#//This is his death poem that I am using as a quote

[soulsbetrayed]

'Parental love exceeds one's love for his parents. How will they take the tidings of today?'

[makingqueerhistory]

I'm from the USA and am trying to take hope and inspiration from our queer predecessors who faced dark times in the past. How did they keep going even when it felt like the world was ending?Do you have any recommendations for queer historical essays, poems, books, anything to find comfort and hope for these dark times?

Yes, I have a couple of stories for this.

Claude Cahun

A queer surrealist photographer from 1920's paris, Claude was Jewish and recognized the rise of antisemitism in their home country and watched it become fascism. Here is a quote from their article:

"In 1937 Claude Cahun and Marcel Moore cut off many connections because of the war and ran to Jersey to avoid anti-Semitic violence. Upon arrival, they went back to using their birth names and laid low until the Germans took Jersey. Moore and Cahun set to work. They used their experience with art and disguising their genders to create works that spread misinformation, seeds of rebellion and implied that there was a large-scale resistance happening when in reality, it was just the two of them. Though some of their work was based on confusing the soldiers, they also translated and transcribed BBC transmissions into German, detailing the war crimes that were being committed. They would have these translations on pieces of paper that they would slip into soldier's pockets, matchboxes, and anywhere a soldier may stumble across it and possibly read it. An investigation was started, and Nazi authorities believed there to be a group of people doing this. When the two were discovered to be behind the actions, Claude Cahun and Marcel Moore were sentenced to death. Fortunately, the sentence was never carried out because the island of Jersey was liberated from German rule only a year later. Claude took a picture upon their release in front of the camps with a Nazi eagle pin between their teeth."

And Jarosław Iwaszkiewicz

who wrote:

"Poetry readings and concert attendance—and often a chat over vodka—were not only forms

of escapism, but also a search for better, more substantive aspects of human beings, a search

which would end, more often than not, in complete disillusionment. If it could be possible, to

discern, in these notes even if only for a moment a measure of humanity in that time of

inhumanity, the goal of this publication would be fulfilled.”

I think his whole article is worth reading.

Also here are some books to read:

Your Art Will Save Your Life

Beth Pickens

Double Cross: The True Story of the D-Day Spies

Ben MacIntyre

Nepantla: An Anthology Dedicated to Queer Poets of Color

Christopher Soto

The New Queer Conscience

Adam Eli

(Some of the links are affiliate links)

[amundsenxcook]

okay so because of who i am as a person i obviously have not stopped thinking about the ellsworth poem since i have learned of it. this one:

some things to note:

• "skoal" is norwegian for "cheers". so he‘s literally toasting him with this poem. also it shows that they were very familiar with each other and ellsworth took an interest in amundsens culture and mother tongue.

• it is dated september 3, 1928. a couple of months after amundsens disappearance. this is as much a toast as it is a eulogy. this is probably a good indicator of when ellsworth considered amundsen no longer missing but dead. feeling great and normal about that.

but i wanted to know more!!! in the hopes of finding more context for this poem i tried looking it up but i couldn‘t find anything in relation to ellsworth and/or amundsen. so i tried to find the poem itself. and i did.

ellsworth didn’t write it, it is by none other than famous romantic poet william wordsworth! but this is not where my search ended. because the part that ellsworth quoted is not the full poem.

you see. the full poem is titled „Lines written by Capt. James upon his leaving Charlton Island, where many of his Ship's Crew had died during the winter, which they passed there A. D. 1631-2.“

so of course the question arises: who was this captain james who overwintered in charlton island in 1631-2?

captain thomas james was a welsh captain and explorer and in the years 1631 and 1632 he set out to find the northwest passage. he did not succeed and had to turn back. he wrote a report on it which you can read here on the internet archive.

wordsworths poem was inspired by this tale (some say the ancient mariner was inspired by it as well) and clearly ellsworth put a lot of thought into his choice. chosing a poem about someone looking for the northwest passage to dedicate it to the guy who found it!!!!! man

conclusion: ellsworth did not write the poem for amundsen, but he did carefully choose one that fit him so perfectly, choosing as well the lines which are the most touching and personal.

anyway, here‘s the whole poem below the cut because it’s actually really good and makes me very sad:

I were unkind unless that I did shed

Before I part some tears upon our Dead:

And when my eyes be dry I will not cease

I heart to pray their bones may rest in peace:

Their better parts, (good souls) I know were given,

With an intent they should return to heaven:

Their lives they spent to the last drop of blood.

Seeking God's glory and their Country's good.

And as a valiant Soldier rather dies.

Than yields his courage to his enemies,

​

And stops their way with his hew'd flesh, when death

Hath quite deprived him of his strength and breath;

So have they spent themselves; and here they lie,

A famous mark of our Discovery.

We that survive, perchance may end our days

In some employment meriting no praise,

And in a dunghill rot, when no man names

The memory of us but to our shames.

They have outlived this fear, and their brave ends

Will ever be an honor to their friends.—

Why drop you so mine eyes? Nay rather pour

My sad departure in a solemn shower.

The winter's cold that lately froze our blood.

Now, were it so extreme, might do this good,

As make these tears bright pearls, which I would lay

Tombed safely with you till doom's fatal day:

That in this solitary place, where none

Will ever come to breathe a sigh or groan,

​

Some remnant might be extant, of the true

And faithful love, I ever tendered you.

Oh! rest in peace, dear Friends, and let it be

No pride to say, the sometime part of me.

What pain and anguish doth afflict the head.

The heart and stomach, when the limbs are dead.—

So grieved I kiss your graves, resolved to die,

A Foster-Father to your memory.

[lisaiese]

lyrics in EPIC: the musical that changed my life trajectory

I don't know if it is the fact that I spent five years of high school studying Latin and Greek classics that makes me do this, but here I am writing a long ass tumblr post about some lyrics from the songs of a musical based on The Odyssey, the Homeric epic poem.

Enough chit chat, let's start from the lyrics in the first very song of the musical, 'The Horse and The Infant' from The Troy Saga:

The blood on your hands is something you won't lose All you can choose is whose

UGH so good already! Here we have Zeus speaking at the end of the song, basically telling Odysseus that killing in war is his duty as a man and a hero. This obviously kind of sounds like bullshit for us, but we have to understand the ancient culture behind it: in ancient Greece going to war was a symbol of honor. Think of the scene where Hector and Andromache met again, Hector really embodied the "I know that I probably won't come back to you and to our son (opsie), but I have to go"

Andromache said: “Dearest, your own great strength will be your death, and you have no pity on your little son, nor on me, ill-starred, who soon must be your widow…Please take pity upon me then, stay here on the rampart, that you may not leave your child an orphan, your wife a widow.” Hector responded: “All these things are in my mind also, lady; yet I would feel deep shame before the Trojans, and the Trojan women with trailing garments, if like a coward I were to shrink aside from the fighting.”

A key word is shame: many times my professor told us students about the 'shame culture' in ancient Greece, which Hector clearly refers to here. Therefore, it's either honor or shame: for the Greek dying in war was better than living like a coward. Through these lyrics - and also the next song of the album ('Just a Man') - we can notice how the characterization of Odysseus is different from that of heroes like Hector and Achilles: he seems more human. After all, it is no coincidence that he is characterized not only by physical strength but above all by intelligence: he is a 'Warrior of the Mind' (quoting one of the most iconic songs of the musical). In the first verse of The Odyssey, Homer calls Odysseus πολύτροπος, a term that literally means "of many turns" and can be translated as multifaceted, versatile, cunning.

Next lyrics are from 'Remember Them' from The Cyclops Saga:

What good would killing do? When mercy is a skill More of this world could learn to use

I chose these lyrics for two reason:

they are so well connected with the first ones and show how Odysseus still has his morality here (you have a long way my friend)

it is such a good phrase honestly, let's appreciate it

Actually, something to reflect on could be the theme of mercy, but I don't really remember a lot of information about it and I don't want to write about things I'm not so sure about. In fact, what I rememeber pretty well is mercy related to the Roman/Latin culture, in particular to the figure of Ceasar: Cicero attributes to Caesar the virtue of clementia, which is the term used in Latin to represent mercy. Apparently he is the only one who, among all the military leaders, stood out for his goodness of soul, so noble that it is not enough to simply compare him to great men, but he must be judged similar to a god («haec qui faciat, non ego eum cum summis viris comparo, sed simillimum deo iudico»). That's basically everything I can give you about the topic. I would dive into it more by talking about the musical itself, analysing how this is connected to Odysseus' relationship with his morality, but then I would really be writing an essay here and now, which would ruin the order and logic of this very long text.

Let's move on to the next lyrics from 'Ruthlessness', from The Ocean Saga, which made me gasp so hard the first I heard them:

You are the worst kind of good 'cause you're not even great A Greek who reeks of false righteousness, that's what I have 'Cause you fight to save lives, but won't kill and don't get the job done

Speechless. Mind-blowing. The earth shook. You are the worst kind of good 'cause you're not even great Hello??? Sorry Ulysses, but Poseidon ate. 'Cause you fight to save lives, but won't kill and don't get the job done Like, where do I even start to talk about this. Poseidon is actually throwing the naked truth in Odysseus' face! Everything so far has a logic:

Zeus tells Odysseus that he has to kill Hector's son Astynax (which he does in the end, for the sake of going home)

Odysseus spares Polyphemus (maybe because of guilt? He is just a man, afterall...)

That mercy results in a literal god (Poseidon) wanting to have vengeance: if Odysseus had been ruthless, he would have put mercy upon himself (yeah that's a direct reference to the lyrics Ruthlessness is mercy upon ourselves)

Now we finally arrive at my favorite saga (aaaaa): The Circe saga. Starting from some very simple lyrics, but so impactful, from the 'Puppeteer':

But this was a hell of a twist, cause we are weak to a power like this What was it? A woman

Hell yeah, a woman! Clearly, you are just a man (another reference, got you!). Ok, return to serious talk. I think most of us know that women were often portrayed as bewitchers, source of evil and misfortune, in ancient times, especially in the Greek culture. Let's think about the story of Pandora's box: it is a myth narrated by Hesiod in the poem Works and Days. According to it, the first woman on earth, named Pandora, was gifted a jar by the gods. However, led by curiosity, she opened it and, by doing so, she released sickness, death and many other unspecified evils. She then closed the jar and only one thing was left behind: Hope. This story (one of many and one of the most famous) perfeclty exemplifies how women were considered dangerous and, at the same time, powerful, as bringers of evil.

Next, from the same saga, let me present to you the best lyrics from the song 'There Are Other Ways':

There are many ways of persuasion There are many modes of control Maybe showing one act of kindness Leads to kinder sould down the road

AAAAAAA. Circe you are such *incomprehensible adjectives of praise* woman. Here Circe basically gives Odysseus' morality hope, let me explain: until now we saw how Odysseus' kind soul and his mercy led him to antagonize a god, on the other hand (in theory) killing a child opened the doors for him to return home. From these observations the only "lesson" that can be deduced is that behaving like a "monster" is better than just "being a man" (yeah I love referencing). BUT Circe kind of destroys this reasoning, proving that a good soul can take him so far... aaaand of course it's a woman who does this

Moving on: The Underworld Saga, lyrics sung by our favorite prophet Tiresias:

I see you wife with a man who is haunting A man with a trail of bodies (who?)

This song? Chills. Literal Chills. The song in itself is a forshadowing, an oracle. I chose these lyrics specifically because they forshadow Odysseus' darkest moments in the journey, by specifically pointing out what he becomes: [...] a man who is haunting A man with a trail of bodies Who? Odysseus you ask. It's you. It's you in the future, and you know why it's "no longer you" (yeah, another quoting)? Because you will have lost your morality by then. Honestly? We kind of all expected that, sorry not sorry Odysseus.

And directly connected to that we have the lyrics from 'Scylla', from The Tunder Saga (it's orange because there is no yellow):

We are the same, you and I, I

Just this one final verse, so powerful. Odysseus encountered mermaids and was merciless with them, after that he went to the lair of Scylla. They are actually the same: monsters. Or at least, Odysseus has become like her.

And now, in The Wisdom Saga, we welcome back the badass of the arena: Athena! Let's hear what she wisely says in 'Little Wolf':

One young wolf has a larger heart than all these men combined

It's always the women guys. Athena's appearance to help Telemachus fighting the suitors is so crucial: her words and herself gift us that ray of hope and goodness that was lacking ever since The Underworld Saga. Here she refers to Telemachus, Odysseus' son, who is called a young wolf. While at the beginning of the song the suitors were using the term "little wolf" to basically mock him, Athena changes the connotation: he is not a little wolf, he is a just a young wolf, with a good soul and heart. Even a wolf (an animal) is more good-hearted than a man, but here who actually is the animal and who is the man? Athena, a godess, knows best.

Finally, The Vengeance Saga, from which the best song (almost cried listening to it) is, of course, 'Six Hundred Strike':

After everything you've done... ...how will you sleep at night? Next to my wife...

OMG. Literally OMG. Here, at the final showdown between Odysseus and Poseidon, our hero prevails. Poseidon asks: "After everyhting you've done... how will you sleep at night?". I don't know if my interpretation is right, but this is what I think Poseidon meant with his words:

after everything you've done (and been through) to get here... how will you sleep at night? -> will the trauma spare you?

after everything you've done as you became a monster... how will you sleep at night? -> will the guilt spare you?

And Odysseus just answers with a "Next to my wife", because that's what he wanted from the very beginning, to come home, and he will achieve his goal. His story is the story of a journey: obviously, a journey back home, but most importantly, a journey of someone who is 'Just a Man' (got you again with the reference). Odysseus is just a man, a human being who has encountered countless obstacles, who has had his ups and downs, who has thrown his morality into the sea to return home. And what is this, if not life?

[theteasetwrites]

Merciless Beauty

Chapter 6: Through Life and After Death

❧ Pairing: Knight Daryl Dixon x Princess Reader ❧ Era: Medieval fantasy AU ❧ Pronouns: she/her ❧ Warnings: SMUT (18+)―missionary, body worship, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex (do not endorse), loss of virginity, vaginal fingering, sir kink if you squint, "fucked dumb" (lol), language ❧ Word Count: 15k (I am so sorry.)

❧ Before You Read...

❧ Glossary

❧ In This Chapter: With the threat of Negan and the Saviors' imminent return heavy on your mind, you find solace in one last excursion outside the castle walls, with your knight. A chance discovery, and the knowledge that this may be your last moment alone with him, leads you to the logical conclusion of your longing.

❧ A/N: Babe, wake up. The knight and the princess are about to boink. Btw I wrote most of this while I’m on my period so that might explain a lot.

The night before last had haunted you, tormented you, until you saw Sir Negan’s arrogant face in every shadow in your bedroom, every darkened corner of the castle, and even every forlorn hollow amongst the foliage in the courtyard where you took your afternoon strolls. 

Your own home became a house of horrors, and now, you could not stand to be there another minute. 

Before that night, the castle was only a place of sadness for you, but now, it was a looming threat, with each rising and setting of the sun marking another day closer to the day he would come back. You couldn’t even bear to speak his name, so you didn’t. You couldn’t, as though somehow even using your voice to acknowledge his existence was giving him more power. And yet, it was impossible to avoid the plague of unease that the man had infected you with. 

Afterall, your situation was dire, no matter what transpired in the coming days leading up to his return. If your father decided to appease Negan, the best option for the survival of the kingdom, it would mean you’d be given to him willingly, taken to the Sanctuary to be his wife. If your father refused to give you to him, you’d be taken by force, and there was no way that Alexandria’s now weakened defenses could fight the Saviors from taking you―they were going to take you, no matter what. There was no outcome that would be in your favor. You were going to be Negan’s now, and you had to accept it.

But you didn’t. 

Late last night, the king had left Alexandria in the hopes of making alliances with neighboring kingdoms against the Saviors in a last ditch effort to fight them. It was a noble pursuit, but worthless. Even with the help of the other provinces, the Saviors had weakened those kingdoms as well. Their armories were ransacked, and their numbers were increasingly dwindling. Still, you took advantage of your father’s absence―for one last excursion outside the walls before you’d surely be ripped away from your home in a matter of days. 

It was the easiest breakout yet, given the lack of guards roaming the corridors of the castle. The journey through the tunnel was quiet, none of the usual talk of knighthood or herbalism or the knight’s stories of his adventures in exotic, faraway lands. It wasn’t until the meadow when you asked Sir Daryl to treat this day just the same as the others―as if nothing had changed, and this wasn’t your last journey with him. 

And so, the knight being simply unable to refuse your wishes, he buried his sorrows to speak of things that pleased you, and you continued regaling him with quotes from your favorite tales and poems, all of which he listened to attentively, pulling Phantom’s reins as you both approached the familiar little cottage, its new outer walls now the first thing you saw.

It was only recently that Sir Daryl had commissioned a mason to build the protective border round the little house, an additional safety precaution to keep the walkers out, he said. Sometimes, you wondered if he’d had that built just for you to be safe, but perhaps that was a self-centered thought. The notion still produced a fluttering feeling in your abdomen, one that you became accustomed to since you first felt them with him. It was the most pleasant feeling you’d ever had, and no matter how you experimented to see if any other source of happiness could replicate that feeling, you always failed. 

The sun was setting now, the usual ending to the usual day out, only now, the knight had offered to prepare you a real supper, not just the usual loaves of bread and rosemary butter. This eve, he was set on something special―venison he’d hunted himself just days prior, accompanied by vegetables you’d collected from the cottage garden, many of which you’d never even tried before. “Peasants’ grub” the nobles called them, but they were simple potatoes, onions, cabbages, leeks, carrots… Everything you’d need for a good stew. 

But Daryl would not let you lift a finger, relegating you to sitting upon one of the straw-filled pillows strewn about on the floor, just a handful of feet from the warm lit hearth, where Daryl stood laboring over a steaming pot. 

“Are you sure you do not need any help?” you peeped, though you and he both knew that you had less skill in cooking than him. In fact, you’d never even cut a vegetable before today. That was simply not your responsibility.

He looked at you through curling smoke, his eyebrow raised at the notion. “Told ya I’d do it. Isn’t much left to do, anyway… Just gotta let it cook a bit more.”

With your posture as straight and perfect as ever, you nodded and wrapped the blanket he always gave you tighter around your body. At this point, it smelled distinctly of your sweet perfume. “Thank you again, Daryl. I know… I know this is not the most ideal time to leave the castle, but I could not stand to be there another second. I swear I can still smell that man’s stench.”

Daryl swallowed hard before clearing his throat, disturbed by the very thought of him, the man who he knew he could not stop from taking you, but he’d do anything in his power to prevent it from happening.

He’d thought of many things, in fact. He hadn’t slept in two nights, the time spent instead thinking of ways to stop Negan, but they all had their weaknesses. Of course, his first thought was to hide you, to take you away from the castle and keep you somewhere else, but that wouldn’t stop the Saviors from pillaging Alexandria, from killing more people. The one thing keeping Negan from destroying the kingdom was you, and even then, it was still uncertain. 

And killing Negan and enough of the Saviors to render them powerless was next to impossible. Alexandria was a small kingdom anyway, and now it had dwindled down to almost the size of a large village, with hardly any defenses or military-trained citizens to even stand a chance against an army of the Saviors’ size. The situation was hopeless, and he hated that all he could do was wait. 

“But it’s nice to be here,” you said. “I like it here… With you.”

He met your sweet smile with a boyishly lopsided one. The man was quite a bit older than you, but he had a youthfulness about him you couldn’t quite place. Perhaps it was in his eyes, which glimmered just as brightly as you’d imagined they had when he was closer to your own age. His face was weathered, but mostly, he was very handsome to you, with a softness to his features that mesmerized you at times. 

Particularly, you’d developed a fascination with his lips, the way they moved. He had a habit of folding in his lower lip and chewing on it, especially when deep in thought. Sometimes he’d purse them to the side when he was frustrated, or the top lip would snarl a bit when he killed a walker. You’d become attuned to the patterns of his smiles, grins, and smirks. Your favorites were the ones like this, uneven and slightly bashful, as though you’d said something that flattered him. 

You’d been flattering him a lot more lately, you realized. Perhaps your attraction to him was becoming more and more difficult to hide. Strangely, you did not feel the usual urge to combat it. Maybe it was the particular kind of heat from the hearth that evening or the way his hair was pinned behind his ears to keep it out of his way as he cooked, but the fluttery feeling in your abdomen was more persistent than usual, more continuous. At some point, you knew it would be impossible to hold back, but you had to. 

“I like being with you, too,” he replied, sprinkling some freshly ground herbs into the cast iron pot. “I wish I could…” He trailed off, stopping his train of thought before he spoke improperly in front of you. 

“Could what?”

Gut Negan ‘fore he lays another finger on you. “Nothin’.”

You huffed in amusement at his shyness. “Keeping secrets from your princess,” you teased with a wiggling brow and a squint of faux offense. “That is not very knightly behavior, sir.”

My princess, he thought. Mine.

He shook his head with a huff, ridding himself of his intrusive thoughts. “Wish I could… do somethin’ for you, s’all.” 

“Oh, Daryl,” you said. “You’ve already done so much for me. There’s nothing you could do… It is in my father’s hands. Well, it is in Negan’s hands, really.”

“But it shouldn’t be like that.”

“No, it shouldn’t, but it’s how it is, no matter what. Even if Sir Negan had no interest in me, my father would expect me to marry a noble, or a prince or king from some other kingdom. He’s a good father, but he is still a king. Really, I am quite lucky he has not married me off yet. Many princesses marry men they do not love. My mother, her marriage to my father was arranged. Somehow, it worked. They grew to love each other very much. I do not believe I could ever love Sir Negan, though… Not ever. He is evil.”

I won’t let him take you, he wanted to say, but he knew that would be an empty promise. Tonight, for all he knew, could’ve been one of the last nights he’d ever see you again. One thing was certain, this was going to be the last time he took you outside the castle. The last time he could truly be alone with you. And yet, he could not work up the courage to tell you how he felt, how he cherished you much more than he should’ve, how he believed he loved you. 

“Wish I could take you away from here,” he said, his lips moving faster than his brain could process his words. “Wish you could stay here, and Negan would never find you.” When his rationality caught up with him, he cleared his throat and shook his head in an attempt to take back what he just said, even though he meant every word. 

“I do, too,” you said, surprising him a bit. “I wish I could, but then what would Negan do? He’d destroy Alexandria. He’d kill my people… He might even kill my father. I couldn’t let that happen. No, I have to face it. There’s nothing anyone can do, Daryl, though I appreciate how much you care about my safety.”

I love you.

Instead of voicing his thought, he eyed the weakening fire of the hearth, its flame no longer adequately heating the bottom of the pot. “I’m sworn to protect you,” he said. “As your knight.” He felt your soft gaze caressing his face like an invisible hand, though he tried to remain nonchalant as he poked at the fire. “If I let you get taken against your will, I’m not protecting you.”

That was almost amusing to you, as Daryl seemed to rarely care about performing his official knightly duties. When it came to you, though, he took his job quite seriously. In fact, you began to wonder if he cared more about protecting you than his own lord to whom he owed fealty. What he owed to you meant much more than mere feudalism, though. What he owed to you was his mind, body, and soul. 

“And I am sworn to protect my kingdom. If I run away, I am endangering my kingdom.”

That all being said, the idea of Daryl taking you far away from all your troubles was dangerously tempting, to the point that you forgot to breathe for a moment, until it came back to you in the form of a heavy swallowing of air.

“I do not want anyone else to die,” you continued. “I… certainly do not want you to die fighting for me, Daryl, though I am so very grateful for everything you’ve done for me. In truth, I don’t think I have ever felt as close to someone as I feel with you.”

There was more you wished to say, and it seemed as though Daryl had something on the tip of his tongue, but once again, he held himself back, despite every cell in his body screaming out to you professions of love and adoration that had only grown stronger with each passing moment he’d known you. With every way he’d begun to see you for who you were, he fell harder in love. With every angle of you he feasted upon with starving eyes that tore themselves away despite their hunger, he grew more desperate, more bereft of your warm, soft, supple body that he dreamed of cherishing and worshipping every waking moment of everyday. 

God, he couldn’t keep you from his mind, your presence overwhelming and intoxicating and mesmerizing, even in this moment when your voice spoke so innocently and with the dignity and poise of a princess. That’s what you were, he had to remember—a princess. He was a knight. He needed to know his place… Though it was becoming increasingly harder to do so.

With the heady air of silence meandering between you in the tiny hovel, Daryl concentrated on rousing the flame of the hearth, but there was nothing he could do to build it up again without collecting more firewood to fuel it. It was the perfect moment to excuse himself and go out to gather tinder while he collected himself, before he did or said something… improper. 

In fact, he swore that if he opened his mouth now, he’d wax poetic about all the sinful thoughts he’d tried to keep at bay. Only your voice stopped him from heading out without an explanation.

“Where are you going, knight?”

He palmed at his forehead with a huff, remembering that he was in a social situation, with a sacred woman he cared for too tenderly. He couldn’t just leave you without saying what he was doing, after all. 

“Hearth needs more tinder,” he spoke over his shoulder as he donned his black wool cloak. “I won’t be far, just at the splitting log right outside.”

“I shall stir the stew,” you said dutifully, rising elegantly from your seat, with delicate handfuls of your dress to lift it as you crossed to the hearth. 

“Don’t poison it,” the knight replied, to which you flashed him a smirk. 

“Why ever would I do such a thing? That would be foolish, anyway. I am going to eat the stew, too.” He turned to look your way. It was a mistake. He got lost in your face, your cheeks high and full with your smile, and your eyes sparkling with the reflection of the dying fire. “Hurry along, now,” you said, your voice low now, almost husky. “You mustn’t keep me waiting.”

You did not intend the phrase to sound… suggestive, but perhaps your emotions were beginning to cloud your better judgment, and now every word you spoke betrayed you. 

“I won’t,” he replied, a barely audible crack in his voice, though you chalked it up to his already raspy way of speaking. “Be right back.”

Before leaving, he took up the splitting maul he kept beside the door, a burst of cold from the spring night air chilling you for a moment as the door swung shut. Absent-mindedly, you found yourself studying the stew as you stirred it. You tilted your head in amused curiosity at the simple, yet appetizing, concoction. Whatever mix of herbs Daryl had thrown together had created a pleasant kind of aroma that filled the small one-room cottage with a comforting warmth.

A mischievous grin spread across your face as you thought to taste a bit of the stew before Daryl came back. Afterall, it couldn’t hurt to get a small sampling. Careful to get a little bit of everything in your spoonful, you purposefully sought out a large chunk of perfectly cooked-through venison. Raising the large wooden spoon to your pursed lips, you tasted the warm soup, letting it sit on your tongue for a few thoughtful moments as you attempted to study every flavor and texture. 

Though the stew was undoubtedly delicious, it was still missing something. You’d seen Daryl sprinkle several different herbs and spices, but it lacked the savory, peppery taste of one of your favorite herbs: sage. 

There was a tall wooden pantry across the room, where Daryl had stored most of his dry ingredients. You quickly crossed to the cabinet, your eyes looking back every few moments to keep an eye on the rolling boil of the stew. The pantry doors opened with a creak, you biting your lip and furrowing your brow as you scanned the dim shelves for the dried herb you sought. Daryl had an impressive selection of both culinary and medicinal ingredients, each jarred in their own glasses with a label of faded paper glued to its side, indicating the ingredients’ names. You’d pushed back several jars, all of which weren’t the dried sage you were looking for. 

He had everything—rosemary, saffron, ginger, grains of paradise, cloves, parsley, cinnamon, spikenard, alecost, thyme, southernwood… Everything but sage. “Good heavens, sage cannot be that difficult to come by, can it?” you spoke to yourself. “Sage… Sage…” You began to impatiently rearrange the jars, rereading each one a few times to ensure you weren’t going mad, though it began to feel like it. “How could he not have—”

You’d reached the back of the dusty old shelf, where no more pesky jars of spices and herbs could taunt you. Instead, a lone small chest of plain cedarwood sat undisturbed against the back wall of the cupboard. It wouldn’t have fazed you, as you’d most logically assume it was just another container for some special exotic spice, but what had silenced you and your mumbled self-ramblings was the chain of iridescent white pearls that poured out from the little chest, rendering the lid slightly ajar, but just open enough for your to catch a brief sparkle twinkling in the darkness. 

And those pearls… You recognized them.

They weren’t cheap freshwater pearls, the kind you could get from any silver-tongued peddler on the street in Alexandria’s market district. No, they were distinctive… Their luster and nearly perfect roundness betraying their expensive nature. Akoya pearls, you recalled the explorer saying. It was not long before the Scourge broke out, when you were just fifteen. The only jewels you had kept now were those inherited from your mother or family heirlooms. The pearls were beautiful, and they were important to you, but they were sacrifices you had made in the name of gratitude for the knight’s kindness.

You gave them to him, but under the impression that he’d sell them.

Why would he keep this?

But it wasn’t just one necklace, no. The faint glimmer of light from deep within the box enticed you, leading you to lift the lid, despite your high-society etiquette telling you that snooping around in other people’s things was hardly becoming behavior. You believed, though, that you had a right to see. That was once your necklace, after all.

There was more, just as you’d suspected. The box was brimming with a colorful assortment of precious jewels from your collection, all of which you’d had distinct memories of gifting to the knight after each excursion he’d accompanied you on. Pulling the box forward, you stared wide-eyed as you rummaged through, recognizing each and every piece—the pair of pearl and amethyst earrings, the ruby and silver brooch, the gilded ring of jade with an intricate claw setting, the red coral rosary given to you at your first Holy Communion, the repoussé chaplet set with refined diamonds and sapphires… Each trinket was unique, and undeniably yours. 

There were a few possible explanations you could think of. The first explanation, and the most logical, was that Sir Daryl was saving your jewels for a rainy day, intent on selling them all together for a larger sum. The second, and the most amusing to you, was that he was wearing the jewelry himself, and he was hiding them to spare himself the embarrassment. The third, and the most worrisome, was that there was a lady he was intent upon giving your jewelry to, or at least that he was keeping the jewels in the event that he would find a lady to woo. This thought made your heart race, but not in the way it usually did when the knight crossed your mind. 

But all these explanations were useless to you. There was no way of knowing now exactly why he kept your jewelry. Perhaps it meant nothing at all, but you couldn’t let it go. You needed to know, otherwise you’d never think clearly again. Without your sage, you replaced the chest and its contents to close the cupboard and return to the boiling pot, though not without a nervous pitter patter in your chest.

You were startled from your thoughts with a jump and a gasp when the knight kicked open the front door, a pile of freshly cut logs in his arms. He cursed himself for his lack of grace. 

“Y’all right?” he asked, keeping a concerned eye on you as he crossed to the hearth to prepare the fire. 

“Fine,” you replied with a nod. “Stew’s ready, I think.”

He furrowed his brow at that statement, then responded with a slight chuckle to his voice. “How do you know?”

“I tasted it,” you said. “It’s ready.”

“Yes, your highness,” he replied with a huff, amused by your certainty. 

At length, he procured two wooden bowls and two silver spoons, the both of you settling for casual seating in front of the hearth, sitting upon the floor cushions with criss-crossed legs and a strange silence between you. Silences like this were uncommon. Of course, whenever it was quiet between you, there was always this presence of heaviness, as though something needed to be said by one of you, or both, but right now, there was no comfort to it. Now, the weight had become so unbearable that there would be no comfort to this usually pleasant silence until one of you spoke. 

And it had to be you. You were the one who had seen the chest, who knew now that Daryl kept all those payments for whatever reason instead of cashing them in. You had to know why, there was no other way around it. 

You only hoped he wouldn’t resent you for it.

“Daryl?” You let your spoon clink against the side of the wooden bowl as you relished the recent aftertaste of the savory soup. “May I ask you something?”

He was hoping you would. He’d spent enough time with you, had known all your habits and quirks and idiosyncrasies, that he knew when there was something on your mind. Given the weight of this silence, it must’ve been important.

“Yeah.” He wiped his lips with the sleeve of his off-white chemise. You took extra care not to become distracted by the crop of pale brown, wiry chest hairs just barely visible at his loosely laced up collar.

Without even noticing, you licked your lips as you thought of what to say, hoping he wouldn’t be offended. Afterall, you’d gone snooping about in his pantry. Still, you believed you had a right to know.

To focus on your words, you set your near-empty bowl on the stone edge of the hearth. You straightened to sit up taller, your hands carefully folded in your lap. You looked like the picture of a princess, except in your eyes. They were downturned, as you couldn’t bear to look him in the eye in case your actions were misconstrued as mischief. “When you were out chopping wood,” you began with a small nervous croak in your voice, “I… Well, I tried the stew, as I said, but I thought it could use some sage, you see, and so I—I looked in your pantry.”

It was then that the knight began to choke on a chunk of venison, having swallowed it too soon with the realization that you could’ve seen his jewelry box, the one he hid because of his embarrassment to admit that he kept those jewels because they were yours. No practical reason at all, just the thought of you, something part of you belonging to him. It was silly, he knew that, but to him, there was a comfort in having those trinkets. If he’d sold them, all he’d have would be measly bits of dirty metal that had been in thousands of different hands and would be in a thousand more. Those jewels were worth more than that. They were once yours. As far as he was concerned, they were still yours. 

The man turned away from you, covering his mouth with the inside of his elbow as he coughed to help the meat pass down his throat. You leaned forward, reaching your hand out to touch his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“Mhm,” he mumbled between his coughs. “Just… just…”

“Here,” you said, scooting closer to hand him a tankard of water. He waved you off, but he was still hunched over to the side and refusing to face you, both as a result of his embarrassment and his coughing fit. You huffed and spoke more harshly now. “Daryl.”

He knew that voice well enough now to know you were serious. He turned towards you slowly, taking the cup from your hands as he still sputtered our grunts between coughs. “Th—thanks.”

He choked a bit more on the water now, but only because he felt your hand soothing his back in slow, languid, yet careful, movements. “There…” Your voice was smooth and velvety, like sweet whipped cream. With each pass of your hand, you felt the silk fabric of his shirt pucker against your palm. The heat of his body drew you closer subconsciously, til you felt his strong, hard shoulder nearly digging into your chest. Despite your attempt to pull away, it felt too good to rid yourself of his closeness. “Better?”

With the delicate pressure of your hand caressing him, of course he felt better. He grunted in acknowledgement as he nodded, setting the tankard on the floor beside him. “Yeah… Please forgive me.”

You shook your head and laughed at that. “For what? Swallowing your food too fast?”

He felt like a blubbering fool, wiping his lips and chuckling under his breath to match your contagious giggles. But then, with a diminuendo of laughter, he realized he’d interrupted you, and he needed to know now what you were going to say, just in case you did see his hidden treasure. Well, your hidden treasure. 

“For interrupting you,” he said. “You were sayin’ something… D’ya find the sage?”

He knew full well there was no sage in that pantry. He’d run out just a few days prior.

“Oh,” you sighed. “Well, no, I…” 

You’d made the grave mistake of lifting your wide eyes to meet his, though the both of you were trying to hide your gaze from one another. It was inevitable that they would meet at some point this evening, but now that they had, you could not bear to look away, neither could he. For several moments, you could not even blink for fear of missing him and his deep, almost dark blue eyes, filled with the mystery of something nearly inscrutable, but not impossible to figure out. In fact, the more you looked, you swore you got closer to finding the answers to all the questions in his eyes. 

“Daryl,” you started again, this time holding his gaze with a nervous, fluttering blink of your curled eyelashes. “Why… Why have you not sold the jewelry I paid you with?”

There were many replies he could have made, but the only one that was remotely coherent was the one with the fewest number of words: Because I love you. 

Several heavy moments passed in silence, with only the crackling of the now roaring hearthfire filling the space where words might’ve existed if only he had the courage to speak without thinking first in this moment. This, however, was a delicate situation, and he could not face it with the usual impulsivity and carelessness that he might’ve had in other situations. 

There was a contradictory sense of both a need to profess his love to you and a need to brush it off with some lie, but how could he lie to you, his sweet princess? You were worth so much more than that to him, so much more than a paltry lie, but you were also worth more than every jewel in that box. 

“You, uh… You saw that?”

Your shoulders shrugged as you smiled bashfully. Daryl’s cheeks seemed to heat up, too. “I did. I know I had no right to look, but with the gold those jewels are worth, you could purchase your own manor and petition to become a lord. My father would happily grant you that position, I’m sure. You would not have to be a vassal. Of course, it is your property to do with as you wish, but I cannot help but wonder why.”

Titles and property were of no consequence to Daryl. They never meant much. He grew up with next to nothing, raised by poor merchants who struggled to buy a single loaf of bread. Perhaps one would think that growing up so poor would make him value money, but it was quite the opposite. It made him hate it, how it could make or break a man. No, what you gave to him was worth so much more.

“I—” He paused to think more thoroughly about what he was to say, but there was no way around it. He had to say it. “I couldn’t get rid of them. Couldn’t just give ‘em to somebody else.”

Though his words seemed sentimental, his eyes still strayed from you. Leaning forward, your heart aching with a desperate hope, you tried to coerce his eyes to meet yours. Your hand still traced invisible shapes across the broad expanse of his back. 

“Why?” You wondered if perhaps your secret fourth explanation had been correct. The more he stalled, you began to realize that it was. “Daryl…” Your other hand lifted cautiously, its movements foreign to you as your fingers delicately cradled his chin, then brought his head up until those soft, deep blue eyes greeted you. Perhaps you were torturing him, begging him to admit his feelings despite his fear, but you needed his words. That was all you’d need. You smiled to comfort him as you spoke. “Why could you not bear to sell my jewels?”

Your touch was in two places now—his back and his chin. Both points of contact were burning, a fire that spread through him and touched him in places he didn’t dare even think of at this moment. Your touch was innocent, it had to be. He wouldn’t let himself believe otherwise. His task was to keep you safe, to never let harm come your way. Indulging in his desires, no matter how much he wanted to, would only take advantage of the trust you and your father had in him. But, oh… The way your chest heaved against his shoulder. You were so close. So incredibly close. Almost as close as he’d imagined, in his darkened bedroom where his sordid thoughts took root. Even his dreams were full of visions of you, hazy and ethereal, like you were made of clouds. So soft, so warm.

“Daryl?” you pressed again. “Won’t you answer me, please?”

“It’s wrong,” he said quickly. “It’s all wrong.”

“No, it is not.”

“I just couldn’t… Couldn’t give part of you away.”

“Part of me?”

“Part of you,” he repeated. “Someone else, with a part of you… I can’t let anyone else have you. Those things belonged to you, so they’re precious to me. You’re precious to me.”

There. That was enough. Enough for you to know the truth, enough for you to lean even closer, your eyes nearly closed despite a sliver of vision focused on his lips, slightly agape and quivering. With your hand still holding his chin, you pulled him closer, too, his body and mind paralyzed for a moment, rendered helpless by you. 

But for a moment, when your lips were just an inch or two from his, you fluttered your eyes open to meet his. “My knight,” you whispered, the soft wind of your breath tickling his aching lips. “Kiss me.”

“I—I can’t.”

“Yes, you can…” Just like that, you spoke in your most regal tone of authority, the same you’d used to threaten to have Negan executed, though this time, a little more sultry. “I am your princess, and you will do as I say, knight.”

Yes, your highness. 

With a burst of desperation rising up in his abdomen, he leaned forward to close the gap between you, not just at your lips, but at every part of you. His hands grasped hard at your waist, pulling you nearly onto his lap. Your chest was pressed so tight against his that you gasped for breath from his mouth as he kissed you, heavy breaths exhaling from his nostrils like a wild animal just freed from its cage. 

You felt one hand wildly rise up your back and tangle in your hair, loosening the lone braid at the back of your head, until cascades of hair hung freely over your shoulders and back. Your hands had no choice but to cling tight to his shoulders as his hands explored you to the extent he would allow himself, though it felt so wonderful that you wished he’d unrestrain himself even more. Just when you started to think he was becoming more unhindered, his hand slowly melting down your lower back and inching closer to your bottom, he stopped himself.

His mouth tore away from you, the cold of the night air stinging your moistened lips as they trembled, and you felt your throat already begin to swallow back a lump. “What is it?”

His hands were still on you, but he panted as he looked worryingly at you, his head shaking as if to reprimand himself, though he couldn’t hide his blown out pupils and the increasingly noticeable hardness of his lap. Still, you feared he’d deny you. 

“I can’t control myself,” he said. “If we… kept goin’…”

“I want to keep going,” you said. Your hands moved to grasp at his shirt collar, where your fingers began to undo his lace. “I want whatever you would do.”

“You don’t know what you want,” he said. “You don’t want me, princess.”

“I do want you, knight.”

“You can’t. I can’t. If your father—”

“I love you.”

He fell silent. Scared. Not of your words, but of himself, of what hearing those words in your voice did to him. They ignited a deeper, inextinguishable fire. 

“Don’t say what ya don’t mean, milady.”

A single shiny tear glimmered as it rolled down your soft rouged cheek, settling into the corner of your mouth. You weren’t sure exactly why you began to cry. Perhaps it was the idea of rejection, or the thought of Sir Negan taking you away before promising yourself to the only man you’d ever cared for, but one thing was certain: your love for him was strong enough to bring tears to your eyes. 

“I do not say things I do not mean, Sir Daryl. When I say I love you, I am speaking from my heart, and my heart would not lead me astray. I love you, and that is the truth.”

And it was his truth, too. Now, your words were enough to convince him.

He lowered his eyes, his lips turned stern. It was an earnest, serious gaze. He said what he’d been thinking for months, what he would never stop thinking no matter what. He would always love you. He would always do anything for you. It was time he made it known. “I love you.”

It was simple when he said it, but you knew it to be true by the way his hands clung tighter to your waist. Hesitantly, he raised his right hand, allowing the back of it to caress your cheek. His touch was rough, but only because of his worn skin. The way he moved was soft, gentle, sweet. Even in his evident lust, he still touched you with the innocence of a white daisy’s petals brushing against your skin. 

Hesitantly, he let his lips ghost your other cheek as you exhaled a heavy breath against his neck. “Daryl,” you whispered. He kissed your skin, his lips spread open and tongue just barely stretching out to tickle you. As he moved his mouth lower, dragging sloppy kisses along your jawline, his arms wrapped fully around you, tugging you against him. Your hands held tight to his shoulder blades, and you felt them flex and jolt with each movement he made as his lips met yours again. This time, his tongue breached the entrance to your mouth, finding yours and almost attacking it. In your inexperience, you only gasped against his lips, then jutted out your own tongue in an attempt to keep up with him. 

“Daryl,” you panted between his kisses. He grunted under his breath, still indulging in your taste. With your fingers on his cheeks, you pulled back for a moment, looking into his darkened eyes. You’d never seen his eyes like that before. It almost frightened you, but mostly, it only made you realize exactly what you wanted. “I want you to take my maidenhead.”

Of course, he wanted to. It wasn’t a question of whether or not he wanted to, it was a question of whether or not he should, and he knew he shouldn’t. He knew such a thing was against his code, perhaps the most egregious way to break it. The law of chivalry held all knights to a certain standard, a law that governed their every action. Sleeping with the daughter of the king he served, much less taking her virginity, would certainly be cause for execution.

“I can’t,” he said, though his eyes portrayed another answer. “You know I can’t.” You shook your head, opening your mouth to latch onto his jawline, kissing him as he’d kissed you. He muttered your name, though he could not tear you away, your sweet lips wetting his skin as your hand combed through his hair. “It would…” 

Your hand lowered to his chest, grasping at his bare skin underneath his chemise. Your fingers seemed to tremble, your body not knowing what to do without his guidance. He grasped at your hand, though he did not push you away. He kept it there, keeping it steady. He turned to face your lips, and they trembled, too. To steady them, he raised his thumb to your plump bottom lip, moving it gently side to side. It felt like sacrilege to touch you like this, but it also felt like the most holy, sacred kind of worship. 

“It would be wrong. I’m not your husband. It would be against… Against my code of chivalry.” 

It nearly made you laugh. “You’ve already disobeyed my father and taken me outside the castle walls into walker-infested woods. You’ve done a hundred things that broke your code.” 

Leaning ever closer, you pressed your soft chest against his firm one, the heat rising between your bodies almost as strong as the roaring hearthfire that painted his face in rich, warm burnt oranges and browns. The smile on your face curled delicately as you brushed aside the curtains of his hair till they were pinned behind his ears. In this light, his face was both worn yet youthful, like an old painting of a young man. 

In a hushed, honeyed voice, you whispered against his cheek, “What’s one more?” Innocent lips coated with that floral musky balm grazed his stubbly cheek. It was not scratchy, though, it was soft and ticklish, like how your fingers felt on his chest.

For a long, torturous moment, he only held you close, his grip still tight on your waist. He leaned into your kiss, though he still was trying to cling to the last thread of chivalrous honor he had within him. That rope was threadbare, though, with only a fiber or two to hold on to, and the more your lips grazed his skin, trailing to his neck in clumsy, inexperienced movements, you felt his hand return to your hair to tangle itself in your now tousled locks. 

The low, dulcet moan escaping your lips marked the moment the tether snapped, and no longer could he say he had any respect for a code of conduct that left him bereft of your body and the pleasure he could give you, as your servant, your escort, your knight. 

With a throaty grunt, he took your mouth in his, devouring it much more deeply than he had before. There was no cautiousness now in his embrace, his hands lowering to cup both sides of your bottom as he lifted you more fully to his lap, with his legs outstretched underneath you. 

Both of you became engulfed in a tangle of limbs, furiously clawing at each other like you were both tearing at your own flesh to escape from its confines. Yourself now made taller than him as you sat upon his lap, you parted from his lips for a moment to look down at him, panting and lips shiny from your saliva, and made plump and red by his impassioned kiss. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, looking up at you with hazy, dark eyes. Indeed, you were the most beautiful sight he’d ever had the chance to behold. Sometimes, he did not even think himself worthy to utter your name, or to have his name uttered by you… You in your sweetness and kindness and sensitivity and grace and—

Your small laugh reawakened him. How dare he even begin to wax poetic about you in his own head when you were in his arms now, your hands on his shoulders and your chest heaving with each beautiful breath. To know you were so alive, warm and trembling in his strong arms, safe and protected… That was the greatest pleasure of all.

And yet, the carnal desire for you was quick to overwhelm him. He squeezed you tighter before leaning forward, taking you with him. “Mm!” you laughed against his lips as he kissed you. 

How he could be so gentle and yet so strong you did not know. With your back arched and your head cradled by his hands, you felt the support of your floor pillow underneath you, your legs now wrapped around his waist. 

Propping himself up by his arms to look at you, he gazed in awe, your hair sprawled out from your head in every which way like an angel’s halo made from a sunburst. Where your gown of sage green silk brocade met your breasts, he let his gaze linger. Finally. Without the worries of being improper, he could admire the gentle, supple curves of your décolletage. 

And now your gown sank down to your upper thighs, exposing much more skin than he’d ever seen—or felt. He sat up straight, his hand gently petting your soft bare calf, then moving down slowly, torturously, to touch your thigh. 

Never had you been touched like this. Not even by yourself. In fact, you felt rather foolish, stiffening a bit as your eyes widened the more he moved his hand, now lifting up the rest of your skirt.

“Daryl…” you all but whined, a moan somewhere between a begging lust and a nervous embarrassment. “I know nothing,” you said simply. “I—I—”

Your own gasp cut short your stuttering admission. “Oh.”

All you could feel was his hand cupping your mound, now completely exposed without the cover of your gown. 

He couldn’t tear his eyes away, each fold and crevice and speckling of your dainty hairs that matched perfectly the locks on your head. In fact, he ran his fingers through the little forest above your womanhood. It was soft, warm, untouched until now.

“You’re beautiful,” he spoke again. “Very… royal.”

“Royal?”

He laughed under his breath, biting his lip as he trailed his pointer finger around your lips, tickling you as you writhed a little. “Everything about you,” he said. “Even this… So perfect and clean and royal.”

Flushed with rose-tinted clouds of excitement and shyness, you rolled your shoulders as you watched him lick his pretty pink lips, over and over. “Have you seen many women like this, sir?”

He returned his gaze to yours with a raised, mischievous brow. Sir had never sounded so intoxicating as it did now. “None as sweet and virtuous as you.”

Indeed, he slightly feared his first movements towards intercourse. Never before had he taken a maiden’s virginity, and he was sure he’d hurt you if he was too hasty. He would have to tread carefully, though the subtle glisten of your entrance beckoned him, and those soft, intricate folds of supple flesh sparked a fire in him he’d never felt before. This was the image he’d dreamed of—your untouched womanhood naked before him, just waiting for him to release you from the bonds of chastity forevermore. 

And, oh, that moan, of which he had only gotten a sampling of. He needed more, he needed to be drowned in that sound. He needed to be the one who showed you the carnal pleasure of love, and to experience it himself, too. It would be the most potent kind of intimacy, and he wanted the both of you to be consumed by it. Together.

All he could think of, all he wanted to do, was get a mouthful of you. Drink from the fountain that was your body. 

“Can I… taste you?”

A genuine expression of innocent confusion spread across your face. “Kiss me?” Your eyes fluttered shut as your lips gently pursed, prepared to receive his sweet kiss.

“Nah, not like that,” he said, a subtle laugh under his low, gruff voice. Two calloused fingertips grazed the top junction of your lips, where an almost overwhelming tingle spread through you. Then, his fingers moved apart as they descended slowly, spreading you open. The reddish, taught flesh seemed to pulse on its own accord as your breath shuddered and your eyes widened at the strange feeling. “Here. I wanna taste you here.”

Finally understanding, and yet not understanding at all, you looked up at him with a furrowed look of concern. “Why? Is that not… unsanitary?”

An amused grin spread across his face. “Looks clean to me… They bathe you good, my princess.”

His princess. Oh, that sent an entirely new shiver through you.

But only with your permission would he do such a thing. Only with your word would he let his common tongue invade your royal maidenhead. 

So he’d beg for it, like he knew he should.

“Please,” he said, voice sweeter and softer than you’d ever heard. He even lowered himself, his lips hovering above your navel as he looked up at you with those crystal clear eyes. “Please, your highness… I will be gentle.” His hands held firm to your thighs, rubbing them softly, up and down. When his lips met your abdomen, just below your navel, you sighed unexpectedly, and he could feel your heat.

“I’ll beg for it.” The reverberations of his rough voice tickled your lower stomach. He dragged his lips progressively lower, to where the hairs upon your mound began. A trail of kisses began to form between each mumbled plea. 

“I’ll beg to taste you…” Kiss. “Lick you…” Kiss. “I’m beggin’…” Kiss. “Let me taste how perfect my sweet princess is.”

Though you were still puzzled by his desire to kiss you there, you decided to oblige, especially as the strange tickly feeling became more and more intense with each kiss he bestowed upon your mound. Somehow, his begging even excited you. 

“Yes,” you sighed. Blindly, you reached for him, your hands tangling in his chestnut colored hair, strands messy and wild. The ends of those locks tickled your skin as they hung around his face, dragging with each movement of his mouth downwards. “You may taste me… Though I do not understand why you want to, sir.” You laughed as you looked down at him, kissing the soft little hairs you always found to be unsightly, but it was not in vogue to shave, of course. At least, not for a lady of your status. He seemed to like it, though. “You are rather strange,” you teased. “Do you think I will taste nice?”

“Know you will,” he said, and you watched as he wetted his fingers with his tongue, then circled them over your now puffy lips. 

With a little gasp, you giggled girlishly at his touch. It was all so strange to you, but it felt nice. You’d had no idea this part of you was so sensitive, as you’d never bothered to touch it besides your daily baths. Even then, you hardly touched yourself only to clean, and when you felt an unfamiliar tingle as you’d slide your wet hand between those little folds of sensitive skin, you’d quickly pull away. All you knew of that part of you was that it was for your future husband, and you’d never cared much for trying to find one, especially since the world was the way it was. 

Now, you could only dream of a husband like him, the knight who lowered himself once more, slotting his head between your bare thighs. His hands holding them, he coerced your legs to spread wider, allowing that crevice to widen and open the small fleshy hole. He could already tell you’d never even touched yourself, your entrance half-obstructed by a small stretch of skin-colored tissue—your maidenhead.

He’d not touch that for now, instead only focused on slowly licking a stripe up your open slit, marking his first taste of you. 

There was a strong reverberation that jolted through you, causing your legs to flinch closed, Daryl’s head now sandwiched between the fat of your thighs. “Oh!” you cried out, back involuntarily arched against the cushion and hands tangled further in his hair until your fingernails clawed at his scalp. There was a muffled growl between your legs in response. At first, you assumed you’d hurt him. “Oh, I—I am sorry, my love…” you sputtered, almost with a nervous laugh at your sensitivity, and massaging his scalp more gently now. “Did I hurt you?”

On the contrary, your scratching and pulling and squeezing only excited him. He did not answer your question, only pressing his face harder against you, smothering his nose and mouth between your folds, wettened by his saliva. If he suffocated between your legs, he’d die happy, as the taste was intoxicating, sweeter than the finest honey wine he’d ever had, and the feeling a more lovely warmth than the hearth that illuminated the dim cottage with that dreamy glow. 

With a renewed lust, he moved his head wildly, licking up and down and swirling in tight circles round the bundle of nerves above the entrance. It seemed to elicit the most beautiful moans and gasps and sighs from your pretty mouth, of which he often took a glimpse when he raised his eyes to admire your innocent beauty. 

And though he could lick you like this for hours on end, he’d grown desperate to taste you deeper, just a little. So he parted your legs with a jolt. “Keep ‘em open,” he ordered, voice more hoarse and throaty and deep than before. His desire was becoming more urgent, more primitive as the very last of his decency was chiseled away by his need. “I want more of this pretty cunt.”

You nearly gasped at the vulgar word, having only heard it once or twice in your presence—both times from a slightly inebriated Lady Margaret, who used it to pejoratively refer to Lady Caroline behind her back, but now you knew where it came from. It sounded devilishly dulcet on his low, panting voice. 

Legs spread further apart, he caught another glimpse of that hole, coated in a sparkling sheen that was damp to the touch. The corner of his lip lifted slightly as he spoke. “You’re gettin’ wet,” he said, much to your confusion. “D’ya like what I’m doin’ to you, princess?”

“Y-yes,” you stuttered. His fingertip traced the rim of your wet entrance. 

Before he dove down once more, he couldn’t help but just admire the beauty of your womanhood with his eyes. He felt a sudden wave of unworthiness well up in him. After all, this sight was never for him. It was forbidden, and yet, you’d decided he was worthy to have you. 

You, his lady, his mistress, his princess, his queen. In every sense of the word, you ruled him, and he had no choice but to bask in the glory of your trembling body, every inch perfect and unique and, soon, his. 

He’d make you his, but first he had to make him yours. 

“Oh!” His lips spread open wide to envelope the hole, where his tongue flattened out to lick at the source of your arousal. All you could feel was his long tongue poking inside you, wiggling to adjust to how small the entrance was. 

Meanwhile, the tip of his soft button nose pressed up against your most sensitive spot, where a fresh tingle surged through you. To get a better angle, he slid both hands underneath your bare rump, pulling your body closer and angling your core upwards as your legs found their home upon his shoulders, just the perfect width to accommodate your thighs.

“That’s it,” he spoke against your inner thigh, where he left a series of frantic, desperate little kisses. They weren’t just lustful, but affectionate, as though he was bestowing these kisses to reward you for your obedience. “Sweet royal cunt.”

That word again made you flinch, or perhaps it was the suction of his lips around that bundle of nerves that pleased you so.

“Y-you’re so vulgar,” you sighed with a gentle laugh rolling under your voice. “Where… is my gallant knight?” 

“Between your pretty legs, milady.”

His tongue wiggled in spastic movements between his lips, reddening and engorging the sensitive spot as a strange tightening feeling formed in your lower belly. Unbeknownst to you, the walls of your passage squeezed involuntarily around the empty space inside you. In this moment, you never felt more empty, in fact. All you wanted, the longer his mouth devoured you, was to somehow feel whole. 

“Please!” you cried out, voice strained and high-pitched with a desperate plea for him to satisfy you, somehow. You did not know how, but you needed it, whatever it was. “Oh, I…”

The knight knew what you needed, and he needed it, too, but you were so close to ultimate pleasure. The wetter you became, the more of his saliva that soaked into your crevices and your increasingly gaping entrance, the more your body would accept his. That much he knew.

But the feeling was so powerful, so overwhelming. Each burst of pleasure erupted within you, like a volcano that had lain dormant for a millenia or two, and only now was that red hot magma spewing forth, until one final eruption would leave you satisfied. It terrified you. Was this normal? Surely a woman should not feel such euphoria. All you’d known of your womb was the pain and shame of that period in which blood would flow from you. You’d been told it was divine punishment for women. Eve’s betrayal, the fall of Eden… Why should you pay for that? Now, there was only pleasure, no pain. 

The pleasure, though, was so intense, so frightful, that you panicked, your thighs clenching tight round his head once more as your back arched in agonizing bliss, his tongue now thrusting into you again. “Oh!” you cried out. “I… Wh-what… Daryl, I’m frightened!”

His eyes flashed up to look at you. “What is it?” he asked. He tore himself away from you, while his hand reached up to cradle your trembling cheek. “What’s wrong?”

“I—I…” Gasping for air, you writhed and wriggled underneath him, squeezing your thighs together as if to provide some relief. “I do not know… I feel so strange.”

Tears trickled down your cheek, and the knight’s brows furrowed in concern. He brushed a few away with his fingers. “Why’re ya cryin’, girl?”

And you knew now why, as your hips gyrated and bucked up towards him, as if demanding for him to return to you. The sensation was just so strong, but so lovely. “Please,” you whimpered. “Do not stop.”

Now he knew, too. A laugh forced his mouth into a wide grin. “Oh, I see,” he said, hands moving achingly slowly back down to your thighs. He spread them apart again, a feeling which made your breath hitch for a moment. “Feels good, doesn’t it? My tongue…”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Please, more.”

And so he gave you more, his mouth quickly returning to that puffy, reddened flesh between your thighs, eliciting from you a visceral moan as your head fell back against the cushion. “Ah!” you cried out.

After the brief period in which he’d separated from you, you now felt the sensation returning, this time even more intense. Sounds of wet flesh being licked and sucked and kissed surrounded you, accompanied by soft, muffled groans from your knight. 

How he’d wanted this for so long, to have your taste and to feel your restless, writhing body involuntarily grinding against his tongue. For a moment, he pulled your outer lips further apart, allowing more direct exposure to the now throbbing, swollen protrusion that gave you so much pleasure. He sucked at that flesh again, this time bringing his finger to the hole that begged to be filled. 

“Oh, oh!” His finger breached the entrance, just a few centimeters, but enough to stretch you more than you’d been stretched open ever before. “My god!”

“Come,” his voice murmured between furious sucking. “Come, my princess. I want you to come.”

“C-come… Where?”

“On my face,” he laughed. 

“Wh-what… are you… talking about?”

The vibration of his laughter tickled your flesh. “You’re too innocent,” he said. “You’ll see what I mean.”

He knew you must be close, so it did not take much more effort to get you to the brink of orgasm. All he needed to do was curl his finger upwards inside you as he swirled his tongue with more pressure, practically digging a brand new hole with the tip of his tongue. 

And, with your hands shooting out to claw at his shoulders, the tingling and tightening and tickling finally reached its peak as the feeling of the final, strongest eruption came forth, exploding from the pit of your abdomen and spreading throughout every cell in your hot, squirming body. 

Moans of his name were falling softly, repeatedly from your lips, where bite marks had embedded themselves after several minutes of your teeth digging into the skin. He’d never heard his name being spoken so much, so sweetly and with so much bliss. After all, it was the name of the person who’d given you the greatest feeling you’d ever experienced. 

You were left jolting, your body gently rocking up against his face, which was still buried between your lips as his tongue gathered every drop of the arousal that slowly dripped from you. His own arousal caught up with him, too, a noticeable feeling of a strain, and a tightening in his chausses. 

Panting and moaning under your labored breaths, you felt the pleasure begin to die down as his lips praised you with small kisses all over the outside of your pulsing entrance. Deviously, he stuck his tongue out to deliver short, sweet licks to your still throbbing bundle of nerves. 

A soft, delirious giggle erupted from your lips as your fingers tangled in his disheveled hair. All you could see was his head bobbing between your legs, and all you could hear was the crackle of the hearthfire and the sounds of his pursed lips kissing your wet folds. Feeling his finger curling at the shallow part of you, you squeezed on purpose, much to his amusement. 

“I feel ya,” he mumbled. “You feel so good.”

“Daryl.” Your hands grasped both sides of his head with some pressure, as if to pull him up. “Come here.”

He let you guide his head until his lips met yours and your arms wrapped loosely around his neck, weighing him down. His body weight covered you completely, a sensation which excited him even more. 

On your lips, you tasted yourself, his tongue and lips now coated with your arousal. “What did you do to me?” you asked between his kiss. “Your tongue is magical… Some kind of wicked sorcery.”

His laughter tickled your cheek as he kissed you there. “I jus’ made ya come,” he said simply. “S’why you’re so wet down there now. Got you all ready.” His hands raised up to tug on the collar of your dress, as if trying to yank it off you.

“Ready for what?” you laughed, though you had a few ideas of what he could be referring to, as innocent as you were, but you hadn’t heard the word he’d said next before. 

“For my cock.”

In genuine confusion, you furrowed your brow. “You have a rooster?”

“Yeah.” The mischievous, lop-sided smirk on his face as his finger traced your jawline told you he was messing with you. “I’ve got a big, red rooster.”

“Oh?” you said, playing along with him despite your ignorance. “Well, won’t you introduce me to your rooster?”

By now, you knew what he meant.

When he dragged your hand down to his clothed erection, a deep blush bloomed upon your cheeks. “Oh,” you sighed. “Hello, rooster.”

To say you hadn’t thought of it before would be a lie. Of course you had. While you did not know much about sex, or that part of the male anatomy, you knew that part of a man was meant for that complimentary part of a woman. You knew that was the part of him that would put a child in your womb, though you knew not the exact details of the whole ordeal. 

Interrupting your thoughts of his “rooster,” you were suddenly lifted from the ground and tangled in his arms, with your feet dangling off the ground as he dragged you towards the hay-stuffed mattress you’d rested upon a few times before. You exclaimed a laughing, “Daryl!” before being laid gently, yet almost impatiently, upon the bed. 

You propped yourself up on your elbows to see him at the foot of the bed, lifting his shirt above his head as he panted. 

Eyes wide, you felt your heart thump in your chest when his broad frame was bare before you, his chest just as bulky and strong and wide as you’d imagined. Your eyes were drawn to the charming smattering of little hairs, and the small pink nipples that hardened against the air. 

You couldn’t help but follow the trail of those same hairs that began at his navel and led down to the waistband of his pants, which he began to untie frantically. Meanwhile, your mouth fell agape at the shape of his… cock, you supposed it was called—so big it looked like it could rip through the cotton of his chausses at any second. 

Involuntarily, your thighs rubbed themselves together, where you could now feel your own wetness seeping from you. Seeing the size of his cock, now you knew why you’d need to be wet.

Just like that, he was naked, his cock springing up as soon as he pulled his pants down enough. It nearly startled you, almost eliciting a gasp. Never had you seen something so… odd. You couldn’t even wrap your head around the testicles just yet. 

But he left you hardly any time to think about the new body parts you were faced with. Instead, he laid himself down on his side next to you, his hands rubbing up and down your arms. The motion soothed you, though his dark, lusty stare made you shiver.

“Sit up for me,” he said. You did as he told you, as an unspoken dynamic had appeared: he would lead you, as you were much too inexperienced to know your way around this territory.

And yet, he was not forceful, nor domineering. Indeed, he knew you were still his princess, his ruler. He knew that you held the utmost power over him, and that whatever you’d say, he would have to do it. There was no mistake of who was ultimately in charge, whose body he was compelled to worship and please. Still, he’d lead you physically. 

Now sitting up, he scooted back to unlace the back of your gown, each silk knot coming undone with a beautiful cascade of fabric, until your back was nude, and he pressed a kiss to the top of your spine.

He pulled on your sleeves gently, but with a noticeable waning of his patience. “Lay back now,” he said. Like a mindless servant, you obeyed him. 

Your surcoat was loose enough to pull off you now, so he did, letting the expensive garment sink to the floor. Now, your kirtle, which he pulled over your head, manipulating your body like a rag doll. With each movement he made, another sweaty, glistening muscle flexed under that tan, workworn skin, stretching across which were many faded scars from battles and jousts and God only knew what else. 

Lastly, your chemise kept him from your supple nude body, so he pulled it off with a slight growl under his breath. Now, you laid back fully, your completely divested skin meeting the thick, buttery soft pelt of the fur blanket beneath you. 

Your body was a sight to behold, so marvelous that he stood up again, stepping back to let his eyes roam all over you. 

It was enough to bring him to knees, literally. He sunk to the floor, where he attached his lips to your ankle, which had caused him some trouble in the past. The many times he’d caught sight of your ankle, he felt perverted, sinful. Then your calf, soft and smooth against his lips. He covered as much skin as he could in his kisses, then he reached your knee, and your thighs, where he spread apart your legs to leave more kisses at your womanhood.

“You’re insatiable,” you laughed, watching as his lips trailed through the hairs on your mound. “You cannot kiss every part of my body, sir.”

“I can try.”

His tongue circled around your navel, then he continued his kisses to the slope of your left breast, where he quickly latched to your nipple, causing you to flinch at the new feeling. 

His other hand found your other breast, squeezing it just enough to make you gasp a little. After all, with his lips and hands worshiping your entire body, you weren’t sure how else to react. 

“You’re so perfect,” he mumbled against the pillowy surface of your breast. “I’d die for you.”

Even the thought made you shiver and cling to his flexing shoulder blades. “N-no, my love… Do not say such a thing. My… my heart c-could not bear to even think of it.”

“I’d kill for you,” he said now. “I’ll do anythin’ you ask of me… I belong to you.”

As you processed his pledge, you hadn’t even noticed two of his fingers digging into your entrance, spreading you open, little by little. His sweet, raspy voice soothed the pain. 

Now, his lips trailed to your collarbones, where he left dozens of kisses and licks across your skin. 

“I live to serve you,” he whispered. You gasped, not at his words, but at his two thick fingers going deeper, a sound of flesh upon wet flesh. “Only you… My sweet princess.”

“Oh, my sweet knight… Ah…”

A slight tearing feeling at your entrance made you wince in pain, but the knight paused for a moment, nudging his nose against your cheek to get your attention. 

“Am I hurtin’ ya?”

“No, no.” If he stopped, you might die of emptiness. The stretching hurt, but you could not go much longer without him filling the emptiness within you. Once he started, you wouldn’t be able to be without him. 

“Need to stretch your cunt a little,” he said. “My cock’s gonna hurt ya more if I don’t.”

Judging by the size, you believed him. Your eyes were transfixed on the thing as you wondered how in the world he’d get it in your tight hole, but you trusted him to take care of you. 

And you wanted it. You couldn’t explain it, but your need for that big length of flesh, with engorged veins and a droplet or two of clear liquid beading at its reddened tip, was greater than any pain you might’ve felt. 

“I want it, sir,” you practically purred. “Your…”

He smiled against the cheek he was busy kissing. “My rooster?”

“Your cock.” 

He tore his lips away to give you a wide-eyed stare as he tried to fake a serious look of shock, but the upturned corner of his snickering lips betrayed him. 

“Your highness,” he scolded in jest. “Where’d ya learn such a dirty word?” His fingers inched deeper, so deep that your back arched as you laughed a visceral moan. 

“Oh, you scoundrel!” Your hand delivered a very weak slap to his chest.

Pulling his fingers out, he laughed as his hands gripped both of your wrists. His face turned serious, yet still soft. “You think you’re ready for my cock?”

“Yes, but… I mustn’t have your child now.”

You weren’t totally unaware of the true purpose of sex. In fact, it had been drilled into your head by archbishop Gabriel, whose responsibility seemed to be deterring you and all other maidens at court from engaging in premarital sex that was not for the express purpose of procreation, as such an act would brand one “a whore in the eyes of God.” Conveniently, the archbishop’s sermon had overlooked any consequences for men.

“You won’t,” he assured you. Indeed, he had intimate knowledge of one of the world’s most time-honored methods of contraception: coitus interruptus. “I’ll be careful.”

Removing his fingers from you, he rubbed his palm up and down your slit, spreading the wetness of your arousal all over you. He leaned back for a moment, looking down to spread apart your lips and see your hole, which opened quite a bit wider now for him. Redness pooled around the opening, but you couldn’t notice the dull pain, not when his eyes held yours so intently. “Think you’re ready,” he said. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

Don’t stop. “All right, my love.”

The hard, spongy surface of his tip grazed over your clit, and slid with his body as he rolled forward over you. “You ready?”

At this point, the suspense was killing you. Each drag of his length through your sodden flesh was agonizing. Your body grew restless, arching your back up to meet his chest and pull him down. “Yes,” you sighed, then ghosted your lips over his. “Make me yours now. I want to be yours.”

He eased himself in as your mouth latched to his, your whimpers of combined pain and pleasure melting into his kiss. The tip was inside you now, just beginning to stretch you further to meet the wide girth of his thick cock. The slow, tearing feeling was enough to make you bite down on his tongue, nearly drawing blood. He only growled into your mouth, digging his cock deeper.

Your suffocating tightness tested his willpower, his ability to keep himself from moving so fast that he’d lose control of his cock, but it felt so good, so warm and snug. As he sank further into you, he tore his lips free to whisper against your ear, “How ya feel?”

With a deep swallow, you held back your tears. “Fine,” you said. “Just… it hurts a little. Does it fit?”

He looked between your bodies, where half his length was inside you, the other half twitching with bulging veins and redness only darkening. He stayed still, brushing back your tears as you sniffled. “Yeah, it’ll fit. You just need stretched, s’all.”

He pushed himself in a little further as his lips caught another tear. Clawing at his back, you let out a sharp gasp. “Oh! Daryl! It’s too big, you’re too big… I can’t…”

His hand reached down to tickle his fingers against your clit, attempting to ease your pain by giving you more pleasure. He knew his cock would hurt you before it felt good. “Sh… sh… D’ya want me to stop, princess?”

“No, no!” you cried out, nearly startling him. He felt your arms tighten round his back, as if to keep him exactly where he was. “Please don’t stop. I—I…” Tears trickled down more now, like a torrential rain over your cheek. 

He stopped again, this time pulling himself out a little to prop himself up and look at you with the utmost earnestness. “Why are ya cryin’ now? I don’t wanna make you cry. Am I hurtin’ you too much?”

In truth, the physical pain of being stretched by him was not strong enough to elicit these tears. What made you cry, in fact, was the simple truth that tonight, you’d give yourself to your true love, but in a matter of days, Sir Negan would take you away from him, and you might never see him, or your father, or anyone else you loved, ever again. 

To think you may never be here, like this, with him again… It broke your heart, though every cell in your body was demanding for another burst of euphoria. It was all too much emotion, too much stimulation. And yet, you’d never want him to stop. You’d like to be this way forever, if you could. If only you could.

“It’s just… Promise me…”

Furrowed brows contorted his face. He brushed the back of his hand over your cheek. “Promise ya what?” He wasn’t sure of the point of asking, as he knew that he would promise you, his lady, anything anyway. A knight’s ultimate test of chivalry, afterall, was his undying, unyielding, uncompromising devotion to his lady. 

“Promise you won’t forget me.” When Negan takes me, you wanted to say, but you hesitated to even mention him at this moment, when the only man who really mattered to you was looking at you with his own tears beginning to well in his cunning blue eyes.

“I could never, ever forget you, milady.”

And he knew now what you meant. He knew the fear in your eyes, the same fear from the other night. He could feel this fear inside him, too. The fear of never seeing you again, of you being trapped in a place you could not escape from, not unlike how you’d been trapped in your own castle. Yet, this would be so much worse, for you’d be chained to that wretched, evil man, who would do God knows what to you. 

But those thoughts were poisonous. “Don’t think about that now… Just feel me.” So he came into you again, just as far as he’d gotten before. “That’s it… Can you take more?”

That was all you wanted, actually. More. All you needed was him, filling you as deep as possible, taking you over and marking you as his. You’d never be Negan’s now, and that gave you a sense of power, a relief in knowing that there was at least one thing Negan could never take from you—your chastity. 

“More, Daryl. Please.”

By now, he was almost all the way inside you, but he could go no further, for his own fear of hurting you too much. He pulled out a bit then, to which you grasped at his shoulders and pulled him back against you. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere,” he laughed. “I’m just movin’. Calm down, you’re all rigid. Ease up.” Taking his words to heart, you let out a deep breath and relaxed your muscles, allowing you to settle more comfortably into the plush fur underneath you. Slowly, he pushed himself back in, your body welcoming him in with the hug of your slick tightness. “There ya go… Look, your cunt’s already gettin’ used to me. You’re takin’ it good.”

So good, in fact, that you couldn’t help but smile at the feeling—the warmth, the hardness, the fullness… The feeling of his cock sliding back and forth, but never completely leaving you. The sensation was beautiful, far more intimate than anything you’d ever imagined. When he lowered himself down again, his chest laid snug against yours, the feeling of his nipples rubbing yours hard and slow the more he thrusted. As if on their own accord, your legs loosened to lift and wrap around his lower back, taking him in just a little further. There was pain again, but not enough to hurt you. It only felt good.

He had to be careful not to move too fast, though the involuntary squeezing of your walls drew him closer to his breaking point. He could feel both your arousal and his, surrounding him inside you. But he had to make you come again, he thought. He needed to know that his cock had pleased his princess just as much as his tongue. 

Your soft, whimpering moans made it clear that he was, indeed, pleasing you, your tearing pain having given way to that tingling feeling again, making your writhe and shiver underneath him.

“Daryl,” you panted. Spurred on by your pulsing body, his movements became faster, more sloppy, more passionate. Now you could really feel his size, his length digging into a particular spot that made you roll your head back against his pillow, your lips trembling and gasping for air as you spoke. “Oh, it feels so… Yes, my love, my knight… You’re so big.”

“Princess… I feel your cunt squeezing me.”

“Oh, I—I am s-sorry.”

He huffed a laugh against your cheek. “Feels good,” he said. “Keep squeezin’ me.”

He pressed a firm kiss to your cheek as his hips thrusted non-stop, now molding you to fit his cock perfectly, forever. Well, for however long you had left together. 

“God, you’re soakin’ me,” he said, his voice nearly drowned out by the sound of wet skin on skin. 

Your well-trained manners urged you to apologize again, but the sensation of his cock hitting into you was enough to render you speechless, except for the breathless sighs and sultry moans escaping your lips as you clawed at his shoulders, fingernails digging into his scarred flesh to nearly break open new wounds. 

He continued on for a while now, though you could not tell how long he’d been thrusting, you only knew you were drowned by his mouth, his lips finding every part of your skin that he could reach in this position and leaving sloppy trails of open-mouthed kisses. That tightening and tingling within you strengthened with each movement he made, each thrust reminding you of how deep inside you he was, and how strong he was, his body weight driving the force of each hard, deep stroke. 

Only when your moans had faded into heaving breaths and your body had loosened into jelly did he speak to you again, though not stopping his thrusts, as he couldn’t bring himself to even think about stopping now. 

“Hey, sweetheart? You all right?”

You were hardly responsive, only opening half-lidded eyes to gape at his reddened, sweat-dripping face. His chestnut hair hung wildly, tickling your cheeks, though all you could feel was the pounding, the swelling of his cock inside you, the growing sensation of that volcano about to erupt again. 

“H-hey.” You felt his hand cup your cheek as he said your name, his own voice shaky and stuttering as he began to lose his ability to keep himself in control. Tears welled up in your eyes once more, only now, they were those same tears of overwhelming, astounding satisfaction. 

Stimulated to the point of near-catatonia, you were released by a sudden wave of vibrations that surged through you like electricity, bringing you back to life. Your legs clenched tight around his waist as your head shot back, exposing your strained neck. His lips did not spare you in your moaning, crying state. They attacked your neck as you pulsed all around his cock and grinded up against his pelvis by instinct. He held his hips still now, though, letting you ride the multiple waves of your intense orgasm until you shook like a leaf in a cool autumn wind beneath his strong, stabilizing body which your hands clung to desperately.

“Oh, Jesus!” was all you muster. You’d never said the Lord’s name in vain as many times as you had that night. Granted, you had never said the Lord’s name in vain before. “Christ!” Surely, you would be going to Hell. 

“Shit,” the knight muttered into the crook of your neck. “I—I’m…”

Ears pounding with the sound of your heart, you could not process a word he said. You could only allow your glassy eyes to roll back as your lips formed a delirious, open-mouthed smile. “Oh, Daryl.” 

He propped himself up on his bulky arms, dripping with sweat and bulging with flexed, aching muscles. As if to soothe them, you ran your hands up towards his biceps, holding onto them for dear life as he began thrusting again, almost completely inside of you. 

All you could do now was smile up at him, murmuring his name, interspersed with declarations of your love and breathy moans that tortured him the closer he came to releasing himself. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he panted. “You’re mine.”

“Yes,” you agreed. “Yes, yours. Forever.”

“Mine.”

With an almost helpless groan, he pulled himself completely from you, sinking down on his arms to press against you, but with his cock angled to release on your heavy stomach. Though you missed the feeling of him inside you, you moaned at the feeling of warmth near your navel, where he spilled himself onto you. 

Curiosity overcame you as you looked between your bodies, watching his strange… attachment release a silky, cloudy white liquid in spurts. For a moment, your eyes widened in slight fear. Truly, you had absolutely no idea what was happening. For all you knew, he’d suddenly contracted some strange disease that caused his cock to leak a new humor.

“Wh-what is… Daryl, are you all right?”

Once again, he laughed at your innocence. “I’m just fine… Better than fine,” he said, sinking down into a deep kiss. He only parted from them for a moment to say, “That’s s’posed to happen. Did they not teach you anythin’ about sex?”

“Th-they said…” You laughed at your lack of breath. “They said my husband would show me.”

He sighed as he lifted himself off you, then rolled over onto his side. With a huff, he yanked the fur-lined blanket from underneath you, then draped it over himself and you, much to your relief, as it was cold without his naked body on top of yours. 

“Your father,” he began to say, wrapping an arm around your rather limp, flimsy body to pull you close, “he wanted ya to marry my lord, didn’t he?”

A puzzled look contorted your face. “How did you know?”

“He tells me everythin’.” The touch of his calloused fingers tickled your hairline as he brushed back your bangs. “Told me the king brought us here because he thought Richard would make a good husband for you… Why didn’t you want him?”

Duke Richard hadn’t crossed your mind much since that night he first arrived, though you never thought too much about why exactly he did not attract you as much as Sir Daryl did. Now, it was quite clear. 

“Because he isn’t you, my love.” A laugh escaped your lips as you settled your hand upon his chest, twisting your fingers between the hairs that intrigued you so. “The duke is… He is a good man, but you are better. That is all.”

A rosy blush blossomed on his cheeks as his mouth curled with a lopsided smile. You admired the lines in his face, the crows feet and tired bags around his adoring eyes. “He would’ve made a good husband for you.”

“Mm, perhaps.” Your pointer finger traced lines over his sharp collarbone. “Lady Michonne is rather fond of him, though. I think they make a lovely couple. Besides, my heart does not belong to him. It belongs to you.”

Shaking his head, he offered you a somber smile. “You know you can’t marry me, even if Negan didn’t want you. I’d be killed.”

“My father would not kill you.”

“You don’t know that for sure. If he… if he knew that I took you outside the walls, let alone that we—”

“We could go somewhere, someday.”

Your name fell on his lips, but you interrupted him again. “Negan will take me, I know I cannot escape that, but someday, when Alexandria is strong enough, you can find me, and we’ll go away, somewhere you’ve been on your travels. My father would understand. We could be together, we could marry. Someday.”

But you knew it was a pipe dream. You knew that, if it could ever happen, it would happen so long from now, and you could not leave your father without him knowing you were all right. It seemed as though there was nothing to stop the world from caving in. For someone who had so much power by birth, you felt so powerless, the most powerless you’d ever felt in your whole life. That was saying something, as you never truly felt in control of your own destiny. You never thought it could get worse, until now.

“You know I won’t let him take you,” he said. “Maybe we can be together like that someday, but right now, all I care about is you, not me and you.”

“But… I care about you.”

And for the first time in his life, he believed those words.

“I know you do.” Upon your forehead, he placed a chaste kiss. “Ya know, once a knight gives his heart to a lady, he can never give it to anyone else, and he’s bound to her forever.”

Of course you knew that. There wasn’t much about knights you didn’t know. If only you had as much knowledge of human sexuality as you did of knighthood, but alas. 

“Does that mean you will marry me one day?”

His eyes narrowed in playful suspicion as he pretended to think it over, mumbling a pensive, “Hm…”

“Sir Daryl,” you teased, “if you do not agree to marry me, I will send you to the stocks.” 

“Your highness,” he said, his arms pulling you in closer to his chest, “I promise myself to you.”

“And I, you… My sweet, brave knight.”

That evening, you did not return to the castle until the sun began to rise again. Sleeping on a straw-stuffed bed was quite the adjustment from your feather-stuffed one, but he did not let go of you, not even in his sleep, and that made all the difference to you.

Despite the uncertainty that loomed in the air all around you, the fear that settled in your heart from the moment you realized you might never see Daryl again, you had a strange, persistent sense that, someday, every night could be like this one.

Someday, you repeated in your head, lulling yourself to sleep in his arms. 

But that was the future, and this was now. Now, you knew only one thing to be perfectly, virtuously true: you were his, just as he was yours.

Through life, and after death.

~

Thanks for reading! Likes, reblogs, and/or comments are always appreciated!

Series Masterlist Next Chapter ➳

[xxlmug]

Lawlight headcannons

Oddly enough, I am fairly uhm, isolated from tumblr sadly. It's shocking how this platform is one that's very alike with my interests and fun and I cannot find the courage to come on here.

But here are some gayass headcannons:

1)

L unironically reads poetry just to piss Light off. They'll be sleeping and L will have the lamp on and reciting poems from poets like Paul Verlaine while whispering almost, and Light would be furious.

L: "Before your light quite fail,

Already paling star,

The quail

Sings in the thym-"

Light: "Ryuzaki."

L: "Yes Light?"

Light: "May you please shut it."

Nightly occurrence, 100%.

2)

L has asked Light multiple times what his favourite cake is. Light assumes that it's some plot to find out if he is Kira, but in reality L just wants to know what Lights favourite cake is to assess their similarities.

3)

They used to share the same bed but then they realised that they would fight too much over blankets, pillows, which side to sleep, and more so they just gave up. (Light sleeps on the bed, L sleeps on a chair close to the bed if he even sleeps that night.)

4)

Oddly enough, Light before the death note disliked Dostovesky and then when he became a suspect for the Kira case and was chained to L he was obsessed with Dostovesky. But on the other side L hated Osamu Dazai until the Kira case. This happens as they both influenced each other to read each writers books.

This only happened due to L constantly quoting Dostovesky and Light reading No Longer Human before he sleeps which in L's eyes is "Odd."

////

I'm too sleepy for more. Night, night.

[willowmaidsworld]

Good Omens s3 clue

I realised I never posted this, although I made it ages ago! So here y'all go!

This is going to be long, and I hope it will make sense. Please bear with me to the end, I will eventually get to the Judgement Day, Armageddon, Death (and four horsemen of Apocalypse) and I will mention goats.

I noticed this tiny clue when watching s2ep3. Aziraphale drives to Edinburgh and the Bentley plays classical music. But not just any classical music – it’s Danse Macabre by Camill Saint-Saëns.

I am a musician and I've played this piece in the past, so I knew there was a lot of symbolism to uncover. And that thing is deeper than I thought. I will be speaking about some music theory, but I will try to make it as understandable as possible. 

I think it would be best, if you listened to Danse Macabre: https://youtu.be/…zrJ 

I would like to speak once more about the scene in which Danse macabre appears. Aziraphale is driving to Edinburgh in now a yellow Bentley, and he even has his "car sweets". He is quite satisfied. And he plays this, certainly dark-themed, music. It is a major contrast. 

Danse Macabre, "the dance of death" is a memento mori. Memento mori is a theme we see in art, and it originated in medieval times as reaction to the plague. It should remind us of our own mortality. “Memento mori” literary translates as "remember death". And mark my words, do remember death!

The composition uses tritones, a special kind of a music interval. (Interval is the tonal distance between two tones, you can play the tones together and/or separate.) Tritone is seemingly dissonant because it uses seemingly inharmonious tones. (You can hear tritones just at the beginning, the violins play it.) Because of its dissonance it was called "the devil in music" and was considered forbidden and associated with Hell/demons/death.

Since the music piece and the poem is based on the theme of Memento mori, I had to look into it as well. Turns out Danse Macabre was inspired by a poem by Henry Cazalis. Here is the poem: https://oxfordsong.org/…bre Memento mori doesn't only remind us of death and our mortality, it also reminds us, that everyone's equal in death. Henry Cazalis, the poet, writes: Long live death and equality! The poem is called, of course, Danse Macabre, but I found that it is also called Égalité - Fraternité (when reading stuff about it in French). This is a reference to the French revolution motto: Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité (Liberty, Equality, Brotherhood), but Liberty is missing. Is there then no Liberty in death and we are all doomed to obey someone's will, The Ineffable plan? (Good Omens book and season one also deals with topics of free will, look at Crowley and Anathema. She has been doing only the things her dead ancestor told her to do, she overcomes it in the end. I think it nicely illustrates the problematic of a free will. And Crowley values free will a lot.)

Memento mori says one thing - remember death, no one can outrun it. And there I would like to get back to season 1, because who else we meet here than Death itself.

Death is one of the Four Bikers/Riders/Horsemen of Apocalypse. But I always thought Death has a higher rank than the others. If you think of it, War, Pollution and Famine all lead to one thing- to Death. Why would you need all three then? Isn't Death qualified enough to do its job? Also, rewatch the scene where Adam and his friends battle them! War, Pollution and Famine all get destroyed by the flaming sword. But not Death- it spreads its wings and says (quote from the book): "You cannot destroy me. That would destroy the world." And later he adds that they are never far away. And he flies of. He isn't destroyed.

Death didn't appear in season two and I think people are starting to forget it, but Memento mori! Remember Death!

I would also like to remark that Neil Gaiman says the whole story is plotted out and that he has done this with Terry Pratchett. In every Discworld series book (the magnum opus of Sir Terry Pratchett), apart from two or three, there is the character of Death. And I think it would make sense that Death would appear in Good Omens as well, after all, it is also Pratchett's book. I think we might see Death returning in season three, because the Day of Wrath/Last Judgement/Armageddon is coming. And this music piece could serve as a literal memento mori - remember Death, it has not exited the scene yet. (A lot of Pratchett's humour is based on puns, and this seems like a joke/plot twist he would try to use. It's my personal opinion based on how I know his style from his books.) 

And what's next? Armageddon is coming, the Day of Wrath is here! Both sides are pretty eager to do this ending-of-the-world thing and after all, it's what they have been trying to start from the begging of the show. It was delayed by Gabriel's "disappearance", but things are now getting into motion, I think. 

But back to the Danse macabre, because it (surprise surprise!) has quite some things to do with the Judgement Day. In the middle of the composition Cammille Saint-Saëns uses a musical theme from a different work, a Gregorian chant called Deis irae ("Day of Wrath").

Here is a link to Wikipedia page about the chant, you can listen to it there. (I didn't find any recording on YouTube, only other musicians using the quite popular words of the chant and not the actual music.) https://en.m.wikipedia.org/…rae 

About the chant itself. It is written from the point of view of a sinner/normal person, and it describes how the Last Judgement shall be. Before dealing with the themes of the chant itself, I would like to say, that Saint-Saëns has used the Deis irae in a major key. Allow me to do a quick music theory intermission.

You can play in two keys, major and minor. These are, if I oversimplify things, sets of notes with different intervals. The melody, played one tone at a time, can be used in both major and minor key. The melody isn't the thing that determines the key of the song, the tones played with it do. And depends on what tones you use, you either get major or minor. Major is (in western culture) associated with happiness and good things, while minor with sadness. (It's not always like that, but for the sake of understanding we are going to pretend it is.) Now, the Deis irae is usually written in the sad minor key. Saint-Saëns decided to use the happy major key with this depressing chant, once again creating contrast. I'm stumbling over contrasts more than usually, so this may be important. End of the intermission. 

In the third and fourth strophe of Deis irae, it's described how the sound of a trumpet will sound everywhere and the Death will resurrect all dead creations to be brought to the Judge. (Death is back again and resurrecting, that sounds familiar, where have we seen that before?)

In the fifteenth strophe, the writer, a sinner, prays for this: Put me with the sheep and separate me from the goats, guide me to the right side! Goats again, there they are! This strophe of course references the chapter 25 in the Gospel of Matthew, the Separation of sheep and goats. Sheep go to the right and goats to the left. I think the side symbolism is pretty clear in Good Omens. Right is the righteous side and left is the sign of sin. And we also know how Crowley cares about the goats. There is also the Jewish tradition of scapegoat. Either way, goats are connected to Crowley, their symbolism of being “on the left side” is clear. This interesting bit can play part in Armageddon.

In the fifth strophe of Deis irae the Book, that is exactly and perfectly worded and that will judge all world, appears. And this book is no other than The Book of Life.

We know about Book of Life from the season 2, Micheal threatens to force "extreme sanctions" (erasing them form the Book) upon anyone who knows about Gabriel. 

Enter a fan theory I read: Nor Heaven or Hell actually have the Book of Life, we never see it on screen. This was mentioned in a tumblr post, and I will probably never be able to dig it up from the depths of the internet, so remember this is not my theory. (Although I find it very interesting.) The post continues and remarks, that when Crowley in the first episode of the second season learns about the Book and the "extreme sanctions" from Beelzebub, he doesn't bat an eye. He is pretty calm and doesn't seem surprised. (He literary says: "That will teach them a lesson", man, we're talking about being wiped from the earth's surface completely!) The writer of the post thinks, this is because Crowley knows that Heaven doesn't have the book and he knows where it is. The writer claims, it was Crowley, who took it as a little souvenir before his Fall, and later has hidden it in Aziraphale's bookshop. ('Cause one single book will definitely stay hidden in all those piles of old books.)

I think this is really interesting because of Crowley’s reaction. He knows what Aziraphale is risking, and he loves that angel, yet he seems so calm. When the bookshop burned down in the fifth episode of season one and Crowley thought Aziraphale died, he went feral: he was angry and furious, and he was destroyed by the fact that he has lost Aziraphale. He mourns and gets drunk. Nothing of this happens in season two! 

So, what are my thoughts on season three? It will get really dark and serious, the Armageddon is coming, after all. I think we will see Death return and the Book of Life will appear. The goats may not be used literally, like on screen, but I think we will get some metaphors.

In all of this, I tried to say one thing. All of the cards are laid out, we have all of the clues. It would be pretty cheap trick to use some ineffable "deus ex machina", that's not Gaiman's and Pratchett's style.

I think everything is now foreshadowed; we have been given all the information. We just haven't made the links in-between. Given the uproar the second season has caused, I think people are forgetting the first season a bit. But it must end with what it started with.

I think we should look at both seasons equally and try to pick up as much as we can, after all the third season will not be based solely on the season two...

We have all the clues, now it's Neil Gaiman who plays an ineffable game of his own devising, a poker that nobody has the rules for and the dealer, Neil himself, is smiling all the time. Ineffable, indeed. If you ask me, he's enjoying it bloody-well.

[makemeimmortalwithahug]

I can't stop thinking about dead boy detectives and Emily Dickinson ever since I saw Edwin and Charles' relationship unfold, these two boys whose deaths were covered up and "did not matter," as Edwin put it, and who have kept running from Death together for thirty years and counting; these two boys who would do anything to stay together. And I can't get

"I'm Nobody! Who are you? Are you - Nobody - too? Then there's a pair of us! Don't tell! They'd advertise - you know!"

out of my mind. Edwin and Charles as EdwinandCharles, together against everything that might separate them, looking into the world of the living from the outside but glad to do it together. They keep to themselves because, as long as they have each other's backs, it's always going to turn out at least okay.

Edwin and Charles cannot picture a world - an afterlife - in which they might lose each other, this bond they share of trust, harmony and loyalty. Emily herself wrote to her love Susan that she (I'm paraphrasing) that she might as well lose any other world, but she wants to continue living in the one in which she's together with her love. It's this utter devotion that we see in Edwin and Charles.

But also imagine Edwin reading Emily Dickinson's poems. I am not entirely sure when her poems might have been available in England, but I know that "I measure every Grief I meet" was first published in 1896.

I imagine him reading this poem during his time in school. He read it only once because this is the most he could bear, too real for him back then. He had suffered even before he went to Hell. He was bullied. His classmates would isolate him and cause him pain - they were the reason he eventually died, after all -, installed fear in him. The environment of the boarding school didn't give him any opportunity of respite, he couldn't get away and I doubt his parents would've been much of a help, if they had cared at all.

So, I imagine him quietly suffering, closing himself off because no-one seemingly cared enough to get to know him. Him barely talking, rather listening and watching what is going on around him, questioning whether everyone felt that way, so hollow and invisible at the same time, as if one wrong look would either go right through him or break him.

I measure every Grief I meet With narrow, probing, Eyes - I wonder if It weighs like Mine - Or has an Easier size. I wonder if They bore it long - Or did it just begin - I could not tell the Date of Mine - It feels so old a pain -

He has always felt this way, an ache he would tell himself he could barely feel anymore. Maybe he wondered as well how other people do it, living with a weight that drags you down and keeps you down, this dry sorrow that no tears flow anymore.

I wonder if it hurts to live - And if They have to try - And whether - could They choose between - It would not be - to die -

The encounter between Despair and Edwin is the reason why I thought of this poem in the first place. There are different kinds of grief, and despair is one of them, maybe that's why she might call upon Edwin someday.

There's Grief of Want - and Grief of Cold - A sort they call "Despair" -

Mostly I wonder what he would've thought, reading the last two lines:

Still fascinated to presume That Some - are like My Own -

Would he have been fascinated or would he have thought how unbelievably tragic this was? What would he think reading this after he met Charles? After he saw Simon again in Hell? Would it make him feel calm to see this written or sad?

No matter what it would be, I think him finding his way out of Hell (twice!) and Charles by his side have shown him that this pain does not define him, that there is always hope. And

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

after all.

quoted:

"I'm Nobody! Who are you?" by Emily Dickinson

"I measure every Grief I meet" by Emily Dickinson

"'Hope' is the thing with feathers" by Emily Dickinson

[dearorpheus]

Real poems, Celan wrote, are “making toward something   ...    perhaps toward an addressable Thou.” I would argue that, for any poet writing toward such a subject, regular words and syntax soon become inadequate. Celan is an extreme case though, because he also had to contend with the inadequacy of the German language to express the experience of the Jewish poet, post-Holocaust. [...]  Celan’s mother’s language was German. This German-speaking mother, who makes fitful enigmatic appearances in his poems, was shot by Germans. [...]  Celan chose to protest from inside German, in “death-rattling,” “quarreling” words. Though he spoke numerous other languages (Romanian, Russian, French), and though he had written previously in Romanian, he nevertheless decided to remain in German, which he broke and reclaimed. German, for Celan, was the language that had to “pass through its own answerlessness, pass through frightful muting, pass through the thousand darknesses of death-bringing speech.”

Why break a language? To wake it up. “We sleep in language,” writes Robert Kelly, “if language does not come to wake us with its strangeness.”

— Ilya Kaminsky, “Of Strangeness That Wakes Us”

I am reminded of the (Marie Howe sourced) Joseph Brodsky quote: “You think evil is going to come into your houses wearing big black boots. It doesn’t come like that. Look at the language. It begins in the language.”

[theinquisitxor]

A Day of Fallen Night mild spoilers:

I want to talk about Wulf and his pov + Old English Literature.

What we know:

The Kingdom of Hroth is largely a Scandinavian/Nordic inspired country.

In Priory, Inys is roughly equivalent to the English Elizabethan/Tudor era (the 1450s- 1500s). Fallen Night takes place 500 years prior. What era was England in in the early 1000s? The (end of) the Anglo-Saxon era.

While Inys during Fallen Night is definitely not set in an Anglo-Saxon era, I feel like there are definite motifs and similarities. The Hrothi used to raid Inys, but stopped after the marriage of Sabran and Barholdt. Wulf uses a saxe knife. The fens and monsters resemble those of Old English epics.

Aside the Anglo-Saxon & Scandinavian influences, I want to talk about the references to Old English literature:

Firstly, Samatha Shannon introduces Part 3 with a quote from the Old English (fragmented) poem, Wulf and Eadwacer.

it is:

wulf is on iege, ic on oþerre. / fæst is þæt eglond, fenne biworpen… / Ungelice is us

This roughly translates to: Wulf is on one island. I am on another. Fast is that island set among the fens....We are apart.

Now, Wulf and Eadwacer is a notoriously difficult poem to translate and make sense of, for those of us who have studied Old English. It appears to be from the pov of a woman lamenting over the separation of a male person she loves (typically interpreted as a husband/lover, but it doesn't have to be) referencing an on-going violent event in the background. And! there a line about a child being left in the woods with a wolf.

But I think Shannon does something so neat here and she changes the meaning to fit for Tunuva and Wulf, and bases so much of Tunuva and Wulf's relationship/story on this small poem fragment!!

Secondly, during a titular scene with Wulf washing up on a beach, Wulf is called the seafarer. "By dawn, the lights had disappeared, and the seafarer was still alive" (pg 396). This is obviously a direct call to the Old English poem, The Seafarer. It's a melancholic, elegiac poem concerned with life and death, about a seafarer on a cold, wintery beach mourning the loss of his comrades. Sound familiar?

I just love this little attention to detail concerning Wulf and Fallen Night. Samantha Shannon is a brilliant, brilliant woman

[mybelovednick]

Crimson and Clover, Honey (Chapter 2)

Main Page

Previously

Nick Sturniolo x Male!character

Summary: Nick Sturniolo is a Bookstore owner in a small town in Northern Italy. Vayu Arora is an elementary school teacher who is a frequent customer at Nick's Store. Both of them meet and they are suppose to fall in love like faith intended. But what happens when one of them is unable to let go of their past selves?

Nick x male!character Angst Fluff/comfort Hurt/comfort

TW: Too corny ig, smoking (don't do it kids. it is not cool)

******

2

“I have no news. I live quietly, I love you and I wait.”

This quote has always been a mystery to me. I wouldn’t remember where I first read it, or from whom I had heard it. But it stuck with me, forever. Yearning makes a person susceptible to the madness of love. If you yearn for something or someone, the line between love and obsession becomes blurry.

It was a lovely Friday evening. The breeze was just right as the clouds swiftly danced across the violet sky. The sun was about to set but the moon was already up. Tara invited us to her family restaurant to celebrate her grandpa’s seventy-second birthday.

Nate rode my red Vespa, with me on the back while holding onto his waist for dear life; because to him, my vehicle was a race car and the world was a Drag race. We reached Tara’s restaurant an hour late, regardless of the death race.

“You bitches were supposed to be here half an hour prior to the party and you reached in hour late. Explain, now” Tara was fuming.

“Yell at Vayu, if he had dressed up a little quicker we would be here so much earlier.”

“What? You were the one throwing a tantrum like fucking baby after seeing me wear the same coral shirt that you are wearing now! Of course I had to change into a boring black one.” I tried to defend myself.

“Not my fault I look better in coral.”

“Nathan I swear to God-“

“Okay fine, Jesus!” Tara yelled at us again. (We deserved it), “Let’s go inside and hurry up, Grandpa is waiting for you guys.”

“Awe I missed you Jeremy.” Nate cooed from behind as we entered the room and everyone cheered.

The restaurant was not a very fancy one. But it did feel like home. I’ve always loved Tara and her grandparents, Jeremy and Lizzy. Frank Sinatra was playing in the background because Jeremy loved Sinatra, “Play his songs in my funeral” he’d say every time.

Tara, Nathan and I were the only ones who were not above the age of fifty-five. We all wished Jeremy ‘Happy Birthday’ and Lizzy kissed him, to which all of us cheered like monkeys in a zoo. I loved watching people smile. I loved watching people enjoy their time. Tara was in charge of the food and overall party. I was on tea duty, i.e. ensuring that every single person had their tea cups filled up to the brim. It wasn’t a difficult task considering there were barely over twenty people in the party. Yes, tea in Italy is a bizarre concept but apparently Lizzy can’t stand the smell of coffee and ever since she visited Darjeeling with her husband, she has been addicted to this beverage.

Nathan? Well he was busy impressing Lizzy’s friends. Those sixty-year old ladies loved him for some reason. “Oh you look ravishing today, Demi. And you too! Rebecca, that hair is flawless, Jim is a lucky guy.”  Who am I kidding? Everyone loved Nate.

I was simply observing them, holding the warm tea kettle close to my chest; almost zoning out in the process.

Perhaps this is what love is after all; watching people you love fall in love with other people you love.

Being in love on the other hand, will always be strange, no matter how many times you’ve experienced it in your life. It is like falling in love with the moon. It looks beautiful from afar and even more tempting in theory. But no matter how many songs or poems you write about it, it will remain absurd in practicality to be in love with the moon. And you feel like the ocean, reflecting the image of your beloved moon in your turbulent waves just to get a glimpse of it. Even during the most intense storms in your life, you strive to keep your water as still as possible to catch your beloved in the reflection. It is the madness, and obsession that we humans love to bask in. This madness is love; and this love is strange.

“Yoohoo! Vayu! Tea boy, fill this up please.” Lizzy called for me raising her cup. I quickly nodded and rushed towards her. But as I was about to pour her up, she held me by my wrist and sat me down beside her. She was one strong woman for someone claiming to be suffering from arthritis.

“So, who’s the boy?” Lizzy asked in a sing-song tone.

“What? Tara told you?” I panicked.

“Oh dear, no. I just noticed that you seemed pretty distracted there and you have a glow to your face.” Lizzy said and I had to smile, how could I not? “See? You are so giggly and smiley like that. You should smile more often, you look even more handsome.” Lizzy winked.

“Well, I’d have to be a psychopath to be able to resist smiling when you say stuff like that.” I knew my face lit up like a Christmas tree at that point.

“Well, I mean it baby boy.” She held my hand carefully, “Now tell me about this man.”

I raised my eyebrow when she scooted herself closer to pay attention. She was determined to get me married to a nice man because…Honestly? I don’t know.

“Well he works at the bookstore. The one near the Marylyn street.”

“Oh I go there sometimes, I think. Is it the Libreria del Sentiero ?”

“Yes! That’s the one! Wait, do you know the guy who works there?”

“I think I have met that gentleman quite often. He comes here to get a cup of black coffee and abrownie. He is such a sweet man, and he sure does love my brownies.”

“No one could ever not like your brownies, Lizzy.” I smiled at her and she smiled back, “So, uhm… is he here often?”

I could feel her grin growing on her face. “Yes, Nick does come here on Wednesdays and Fridays.”

Nick.

Short for Nicolas, maybe. It does suit him. I remembered thinking that immediately.

Just then Lizzy’s eyes lit up. “Oh goodness, Look at that! He is standing right there, near his motorbike just along the parking. This is a sign! Vayu. Go now!” She was practically jumping in her seat while shoving my shoulders to push me out of the chair.

“But the party-“

“Fuck this party.”

Goddamn, this old lady was not playing.

She touched my cheek and kissed it quickly, “Look, V. You deserve to be happy, it is not a crime. Stop being so kind to the world and so harsh to yourself. Love doesn’t show up at your doorstep, you know? You need to chase it. Even if it doesn’t work out, you don’t get stuck in a world of what ifs. Nick is a good man. He is worth taking a chance.”

I hugged her and bid her goodbye. “Thank you.” I whispered mostly to myself. I made an excuse to get out of the party and pushed the door open.

He was standing a few meters away. I felt like I was in a romcom movie. Maybe it was because of the stars in the sky or the warm fairy lights right outside the restaurant window. Or it could be because I was willing to take a chance again.

Nick was wearing a bright red vest and a black leather jacket with black jeans. His shades were tucked on top of his messy blonde hair. And he had a pack of Marlboro in his hand. I walked towards him, still unsure of my footsteps.

God, he is beautiful.

“Need some help with the lighter?” I tried to be casual.

“Yeah, sure.”

He was so nonchalant that it was almost infuriating. He handed me his green lighter and I helped him light up his cigarette.

I watched him take a deep drag out of that cigarette. He closed his eyes and let out the smoke through his mouth and nose. He was leaning against his bike with his arms crossed. He watched the cigarette getting eaten up by the reddish-orange flame, firmly placed between his fingers.

Nick quickly bit into his own cigarette lightly with his lips and held the pack of Marlboro towards me while raising his eyebrows, gesturing if I needed one too.

“I am good, thank you.” I instantly replied.

He rolled his eyes.

Cocky bastard.

A few moments passed. It was really awkward too. I felt like pushing myself off a cliff. But I noticed a few things; he was just a few centimetres shorter than I was. However, nobody could deny that he was built. I actually felt like a twig beside him.

“Vayu, right?”

I thought I was going to combust with joy. “You remember me?”

“Of course I do. Who else would buy one of Shakespeare’s best classics with a fucking Porn magazine?”

If it were someone else, I would have knocked their teeth out (breaking my knuckles in the process.). But I saw a beautiful smile starting form in his face. He was really proud of what he said.

And I was glad I met him once again.

"You should smile more often." I blurted out. Nick looked at me with furrowed eyebrows. But soon his expressions relaxed a bit.

"Then make me." he said

*******

Next Chapter

A/N: I promise there will be more nick in the upcoming chapters

p.S. I love Lizzy

Tag: @ohmtoff @freshloveforthefit @miloisdone1 @nicksfavhoe @heyitsmemia @neo404 @matty-bear2 @thenickgirl @loud-sturniolos @maria4mari @solarsturniolo @darl1ngdr1sta @tkhzs @soursturniolo @certifiednatelover

[genericventblogname-cockandballs]

"But as it is, the water is simply stroking his fur."

Intro post; beware, triggering blog, block don't report, tw animal death for the poem quoted

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I'm Elliot, a teenage loser who runs this blog.

I'm not pro anorexia, sh, or any other harmful illness, I believe everyone deserves to get help. I don't want my posts to get traction I just want someone to hear me scream. It is hell and I wish I could recover but I am unable to. I don't have people to talk to in real life, reporting will not make me get better, please go report actually harmful people (like the pedophiles or trolls who plague vent communities).

In fact, I really dislike people who act like they love their ED or are stereotypical ana girlies and block them when possible, don't mistake me for those people.

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"It is raining and there is a dog lying in the gutter-"

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Basic info

•I'm a transgender man who uses he/they pronouns

•I have a restrictive ed (undx) somewhere between bulimia (c/s), Anorexia (restriction), and EDNOS (b/r cycles and not uw) I'm partially recovering currently (eating more and gaining muscle back)

•I sh, I don't post pictures nor do I encourage it.

•I've been told I possibly have autism (mom won't let me attempt to get tested) and I struggle with social cues, tone tags are appreciated but not necessary (unless I need more context)

•Dx EDS, I don't currently use mobility aids except for my orthotics

•Possible OSDD or P-DID system (again not dx) I mostly cofront when I do switch. Feel free to interact with the others but PLEASE do not interact with any young ones, it's a matter of preference and safety.

•Please tag paranoia bait and reblog bait with rb bait and/or reblog bait

•DM for my main (same url as before for those who know me from my last accs)

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"-and the gutter is filling with water because the sewer is clogged."

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Things I won't allow on my blog:

•Asking for harmful tips (I will not tell you how to purge, cut deeper, or fast longer.) I will give my best attempt at harm reduction advice but I advise you to find better sources.

•No meanspo or fatspo- if you post fatspo I will block, and if you post meanspo please tag it

•No queer discourse. I have mutuals who use neos and controversial labels, if you don't like it leave because I support them fully.

•Goes without saying but no transphobia, homophobia, racists, ableists, or zionists. Leave.

•Fake claim me or my mutuals. I do not want what I suffer with and it impacts me day to day, and it feeds into my self-doubt

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"If the dog were alive he'd be drowning-"

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Tags to block:

Ed vents: #elliot!ed!

Sh vents: #vent!sh!

Substances: #vent!sillyjuice!

Rb thinspo: #TW->thinspo

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"Rb or gain 10kg" or paranoia bait posts (if I don't rb I get anxious so anxious): #rb bait #reblog bait

Sexual posts: #suggestive

"-but as it is,"

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Alters and alter tags

Elliot2: #elliot the squeakquel 🔥

Andrew: #Andrew tag 🚬

Victor: N/A

Bea: N/A

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"The water is simply stroking his fur.

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"Seeing a Dog in the Rain" by Laura Gilpin

[post-modern-prometheus]

gay people please start reading more poetry this movie is partially about poetry and i love that aspect but feel like no one cares and i think you can get so much more from the film by having an understanding of poetry like isn't it crazy that neil called todd walt whitman when whitman was gay. and that was a pretty big deal in his time too. and i love whitman like im so ginsberg coded (ONLY IN THIS SPECIFIC WAY OKAY-). ginsberg used to be so proud that he slept with men that slept with men that slept with whitman. BRAM STOKER WHO WROTE DRACULA WAS OBSESSED WITH LEAVES OF GRASS AND LITERALLY WROTE WHITMAN LETTERS UNTIL THEY WERE ABLE TO MEET. like i know none of that is related i just really like poetry. and i make these references i just think yall should read more poetry if you like the movie! not in a gatekeep-y like oh you can't like this movie unless you like poetry but in a i think you'll like these poems BECAUSE you like the movie. and again!! what if i told you o captain! my captain! lowkey could be foreshadowing to neil's death. sure it's about abraham lincoln but like. "fallen cold and dead". and if you ever see them announce a dps sequel where ethan hawke runs around quoting howl then you KNOW it was me because the beats go SO WELL with keating's ideas! rejecting this strict and rigid idea of poetry!! pushing boundaries!! being gay communists just after ww2!! how do i explain that i am not trying to be pretentious or act like i'm so cool cuz i read poetry, i just want others to as well!!!!!!! no one's ass is gonna read all this MY BAD

[marauderswolf22]

for @wolfstarmicrofic prompt blanket. the quote at the beggining is one of two todd' poems in dead poets society, it's not mine! And the other quote if you see it is sirius' words to harry on grimound place. words: 575 enjoy <3

Poetry

“Truth is like a blanket that always leaves your feet cold. You push at it, stretch it, it will never be enough. You kick at it, beat at it, it will never cover any of us. From the moment we enter crying to the moment you leave dying.”

Sirius didn't look like the type of person who carries books of poetry or deep discussions in a bag. Although it was easy to guess that he was often moved by beautiful words by looking at him inside. Right now, he was analyazing the readen words anxiously. Trying to understand, he didn't even know what.

-"Can I scroll to the next page?" - Remus asked. They both knew that this way of reading together was problematic. One will finish earlier, one will go get tea and so on. But they both wanted to read the same books, and one of them didn't have enough discipline to do it on his own.

Sirius's eyes began to wander around the rain-beaten windows. They were already slightly burning from staring at the paper for so long.

-"Hey, is something bothering you? If you're bored, we can stop" -Remus pressed Sirius closer to his chest. This way, his heartbeat warmed his body pleasantly.

-"No, I'ts alright, I'm just thinking" - A few moments passed, interrupted by a thunderous storm.

One of the things Sirius loved was that Remus gave him space, big and free. But at the same time, he was in it with him, he wanted to get to know him, but slowly, and only those nooks and crannies that Sirius would let him.

-"Remus, what if my truth is that my name, stars, and blood say that I am irreversibly created-" -Cold waves shook his voice like a small boat. Remus grabbed his hand, lightly kissing his knuckles. He knew what was coming but he wanted to let it finish. -"created to be dark inside" -There was a drop of inquiry in his voice. As if this was the last chance to find out the answer.

The side lamp warmed half of his face with orange light. The light looked like smeared oil paints, dancing across the flawless features. After clenched eyebrows and squinted eyes.

-"Padfoot, I know you've seen too much darkness. Me too. I know you'd say I'm the best person in the world, but I'd say the same about you." - The intensity of the intimacy made even the sky glow with dramatic light.

-"How many times could you have done something bad? How many times could you have come to a meeting of Death Eaters or gone to the dark arts section in the library? Even if someone labeled you evil years ago, you chose good, Sirius. Because it is so unimaginable for you to be like them, acting righteously is so natural that you don't see that what you're doing is right. It doesn't even cross your mind to do even a thing like them."- By now Remus was whispering to the top of Sirius' head. A light sob into his sweater showed hearing his words.

-"We've all got both light and dark inside us. What matters is the part we choose to act on. That's who you are."

At that moment, Sirius promised himself that he would remember these words until his death. So it was as he prommised.

[hairtusk]

hiii could you elaborate on your thoughts re Sylvia plath’s poetry and antisemitism? or don’t if you don’t feel like it up to you

Hi anon, thanks for the question. I'll definitely elaborate, because most people blindly read on social media that Plath is some 'rabid antisemite' (I'm quoting directly from a 2020 article written by a university student about 'problematic authors' that doesn't feature a single quotation or source to backup its astonishing claims) and accept it as gospel with no further reading, and I'd like to challenge that conception.

Note: I am both a Jewish woman and an enormous admirer of Plath. This is likely the perspective from which I'll be answering. However, that doesn't mean I can't give criticism where it is due, and also, doesn't mean I can speak for all Jews. I will be talking about my personal feelings towards antisemitism.

The main reason that Plath is often accused on antisemitism is due to the Holocaust imagery found in some of her poems (namely those found in the posthumous collection 'Ariel', like Daddy or Lady Lazarus). The imagery is graphic and gutwrenching. This is, however, not the reason that people take issue with her: she is largely criticised for adopting a Jewish 'I' in her poetry, and appropriating an experience for which she has not, and could never, experience. Because Plath is not Jewish, critics say, her writing is inauthentic, and therefore offensive and antisemetic in nature.

The only people who should be able to write about the Holocaust in this manner, they say, are actual survivors (literary critic George Steiner once noted: 'does any writer, does any human being other than an actual survivor, have the right to put on this death rig?'). The argument at hand here, then, is about the use of the 'I' in poetry; if we should only write from first-hand experience, and avoid writing about topics that we have not oursleves encountered, survived, etc.

However, it is incredibly reductive to view Plath's poetry as appropriating the Jewish identity for herself just because the poem has a Jewish speaker, a Jewish 'I'. While 'Daddy' is often interpreted in online spaces as a poem about paternal abuse, it is also very easy to interpret the poem as a narrative about the relationship between European fascism and its victims, explored through the metaphor of the father/daughter relationship. Similarly, Lady Lazarus can be read as a metaphor for Europe in the 20th century, and particularly in the 1940s. It shows incredibly poor comprehension skills to automatically assume that because a poem has a speaker, that speaker is the poet - and that, therefore, if the identity of the speaker and the poet don't align, the poet is appropriating and causing offence.

Additionally, even if Plath were directly and overtly taking on the identity of a Holocaust survivor in her poems (which I would say she isn't), I don't believe that that in itself is antisemetic. Plath's poetry was interested in the central political concern of her generation: that of nuclear war. The idea of a mass-murder of millions of citizens in one fell swoop has obvious links to the Holocaust: Elie Weisel, a Jewish writer and Holocaust survivor, wrote of the topic that '...once upon a time it happened to my people, and now it happens to all people. And suddenly I said to myself, maybe the whole world, strangely, has turned Jewish.' Plath's poem 'Mary's Song', also widely criticised, makes this direct comparison between the European Holocaust, and potential nuclear Holocaust. Personally, I think this is a very apt connection, and I do not think at all that connecting the two in literature should brand a person as an antisemite.

One could present the argument, as Cynthia Ozick did, that 'Jews are not metaphors - not for poets, not for novelists...' and I certainly believe that this is a genuine concern. However, it doesn't take into account the link between history and subjectivity - i.e., which events enter the public conscience on a mass scale. Where Plath's poems mention the Holocaust (which is, might I add, infrequently) the graphic nature, I believe, allows a contemporary reader to cut through the doublespeak and the softened language that is often used to describe the Holocaust in a way that does not disgust, OR arouse anger. While Plath is vivid in her descriptions, she does so in a way that provokes anger in the reader towards the Nazi regime. It is, in many ways, incredibly sympathtic to Holocaust victims, despite the stark nature of the images. The 'Jewish metaphor' allows space to accurately describe the horrors of the Holocaust, and to incorporate other political fears. It is impossible to 'own' history in a way that makes even the mention of it by the Other forbidden. Writing off topics in literature in this way is limiting in the upmost degree.

I could write reams and reams more on this topic, but I think I've said enough for now (I need to get back to actually doing my uni work on this topic). You're free to disagree with me, but I think, for the reasons I've mentioned above and more, that calling Sylvia Plath antisemetic to be genuinely digusting and anti-intellectual.

[calisources]

KLAUS MIKAELSON SENTENCES QUOTES. quotes are taken from both the vampire diaries and the originals. warning, some of this quotes might include threats, mentions of blood, gore and some other vampire terror. change pronouns as you see fit.

He made me feel powerless and I hated it. 

 Power, loyalty, family. I made him in my image and he has bettered me. I want what he has. I want to be king.

Those who live hate me more than ever.

 You're all out of your minds... if you think some liquor-fueled one-night-stand - no offense, sweetheart - means a thing to me.

I will walk away and I will never come back. I promise.

 You'll never again have to look me in the eye and cover our connection with hostility and revulsion.

People have been after me for 1000 years. And I am always one step ahead. So whatever it is you're thinking of trying, go for it, give it your best shot. You won't succeed.

Don't underestimate the allure of the darkness, (name). Even the purest hearts are drawn to it.

 I don't have to prove anything, love. I am the alpha male.

Come on. One dance. I won't bite.

Don't tempt me, little wolf.

Maybe you should mind your business, wolf girl.

The only thing stronger than your craving for blood is your love for this one girl.

You are supposed to be dead. What are we gonna do about that?

I invited him to the party, love. He's the one dancing on the table.

And what kind of father allows another man to die for his child?

My hatred for you runs so deep it's difficult to pinpoint its origin

I believe that secrets are a poison that need to be spat out.

A better man would protect you with that lie. But I am not that man. And so I leave you with the burden of a truth that no one will believe.

End of the day human life is just a means to an end. Our means to our end.

Perhaps one day, in a year or even in a century. You’ll turn up at my door and let me show you what the world has to offer.

From all the poems written on the subject of unrequited love, there are so few on the pain of being the object of that affection.

We are the savage villains in fairy tales told to children. But not for (name)

He has done damage only a father can do.

There's no power in love! Mercy makes you weak! Family makes you weak!

This family comes with many hardships, but there is one benefit. You will always have a home here.

This family makes me want to murder people.

The line between what brings us pain and what sustains us is far thinner than one imagines.

Is it evil to take what one wants, to satisfy hunger even if doing so will cause another suffering? What some would call evil, I believe to be an appropriate response to a harsh and unfair world.

You can't win a war without a few strategic losses, no matter how regrettable they may be.

We all must stand alone against our demons.

They say that the passage of time will heal all wounds, but the greater the loss the deeper the cut.

Over the course of my life I've encountered no shortage of those who would presume to speak of good and evil. Such terms mean nothing. People do what is in their best interest.

You know, it's funny how often a person's sharp tongue can end up cutting their own throat.

. Death dances silently in everyone’s shadow, and she doesn’t give a damn. So why give a damn about her?

Art taught me that one's vision can be achieved with sheer force of will.

If I tell you who I really am and you refuse to beleive me, then I can hardly be blamed.

If you knew even a fraction of who I am, it would break you in two.

Because what’s important to you is important to me. What makes you happy makes me want to keep you so. What scares you, I want to tear apart. 

I do not wish to watch you from behind glass, (name).

You rant and rave about the monster I have become.

 There is beauty in the courage of the fragile fighter. Those that persevere, despite all they've been through, those who still believe there is good in the world, as dark things we often find we need that light the most.

ou presume to know me? Then know this... I will gladly end you for what you did to (name).

Mere hours after you lecture me about boundaries and here you are at my house in the middle of the night.

Mere hours since she died I've thought of a thousand things I forgot to say.

I can tell you I love you tomorrow. You're not dying today.

Violence is unavoidable then. Well, I tried.

In my experience an offer from a malevolent witch always comes with a catch. What's yours?

It would be better for you if you did fear me.

You know, you all seem to think this is a democracy, and I assure you it is not!

I quite enjoy my obsessions, thank you very much.

Everybody knows you're in love with her. 

You do realize it is not I who is to be the husband you can boss around.

You declared war when you came after my family and for that, I will make you suffer as only I can.

 I'm sorry, is this some sort of motherly critique? Please feel free to choke on it.

The whole time she lied to me. She made me weak.

Well it was a challenge to find a good pairing. What wine goes well with treachery?

A man damaged by his demons and those demons are not dormant, they are hell-bent on killing me and everything I find beautiful. And you, you are beautiful.