, so here’s how we make it, as always the full recipe will be on our blog y si quieres ver esta receta en español, ve a nuestro perfil, donde repasamos exactamente la misma receta, pero en español, para que todos nuestros fans de habla hispana también puedan seguirla. We’ve started this recipe by preheating the oven to 175 degrees celsius, which is 350 degrees fahrenheit for our American fans. 

And as my boyfriend gets in the way, the pumpkin cream cheese muffins are gonna be made slower. He loves this flavour so he’d better get out of my way so I can make the muffins, si, comprendo?”

“Comprendo, capitan!”

Bien, bienvenido de nuevo a pan y amor, como ya sabéis, en Cogollo somos grandes fans de la F1, así que hemos preparado unas magdalenas de calabaza y queso crema para celebrar la victoria número 33 de Fernando. Un pajarito nos dijo que este era su sabor favorito, así que así es como lo preparamos, como siempre la receta completa estará en nuestro blog and if you want to see this recipe in english, go to our profile, where we run through the exact same recipe, but in english, so all our english speaking fans can also follow. Comenzamos esta receta precalentando el horno a 175 grados centígrados.’

'Okay call me delusional, but was that Fernando in this tiktok?'

'Why is fernando voicing a random bakery’s tiktoks?'

'this bakery is in his home town, so maybe he knows them'

'WHY IS THE BAKERY OWNER SO PRETTY'

---

i am going to apologise now because I doubt this made sense :)

taglist: @leosxrealm, @pear-1206, @tallrock35, @wolf-knights, @janeholt3

[withahappyrefrain]

for bradley and birdie! but i feel like he’s the one who doesn’t like scary movies 🤭

purposely suggesting a horror movie (even though they know they themselves hate horror movies) just so they have an excuse to cuddle up for the night

A chance to combine my love of horror movies with Bradley & Birdie? Don't have to tell me twice!

"Whatcha wanna watch?" Bradley's mustache tickles your cheek, then your nose when his lips move to kiss you there.

"Is it my pick tonight?" You giggled, fingers gripping the cable knit sweater that currently adorned his body.

"Sure is, got full reign Birdie." His words give you pause. Full reign? Did that mean-

"What's that horror movie you always go on about?" Bradley confirms, as if he could read your mind. He couldn't lie, your raised eyebrows kinda gave it away.

"You mean Hereditary? You would be okay watching that?"

Bradley nuzzles against your body, his head laying against your chest, your fingers toying with his sun kissed hair as he nodded.

"If it means I get to lay like this, absolutely," Bradley's words are genuine, so you grab the remote to find the chosen movie.

"This movie isn't that scary. It's creepy, but it's not scary." Bradley has now put all his body weight on you, like a mustached weighted blanket. Your fingers were idly scratching his scalp with your nails. If Bradley was a cat, he would absolutely be purring.

You could only chuckle, having seen the film over a dozen times, "Famous last words Roo."

"Like the kid is creepy and clearly grandma is haunting Toni Collete." so he had been paying attention.

"It's a slow burn, that's all I'll say," was your final warning. If it weren't for Bradley loving wrapping his arms around you, you would have been able to adopt a more serious tone. But how could you when he kept trying to get as close to you as physically possible?

Bradley shrugged. He was active duty in the Navy. Horror movies weren't his thing, mainly because he always thought he had seen enough in his lifetime.

"Birdie, what the absolute fuck?" You simply giggle, a stark juxtaposition to the image of a decaying head on the screen.

"It only gets worse," your tone was bright and happy, not matching the words at all.

"This is your favorite? You're sick, you know that? Might have to send you away," he rests his chin on your chest, looking directly at you with a lovesick expression.

"Oh, I one hundred percent would have been sent to the sea side for hysteria in the early nineteen hundreds," you grab a piece of popcorn, popping it into your mouth, "I think we should bring that treatment back. Going to the beach would probably calm me down, especially if you're playing football there."

Bradley scoffs, mocked objection lacing his words, "You really can't stop sexualizing your old man, can you?"

"It's better than making grandpa jokes. I still can't believe you were too old during the Naked Brothers Band era," you roll your eyes, although a smittened smile remains on your face.

"And I still can't believe a prime television network named a show that. So like, how freaky does this get?" There's thinly veiled concern in his question.

"Oh, we haven't even reached the tip of the iceberg," you pause, "Just let me know if it gets too much. We can watch something else, like Airplane or-"

Bradley shooks his head, "No, this is an important movie to you, I wanna watch."

It's then you realize that Bradley isn't in it for the spooks, or those Pillsbury ghost cookies (though they are a treat). No, he was sitting through this movie to be with you, to hold you.

It almost made you want to stop the movie before it got to the fucked up part.

Almost.

[catofadifferentcolor]

Terrible Fic Idea #92: Percy/Apollo, but make it The Trojan War

Into every fandom, a time travel fic must fall - or in this case a second one, because I somehow got to thinking about the delightful PJO trope of Percy being thrown back in time to The Trojan War and realized that doing so misses out on a fantastic opportunity.

Or: What if post-TOA Percy Jackson and Apollo time travel to shortly before The Trojan War?

Just imagine it:

Everything follows canon through TOA, with one exception: rather than struggle to catch up in the mortal world following the Second Gigantomachy, Percy elects to stay at Camp Half-Blood. There he can homeschool at his own place with programs tailored towards ADHD children and still visit his family on the weekends - and not get into any more ridiculous situations in the mortal world when one of the gods kidnaps him or sends him on a quest to find their sneakers.

This, naturally, stresses his relationship with Annabeth - who, now that she's no longer living at camp full time, calls it the easy way out. But Percy is tired and struggling in mortal high school where everyone thinks he's a delinquent idiot when another option exists seems foolish. Percy and Annabeth break up and drift apart.

Enter Apollo, fresh from his latest stint as a mortal. He's trying to do his best by his children, which includes popping by camp as often as he can get away with - which in turn means spending a lot of time with Percy, who at this point is unofficially running CHB because it's not like Dionysus or even Chiron have done a brilliant job of it in recent times.

(First aid, strategy, and mythology classes are made mandatory. Percy personally ensures every demigod knows enough about self-defense to be able to survive long enough to run away or for help to arrive. Bullying is cracked down on so hard that it's this, not Percy's generally parental nature, that has people calling him Camp Mom.)

Percy and Apollo become friendly. Enough so that some of Apollo's kids assume they're dating and keeping it on the down-low so as not to draw Zeus' ire. Or Poseidon's. Or anyone else's. It's on one of their not-dates that they're yeeted into the past, without warning or explanation.

And so 19-year-old Percy Jackson and post-TOA Apollo find themselves in Ancient Greece c. 1220 BCE, roughly thirty-five years before the destruction of Troy.

The time travel is immediately obvious, as Apollo becomes the closest thing a god might experience to being high the moment they land in the past - being a powerful god in modern times is nothing like being a powerful god at the height of his power in ancient times. It's overwhelming (and somewhat alarming from Percy's POV, but kind of funny in retrospect.)

The specific date is harder to determine, but made clear when Hermes shows up and starts going on about you'll never believe what father's done now: he seduced the Spartan queen as a swan and she's laid an egg. Hera is furious - especially as they're saying the girl that hatched from it is the most beautiful in the world, even though she's only a few days old. It's nuts. By the way, where have you been? You missed the last two council meetings. Do you want Dad to punish you?

Apollo at this stage is very high. He's also been USTing over Percy for quite some time and is worried what the gods of this era might do to Percy without divine protection (smiting or seduction, it's all on the table). But mostly he's very high, and so to keep Percy close and safe he declares he's been off having the dirtiest of dirty weekends with his latest lover and that Hermes' presence is ruining the mood. So if he would kindly leave, please and thank you, he'd really rather get back to it without an audience.

This, naturally, is a surprise to Percy, but he rolls with it because 1) he doesn't have any better ideas on how to get rid of Ancient Greek Hermes so they can figure out what the hades is going on and 2) he's been USTing over Apollo ever since he recovered enough from Tartarus to start feeling attraction again.

Fueled by mutual UST, they put together a cover story that should hold the next time a god with too much prurient interest shows: Percy is now Prince Persē of Gadir - a Phoenician colony that will grow into the future Cadiz - well past the edge of the Greek world at this stage but not beyond belief for Poseidon to have visited, as it's obvious who his father is. They claim his mother is the King of Gadir's youngest sister and as such Persē had a royal upbringing, but was far enough down the line of succession that he was free to chose to sail east and explore his father's homeland. Apollo caught sight of him on his journey, one thing led to another, and here they are.

(Are there easier, more sensible cover stories? Possibly. But the UST refuses to let them consider any of them now that a fake relationship is on the table.)

Deciding what to do about The Trojan War is much harder. On the one hand, it's a lot of senseless death and destruction. On the other, without it we don't get The Iliad and The Odyssey - two of the most influential works of literature in western civilization - and Aeneas doesn't go off to Italy (leading to the founding of Rome, which would change the history of western civilization a lot). In the end, they decide to let the war happen but do their best to mitigate the worst parts of it.

And so Percy goes off and becomes a hero of Ancient Greece while pretending to be in a relationship with Apollo.

This stage of things is filed with angst from both parties, as both Percy and Apollo want a real relationship with each other but think they're abusing the other's trust by eagerly faking their relationship. There's a lot of PDA, a lot of feelings, and limited communication. It goes on for quite a while and would probably exasperate quite a few people if everyone in the know didn't think they were already in a relationship.

It's also filled with modern day Percy being confronted by realties of life in Ancient Greece. It's not just mortals knowing about - and interacting with - the gods: it's everything. It's food and clothes and language and culture and housing and travel. He can play a lot off it as being a traveler from the edge of the known world, but some of it has him asking Apollo if he's being rick rolled.

Apollo, meanwhile, is having troubles of his own. He is not the god he used to be and it's hard pretending otherwise. He tries to walk the line of doing enough to be believable and holding back enough not to despise himself, but it's a fine line, he fails often, and he spends a not insignificant amount of time worried he's backsliding.

And so it goes until 7-year-old Helen of Troy is kidnapped by Theseus to be his wife.

This, naturally, does not fly with Percy, who by this time has built up something of a reputation as a hero. He teams up with the Dioscuri to rescue Helen.

One would think this would earn him Zeus' favor. It doesn't. Instead, Zeus sends monsters to harry him for refusing to let Castor and Pollux take Helen's captors' loved ones captive and raze Aphidna for Theseus' crime. Percy manages to hold his own for quite a while but eventually, exhausted from the near-constant fighting, is gored and left for dead by the reformed Minotaur.

...and when Apollo arrives, frantic, to heal him, Percy ascends instead, becoming the greek version of Saint Sebastian - a minor god of heroes, strength in the face of adversity, and athleticism; sort of halfway between Hercules and Chiron.

Then and only then do Percy and Apollo finally get their act together, confessing to each other how much they care for the other and how much they don't want this to be fake any longer.

History proceeds apace - albeit with Persē being a second immortal trainer of heroes.

24 years after their arrival in the past, 16 years after Percy's ascension, The Trojan War begins. Despite their best efforts, there's only so much they can do - war is war and gods are gods. They are able to stop some of the worst excesses on both sides, but in the end Apollo still sends the plague that causes Agamemnon to take Briseis for his own, which caused Achilles' departure from the field, Patroclus' death, &c - not because Apollo was trying to maintain the timeline, but because in the instant he sent it he was angry and reverted to his old ways.

Troy falls...

...but when Zeus tries to use this as an excuse to ban gods from interacting with their demigod children, Apollo is able to say that's a bit extreme isn't it? with enough backing from the rest of the council that Zeus is forced to amend his ruling so that the gods are only allowed to freely visit their children on the "cross quarter days" that fall between each solstice and equinox (1 February, 1 May, 1 August, and 1 November).

This changes everything and nothing.

Time continues its inevitable march. Greece has its golden age before being conquered by Rome, which splits apart under its own weight and forms several smaller countries, which eventually spread their cultures around the world...

Apollo and Percy are there for it all. Persē is a minor figure in mythology, but never forgotten. He is ever-present in Apollo's temples - though the Church will later try to rewrite their myth so that they were merely sworn fighting partners, rather than lovers who eventually had a quite lovely wedding on Olympus (and then, at Poseidon's insistence, an even bigger ceremony on Atlantis). Percy takes over day-to-day operations of CHB from practically the moment the Trojan War ends.

...and so Persē is there the day Sally Jackson tries to get her son to camp, and is able to intervene when the Minotaur attacks on their border. He's able to meet her and her young son, Perseus ("Mom named me after you and the guy that killed Medusa since you're the only two heroes to have happy endings!"), and guide him through the trials that come with being a child of prophecy.

One day that Percy will hand Luke - who was never happy with the limited attention the gods were allowed to give their children - a cursed dagger so that Kronos can be defeated. That child will be offered godhood, turn it down, and go on to have a happy life with his eventual wife, Annabeth. He will never have his memories erased and be sent to Camp Jupiter. Gaia will not rise until long after that Percy's grandchildren are dead, and Zeus will not be quite so bullheaded when the proof of it is brought before him. That Second Gigantomachy is swift, well-coordinated, and fought without another Greek/Roman war brewing in the background.

And when they finally arrive at the day Apollo and Percy were originally sent back in time, Percy admits that while he is happy some version of him was better prepared for the war he was asked to fight in and allowed his peace afterward, he would change nothing about his own life, for it brought him to Apollo. The sunrise the next morning - on the first morning of the rest of their lives - is particularly spectacular.

Bonuses include:

Gaslighting Poseidon into believing that he's met Percy before the first time they're introduced. ("What do you mean you don't remember me, Father? You were present when I came of age! You gifted me this trident! Have I displeased you in some way?") It's an absolute masterclass that eventually manages to convince Poseidon that, yes, of course he knows Percy - and, maybe, he should check in on all his other demigod children to make sure he's not missed someone. (Two. He lost track of two of the others. Maybe he should be more careful about siring children in the future.) Apollo practically has to stuff his fist in his mouth to keep from laughing.

As much historical accuracy as can be crammed into the Percy trying to make sense of Ancient Greece chapters as possible. Think Of a Linear Circle - Part III by flamethrower levels of historical research. As much as can be shoehorned in without bogging down the plot.

Percy and Dionysus bonding over their mutual dislike of Theseus, though Percy generally gets along with his other half-siblings, especially the ones who come to camp young enough to keep from getting big heads over being the children of Poseidon.

Though Percy adores all the children in Cabin 7 (most of whom are born via blessing this time around), he and Apollo have at least one child of their own - maybe a demigod born before Percy's ascension to sell their fake relationship? Maybe a minor god who's later attributed a different parentage by mortals? Dealer's choice on details.

It never being made clear who, or what, or how, Percy and Apollo were sent into the past. All of Percy's oddities are attributed to him being foreign or formerly mortal, all of Apollo's to the fact that he's in love with someone who didn't die before their first anniversary, and no one ever guesses time travel is responsible for their eccentricities. Or that time travel was ever an option.

And that's all I have. As always, feel free to adopt, just link back if you ever decide to do anything with it.

More PJO Ideas | More Terrible Fic Ideas

[jayladfanpage]

what jason ships are you partial to? reasonings and silly musings would be fun to hear as well :) My personal fav is jaykyle !

To be entirely honest, there's very few Jason ships I outright dislike, those being Jaymia, Jaytim, Jaydick (no real reasoning behind this one, it just icks me), and Jaykara. Everything else I can at least partially get behind. My FAVORITES, though...

Jayde/Sladejay is a big one. I'm obsessed with Jason dating older men and I do see Jason, at least in his villain era, appreciating the fact that Slade respects his methods and his ideology. Slade himself has a lot of hard-set morals and a deep, obsessive love for his family despite causing them nothing but pain, which sounds like a certain Gotham vigilante I know. Also, we all know Slade likes them younger. (Even though that's really bad characterization, it's still funny, so whatever) and I do see them genuinely making each other "better" in that villain power couple way. They wouldn't make each other good people, but they could make each other happy and content and fix their emotional cravings together.

Another big one is JayKyle as well! They're just so toxic and messy I fucking adore them. The epitome of "If we hate each other enough this might work." Both of them need to get dicked down good in order to shut up and the other is more than willing to do it. Jason being completely isolated when he was a hero vs Kyle being introduced to so many heroes at once it's hard for him to forge genuine connections with most of them in the beginning. Both endlesly getting compared to their better, more loveable predecessor. I'm insane

... Jayroy. And I'm not sorry about it. Obviously if you’ve seen my ao3 you're aware of how much I just adore them but. ARGH THEY MAKE ME INSANE. Part of this is because RHaTO was my first DC comic and I'll always be at least a little emotionally attached to it, for all that it sucks ass. Also, I do thing that Roy "Savior Complex" Harper would obsess over the idea of fixing Jason -- especially since Lian had just died when they formed the Outlaws in my timeline. I also think Jason would help Roy with his rampant abandonment issues ( @royboyfanpage has some great posts about that if you're interested) due to how unwilling he is to let go of people, RHaTO characterization notwithstanding. And I just think Roy Harper is really fucking hot and Jason deserves a kind, stern dilf with long hair

You may notice that none of these answers include women and that's because Jason's kind of a dick to most women he interacts with. I am excited to see where JayRose goes though!