#Melancholy walker

[notchainedtotrauma]

Ayo Edebiri by Walker Bunting

[hermitthrush]

Yet love revives as we spin homewards along the coast through the early evening. Joy and sadness come by turns, I know now. Beauty and bravery make you sad. Sharon's beauty and my aunt's bravery, and victory breaks your heart. But life goes on and on we go, spinning along the coast in a violet light, past Howard Johnson's and the motels and the children's carnival.

Walker Percy, The Moviegoer (1961) | Chapter 3, Part 1. Binx and Sharon cruising in his red MG. I find these musings particularly resonant because, in my own experience, joy and melancholy are the two intrinsic ways you can slice life.

[trillscienceofficer]

from Sci-Fi Universe magazine, October 1996

COLOR TELEVISION: DEEP SPACE NINE's colorblind perspective deserves credit for not being simply black and white entertainment

by Eric Wallace

Here's a story that may or may not be apocryphal: In 1967, Nichelle Nichols decided to leave Star Trek at the conclusion of the fledging show's first season. Soon after making this decision, Nichols met Dr. Martin Luther King while attending an NAACP fund-raiser. Upon learning of ner decision, Dr. King proclaimed, "You cannot leave. You're opening a door that simply must not be allowed to close." Dr. King went on to explain how Nichols' portrayal of Uhura demonstrated to Americans each week that blacks could live, work and prosper in racially-mixed situations. Consequently, Nichols changed her mind, and the rest is history.

Fast forward to 1996, twenty-eight years after Dr. King's assassination. I'd love to say that Nichols' decision resulted in a multitude of positive black roles on television. But I would be lying. Television reflects the society from which it springs and the fact is that blacks continue to be under-represented in positive, let alone leading, roles on American television.

Thank God for Deep Space Nine. Here is a show that not only features blacks in prominent supporting roles—Jake, Cassidy [sic] Yates, Worf—but has a black male star—Captain Benjamin Sisko. This is cause enough for celebration among black television viewers searching for positive portrayals of their own. But DS9's importance to the black community goes further.

From Good Times' JJ to Martin Lawrence on Martin, it is no secret that "the clown" is the most common image for blacks on television. "The gangsta" and "dope addict" run a close second. Limiting the entire black populace to these three images is not only offensive, but just plain false. This is not to say that black people aren't funny or that we aren't burdened by troublesome individuals. We are. But we're also much more: we are novelists, millionaires and world leaders like Alice Walker, Quincy Jones and Nelson Mandela. So where are these images in American programming? Not in most networks' prime-time line-ups. Perusing the latest copy of TV Guide will confirm this.

Instead of offering up more destructive stereotypes, DS9 boasts strong black characters who behave like genuine, complex, unique individuals. Charismatic, sympathetic and intelligent, these black characters function in ways that mere stereotypes never could by both expanding the sometimes constricted perception of non-black viewers towards racial minorities (thus facilitating communication and a better understanding between racial groups) and helping to inspire the previously-stated traits among their own viewers, thereby providing minority youths, specifically those living in impoverished or hostile environments, with positive role models. In regards to this last element, Sisko, a dynamic leader and caring parent, personifies this ideal.

The relationship between Sisko and his son, Jake, is one of the most satisfying aspects of DS9. Loving, emotionally mature, and far from perfect, their relationship reflects the tragedies and joys which constitute family life.

The pinnacle of the Sisko/Jake relationship (so far) is, without a doubt, The Visitor, a tour de force episode brimming with passion and melancholy. Watching this episode left me proud of the intensity of the love shown between this black father and son, and in tears at the eloquence with which the show handled the poignant and universal themes of disillusionment, obsession, aging, loyalty, love and loss.

Aside from The Visitor, DS9 regularly boasts touching moments of natural interaction between black father and son, all of which make the show a privilege to watch. Just some of these moments include Sisko's overt show of affection for his son, Jake's wisdom in helping his father deal with romantic troubles and the manner in which father and son nave helped each other cope with the death of Sisko's wife.

Some readers may not understand why am I making such a big deal about DS9. After all, science fiction has featured blacks in prominent roles for years. Let me be blunt. There is a word for programs which strategically place one minority character in their ensemble. It's called tokenism. Yes, tokenism fulfills the "visibility" quotient for black characters. However, it fails at the larger task of presenting black characters who possess emotional depth and resonance. Black characters without such traits are cyphers, hollow representations which belittle the true intellectual and emotional capabilities of blacks.

Program creators and viewers who point to token blacks as examples of racial progress inadvertently court cultural hypocrisy. Because token black characters are the norm to which non-black viewers are exposed, they are harmful and destructive road-blocks on the march towards racial equality.

DS9, in contrast, allows its black characters to deal with issues usually reserved for white characters in white-dominated prestige dramas like ER. These issues include: the sacrifice of putting duty before love (For The Cause), the pressures of command (To The Death), the joys of parenthood (Explorers) and even conquering the Earth (Our Man Bashir). White characters that clearly dominate the television landscape have been allowed to cope with these issues for years. For black viewers, seeing themselves portrayed as real flesh-and-blood characters who cope with and ultimately solve life's great challenges is a rarely enjoyed breath of fresh air.

In addition to presenting well-rounded black characters, DS9 presents blacks interacting and succeeding in a multi-racial world. Most black shows, especially black sitcoms, feature an all-black line-up. The characters find success and stature, but only among other blacks. The insidious implication which arises, intentionally or not, is that blacks can succeed among their peers, but not in the real world where it counts, DS9 shatters this antiquated notion by presenting black characters who successfully interact with people of all races, colors and creeds.

Considering its positive impact, it is all the more tragic that DS9, one of the best shows on television, is currently one of the least watched. For those in the 'cultural majority' who have yet to latch on to the DS9 phenomena, I invite you to sample what this well-made, thought-provoking science fiction program has to offer. To black viewers who crave quality television, I urge you to give this remarkable program a try. You might be surprised at what you find: a little piece of yourself.

ERIC WALLACE is a former Army brat and a freelance screenwriter living in Los Angeles. Since his escape from the rural South, he has become a much friendlier person.

[ampleappleamble]

getting raised or healed by a

priest of Berath: there's an oddly ambivalent feeling of logic and certainty to being raised by a priest of Berath– you feel foolish for having been scared of dying because it's so obvious to you now that it wasn't your time yet, but you can't quite shake the feeling that you're living on borrowed time. getting healed by a priest of Berath tends to make one feel rather melancholy for a time afterward, leaving even the rowdiest roustabouts contemplative and somber.

priest of Magran: an intense, fiery determination surges up inside you, and you arise eager to face your next challenge head on. you also feel a flash of extreme heat over the wounded area as the priest's magic heals you. sometimes particularly bad wounds healed by a priest of Magran leave behind a shiny, puffy burn scar.

priest of Eothas: the healing comes on slowly, like the rays of the sun as it rises over the horizon. it's just as warm and invigorating as sunlight too, and you wake up from a rez like you might from a beam of sunlight finding you in your warm, cozy bed, peaceful and content, full of hope, feeling grateful for a second chance, another new day– although you can't help but feel just a little bit sad, too.

priest of Wael: bizarre images and phrases flash through your mind as you try to comprehend what's happening to you while you're being healed, and although you're sure they're all connected somehow, you just can't make sense of your own thoughts at all. sometimes when waking from a rez administered by a priest of Wael, you have a striking revelation about something that's been nagging at you in the back of your mind for years, but then you fully come back to yourself– and you can't, for the life of you, remember what it was.

priest of Skaen: hatred and contempt boil up inside you, and you wake with a burning need for revenge against not only those who harmed you, but against anyone who might wield power over you, oftentimes including even the priest who healed you in the first place. sometimes those healed by a priest of Skaen come back to their senses to find themselves literally licking their own wounds, and the taste of blood doesn't leave their mouth for hours.

priest of Rymrgand: the heal is cold, not like ice soothing a welt, but like rubbing alcohol evaporating off of your skin. sometimes instead of knitting the edges of a gaping wound together and revitalizing them, the skin surrounding the wound bloats and festers before withering and falling off, revealing the healed flesh beneath. being raised by a priest of Rymrgand is a harrowing ordeal, for to evade death at the whim of the Beast is to tremble helpless beneath his hoof for a time before he finally snorts and looks away, choosing to savor your soul another day. one tends to wake from a rez chilled to the bone, an oppressive weight on their shoulders and the stench of rot caught deep in the back of their throat.

paladin: fills your mind with thoughts, images, and/or feelings related to the paladin's object of zeal, eg. a Brother of the Five Suns laying hands on you makes the faces of the Ducs Bels flash before your mind's eye, and you feel a burst of awe and respect for the Vailian Republics; being raised by a Bleak Walker has you waking up with a brief but overpowering feeling of cold determination to kill every single person on the battlefield who'd dare raise a hand in violence against you or any other kith.

chanter: the events detailed in the chant used to raise or heal you play out in your head as you come back to your senses or feel your wounds close up. a common joke amongst seasoned adventurers is to tease one another about how well they recall the plot or lyrics to Rise Again, Rise Again, Scions of Adon!/...And Face Your Foes (implying they're very familiar with it from having heard it so often due to needing to be rezzed frequently).

[spreadwardiard]

More than Affection

Death had a single mission in the living realm: to find a Champion worthy of bearing the Matrix of Leadership so that they may restore the proper balance of their world. He did not understand mortals, nor their emotions, despite how much he cared for them, and so was left awed and confused when his spark began to react unusually to the one he had chosen as his champion.

Based off my friend @lets-try-some-writing's fantastic AU: Death's Embrace: Part 1 and Part 2. Please read these first as they give so much context to what is going on in this AU.

Orion Pax, the Thirteenth Prime, the walker of the void between the living and the dead, the ferry of sparks to their Father's loving embrace, the manifestation of all that death was, was a wise mech in many ways, but there were so many things about the children of Primus he had yet to understand. Just when he thought he had it all figured out, that he understood the living children as well as he needed to; his chosen champion of change flipped his understanding entirely on its helm.  He had missed the exact moment that Megatronus of Kaon ceased to find him unnerving, but he had not missed when his champion's affections turned to something… foreign and unidentifiable. 

This new feeling that radiated from Megatronus’ very spark whenever he was near came upon him without warning one evening when he had come to the Champion with notice of an imminent raid. He had, in his usual fashion, emerged from the void in the shadows behind the champion, who had been hunched over his desk, composing what Orion assumed was his next speech. Orion had thought nothing of it when he leaned over with his palm braced upon Megatronus’s shoulder and whispered in his audial, “Prepare yourself, my Champion. The enemies of our order have come to destroy us. Their wrath knows no bounds, and carried by command, they shall have no mercy. Flee while you can champion, take your followers, for they are coming."

Megatronus had not reacted the way he had expected him to at the news. His chosen Champion was prone to act with haste and righteous fury, yet the emotions that came from his spark were unknown to the walker of the voids. Affection, he understood, and there was a strong undercurrent of that familiar emotion underneath this strange feeling that Megatronus was refusing to allow through his EMs. Another oddity, Megatronus was not one to shield others from the truths of his emotions unless it somehow benefited him to do so, and Orion could think of no benefit to obscuring any form of affection for one’s companions.

Megatronus had then asked him a question he had never asked before; “When will I see you again?” 

Megatronus had acted so entirely out of character throughout the encounter that Orion almost feared something catastrophic had already happened. There had been a strange melancholy tinting that question that he could not quite interpret, but knew that it was directed towards himself. It made no sense to him why, when Megatronus’ main concern should have been to alert Soundwave of this new information and flee. 

His chosen champion’s odd behaviors around him only seemed to increase from that point forward. Those who had taken heed of his warning and fled alongside the Champion had sought refuge deep in the abandoned mines of Kaon, where no light from the nearest star could reach. He had paused after he had stepped from the void. Lingering in the shadows, he observed the forlorn look upon Megatronus’ face and a strange, twisting unease in his spark that he covered with a veil of false confidence. 

Glancing around all the bots collected in this shaft, Orion could not understand why. Everyone of note had been present, and even many of those Orion had yet to acquaint himself with were there. Soundwave had been at ease with the situation, and none of the others appeared to be nearly as concerned as their leader. It was… odd… 

What was even odder was how Megatronus had responded to him when he finally stepped out of the shadows to stand at his side. Instead of his usual greeting, Megatronus had taken him by the wrists and examined his frame as if he were expecting him to be damaged, and only after he was satisfied that Orion was perfectly intact did that strange unease in him die down, to be replaced by such a strong wave of relief that it had stunned the walker of the void.

His chosen champion had never examined him in such a manner before, nor had he ever embraced him in the manner he had afterwards. He had been pulled flush against the champion and held tightly against his warm chassis. Megatronus had held him there until his relief shifted into that same, mysterious emotion from before, only this time, a bit more open in its presentation. Megatronus did not seek to hide nearly as much of this strange… ‘more-than-affection’ feeling from him as he had their previous encounter. 

Orion did not understand any of it, but the warmth he experienced while being embraced lingered far longer than he had expected it to, and he found himself often recalling how pleasant it had felt to be enveloped in his Champion’s arms. However, Megatronus did not embrace him upon his next visit, and Orion had been disappointed in that fact, though he did not recognize his disappointment until he had returned to the void, feeling colder than normal.

The odd behaviors and feelings continued. It became quite common for the Champion of Kaon to rest his servo upon Orion’s shoulder; a gesture that Orion reciprocated eagerly, often accompanied by a gentle smile or curious tilt of his helm. Though foreign to him, the progression of his champion’s strange, shifting affections felt natural and satisfying in a way he could not describe.

It did not feel especially strange when Megatronus took his servo for the first time, one evening, as they sat together in the dark, speaking of nothing of consequence; though it was strange to him why Megatronus had been so nervous before he had done so. But his champion had eased as soon as Orion had shifted his digits, to allow them to intertwine with those of his champion. Megatronus had held his servo until Orion had felt drawn to return to the void, where he swore the warmth of Megatronus’ touch had lingered even as he ushered the latest wave of Primus’ children back to his loving embrace. 

For reasons he did not entirely understand, he had found himself visiting his champion more frequently, and staying late into the recharge cycle. Some cycles, they discussed their revolution and their various plans regarding their upcoming moves. Such conversations were not especially noteworthy. 

But there was one night that Orion still could not shake out of his helm; where Megatronus had looked directly into his optics and recited a piece of poetry about a captivating Archivist from Iacon, who’s optics were so enchanting that he wished he could peer into them forever and who’s derma he’s dreamed of feeling against his own. It was the most emotionally raw and vulnerable he had ever seen the champion, or anyone for that matter, at least in person, and it had left him forgetting to vent entirely until Megatronus had finished the piece. By the time he had remembered he needed to vent to appear living, something strange was churning in his own spark, bubbling up along with his already present affections in a confusing jumble of feelings he did not comprehend. He had been rendered speechless by the poem, and had resorted to reaching out to take Megatronus’ servo into his own and squeezing it tightly to show his approval. 

It was not long after that, that Megatronus had begun to sense his presence, even before he materialized from the void. He was uncertain by which mechanism Megatronus employed to detect him, but it became noteworthy when he arrived one evening to find the champion and his most trusted mechs seated around a table, upon which was a map, discussing their upcoming plans. Orion heard the voice of his champion even before he had begun to materialize his frame in the shadows.

“You need to move.” Megatronus had interrupted whoever was speaking with a firm order, and the room had gone eerily silent at the sudden shift in tone. 

“What? Why?” The confusion had been as evident in the mech’s voice as his disappointment had been. Clearly he had been excited to have a seat beside the Champion of Kaon. 

“That seat is taken. Get up, or I’ll make you get up.” It had been that moment that Orion had stepped out of the shadows and every set of optics in the room rested upon him. He had regarded them all curiously, unsure of what exactly it was he had been sensing from them as he had silently made his way to Megatronus’ side. It had been then that Megatronus had shoved the mech beside him forcefully from his seat and offered it to Orion.

When he took the mech’s place at Megatronus’ right, his Champion saw fit to lace together their digits, and place their joined servos on the table for all to see. Orion saw no reason to withdraw, and so had simply enjoyed the warmth seeping in from his champion’s palm and the strange sensations that very warmth sent to his spark. It mattered little to him that so many stared at them in silent recognition of some unspoken declaration that only Orion seemed unaware of. Megatronus had flawlessly picked up the conversation where he had interrupted it as the mech he had removed from his side took a seat at the opposite end of the table. 

Truthfully, Orion could not recall any of the specific details of that particular meeting. He had been too focused on trying to interpret the jumbled emotions welling up in his spark, that same “more-than-affection” that he sensed from his champion, though he still could not decipher the meaning of it. He knew that he found the sensations agreeable, pleasurable, even, and he knew that he wished to seek out more of this strange feeling that he could not call by name that only Megatronus seemed capable of making him feel. 

When Megatronus first placed his servo upon his waist, the warmth that radiated from his touch had seeped so deeply into him that his very spark could feel its comfort; and when his champion tugged him gently against his side, Orion eagerly leaned into the warmth that spilled into him at each point their frames touched. 

None of it made sense to him; the feelings, the newfound desire for warmth, the strange behaviors that had now become anticipated and comforting... He enjoyed when Megatronus touched him, though he did not know why it felt so different from the touch of any other mech. He found himself, somewhere along the way, almost craving the warmth that Megatronus provided him with his touches, and actively began seeking it out, sometimes even finding himself tucked against the champion’s side before being prompted. 

Megatronus stopped attempting to hide this strange feeling with his EMs entirely after Orion had materialized at the foot of his berth late one recharge cycle after leading home the latest batch of sparks, waking the champion with just a single request on his glossa. “I wish to bask in the warmth of my champion’s embrace.” 

Megatronus wordlessly invited him into his berth by lifting his arm and once Orion had climbed in beside him, he was pulled snugly to the champion's chassis, held firm, back struts flush against the champion's frame where the most wonderful warmth emanating from Megatronus seeped into him, soothing in him discomforts he had not even been aware he had felt at all. Megatronus’ mighty arm held him firmly in place, and similarly, Orion’s grip on his champion's servo, where he had intertwined their digits, only further served to anchor the two of them together. 

Orion spent many recharge cycles lying in the champion’s berth, secure in a warm embrace. It gave him joors upon joors to think and attempt to dissect the strange ways that Megatronus had affected him since he had detected that shift in the champion’s emotions. Never before had he been content to simply lie in place when there were so many things he should be observing and tending to with his free time. But this new emotion in his spark grew heavy and manifested as a persistent desire that gnawed at him to return to the comfort of his champion’s side the longer he stayed away, and he had found that these periods of rest somehow eased that strange… almost pain he came to expect from separation. 

And when they were together… It mattered not whether they were lying in berth or standing side by side, Orion found his artificial venting matching that of his champion’s vent for vent, and it was becoming more and more common for the entire universe to melt away in his awareness when the champion addressed him, and when Megatronus drew him close and looked into his optics his spark would pulse so strongly that he feared it would break free of the frame he had constructed around himself.  He would have been frightened by the intensity of the feeling had he not been aware that his champion felt exactly the same way, and was not concerned. 

For all the eons that he had walked the void, he had never felt anything remotely close to this. It was unfathomable to him. He could pick out individual aspects of this larger emotion; such as affection, anticipation, fondness, security and excitement; however these were only small facets of the massive new emotion that had taken root in his spark. When he tried to analyze them all together it simply became a too large and confusing to comprehend, especially if he attempted to factor in how not just his own behaviors had been altered so drastically due to this emotion, but his champion’s as well

He understood that Megatronus had become important to him, more so than any other who walked the living realm, but it had nothing to do with the quest he had sent his champion on and everything to do with how the champion made him feel. Like he was… wanted; like his presence was enjoyed. Something he had never cared about before.

 His last encounter with Megatronus had resulted in the most tempestuous reaction in his spark yet. The bulk of the visit was relatively unnoteworthy. Mechs were packing up their camp in the mine shaft to relocate to a safe house in Tarn. Once again, Megatronus covered his anxieties with false confidence as he directed his flock and collected his own belongings. Orion assisted him in packing and when he had felt the call to return to the void, Megatronus stopped him from stepping into the shadows with a quick, desperate grasp to his wrist.

Megatronus pulled Orion gently back towards him and drew him into a tender embrace. Orion leaned into the warmth provided by his champion, his optics shuddering offline almost on instinct as he rested helm upon his shoulder, his face nuzzled into the crook of Megatronus’ neck, content to feel his claws drawing soothing circles on the plating of his lower back. He could spare a few more kliks…. 

He was just about to regretfully pull away from the embrace when he felt Megatronus lightly touch the side of his digit to his chin, in a gentle, unspoken, request. He allowed Megatronus to guide his helm, and when their optics met, Orion’s spark twisted in a strange anticipation at the look he was receiving. His champion looked… nervous, unsure, like he wanted to say something, but underneath it, he felt a strange yearning emanating from the him that Orion couldn’t interpret. Megatronus’ shifted his touch, from Orion’s chin to cup the side of his helm and Orion instinctively nuzzled into the warmth of his champion’s palm and let his optics fall closed as that confusing, yet pleasant jumble of emotions swirled around in his spark. 

And then, without warning, time entirely stopped as he felt Megatronus’  hesitantly press together their derma. He froze stiff as that feeling in his spark suddenly detonated with what felt like the power of a super nova. It surged through him like lightning, and each gentle movement of his champion’s warm derma against his own only sent more fuel to power the fire burning in his spark.  It was nearly overwhelming. He didn’t know what to do, how to respond, or what he was feeling. The only thing even remotely comparable had been the overwhelming understanding that had struck him when his purpose had become known to him. Only this… this was new, it was wonderful; exciting! He’d never felt so…. Alive. He wished it would never end. 

Megatronus pulled away suddenly his field felt off, and instantly Orion felt nearly frantic as awareness snapped back into place abruptly. His servos shot up with urgency and caught the champion by his helm to keep him from retreating any further. It was too soon. He wasn’t ready for it to be over, and Megatronus was upset by something he must have done incorrectly.  When Megatronus’ confusion seeped into his field atop the dejection he was trying to cover up, Orion gently guided his champion back to him, where he clumsily pressed their derma together once more. 

As if he had flipped a switch, his champion surged with confidence as he crushed Orion tightly to his frame, and Orion’s spark soared. The first kiss had been a gentle, almost innocent  brushing of derma, but the second… Megatronus kissed him as if he were starving; hot and passionate, with dentae and glossa. Orion did his best to keep up, tried to mimic and match Megatronus’ technique but he could barely focus over the way his champion had him entirely enveloped in his field, drowning him in the intensity of their combined sentiments. Megatronus seemed to care little that Orion was inexperienced and clumsy, merely chuckling when Orion accidentally clanged their dentae together. He simply had taken charge and kissed Orion until his processors were nearly scrambled with how fiercely it had his spark pulsing with that emotion he could not name. 

When Megatronus pulled away the second time, he was venting heavily, as if he had just come from battle.  He pressed the crests of their helms together gently and this time, Orion was at peace with their separation, his spark thrumming with contentment at their closeness.

“Orion… I-” But the champion cut himself off, though Orion did not know why. It caused him to tilt his helm, in curiosity, as he could tell that whatever Megatronus had wanted to say was of great importance to him. But he had simply smiled, in a melancholy sort of way as he loosened his grip, allowing Orion the space to pull away from him, if he chose to do so. and asked, in a forlorn tone, “When will I see you again?” 

Orion finally understood that Megatronus must have suffered that same… almost painful sensation that he did when they were separated; the one that gnawed at him with memories of warmth and touch and that… feeling in his spark that made him ache to return to his side. He let one of his servos fall from his champion’s helm, to lace together their digits, in the manner he had grown to find comforting.  “I shall return to your side once I have restored those lost and wandering to their eternal sanctum of rest.”

Megatronus’ seemed to find reassurance in his answer, and he smiled, the lazy one that Orion usually only saw when they were lying in berth, and Megatronus just a groon or so from falling into recharge. “How is it that you always know where to find me, my archivist?” 

Orion had smiled at the question and tightened his grip on the champion’s servo as he spoke his response; “The void is but a veil upon which you are always visible to me, my Champion. There is nowhere in the vastness of all that exists you could hide where I could not find you.”

Orion left soon after, with another gentle kiss from his champion graced upon his derma just before the void and strengthened its call to him. Though he noted with some concern that he… did not want to. He wanted to stay with Megatronus, to convince the champion to put off his relocation efforts for just one more cycle, so that they could hold each other in berth and kiss until Megatronus was forced into recharge. 

 The void felt colder than it had during his last retreat, though he knew that that was an impossibility. Something had changed in him to make it feel this way. He did not know if it was something he should be concerned with or not. At its worst, it seemed a mild side effect of… what that kiss had done to him. 

Orion knew, theoretically, what a kiss was, but he did not fully understand what they meant. He knew it was something mortals engaged in with those they felt a great deal of affection for, but he did not understand exactly what had changed between Megatronus and himself to suddenly warrant such an act. They had been feeling these emotions for nearly a vorn now. Something had to have changed. Right?

Somewhere along the way, a great many things had changed, including himself. He was feeling things he knew he was not programmed to feel, even if he could not name those feelings. He knew that now, suddenly, a living being was more important to him than the rest, though he still did not know why. And suddenly he found himself understanding those sparks that lingered near to those they were close to in life, for when he now came to the void, he longed for the warmth of the one he had left behind as well. 

He found that this newfound understanding helped him to ease some of the Precious sparks back to Primus’ embrace with greater ease, though he was not certain what exactly he was doing differently. He sometimes wished he could seek their wisdom as he guided them along the path home, for he knew what he felt was experienced by the living, and perhaps they would be able to at lease identify for him what he was experiencing. But such a thing was not possible. The living, once passed into the void, could not speak. 

He was left with more questions than answers by the time he sensed none left who needed to be guided, and he felt so much colder than he remembered being. The warmth he had soaked up from Megatronus was just a memory, and he felt that strange almost pain biting at him to return to the champion, as he had said he would, once his duties were seen to. But these questions needed to be answered. He needed to know what was happening to him, what strange, mortal influence had taken refuge in his spark. 

He could not ask his brother. Alpha Trion was unlikely to understand and certain to pass judgements upon him for engaging so deeply with Primus’ children. It felt… wrong to ask Megatronus directly, even though logically he knew Megatronus would likely have the answer. He did not even know where to begin to search the archives for the information he sought. 

There was one mech, however, that had made it a point to teach Orion more and more about how to appear… ‘normal’ and alive. The first mortal that had paid him any attention at all. He would go to Ratchet for the answers he sought. If anyone would be able to explain to him what this feeling was, it would be him.

[dead-lights]

the zhu-vatore family, regency edition

left to right: mr vatore, mrs vatore, mrs zhu, and mr zhu

From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you must be two of the silliest girls in the country. I have suspected it some time, but I am now convinced. –– jane austen, pride and prejudice

CC below the cut.

mr vatore

hair: ruby

outfit: dandy coat by @anachrosims

mrs vataore

hair: 1830s hair by @the-melancholy-maiden

earrings: arthur earrings by @yakfarm

dress: emma gown by @gilded-ghosts

shoes: lydia shoes by @dancemachinetrait

mrs zhu

hair: ann walker by @buzzardly28

dress: peony gown by @rustys-cc

mr zhu

hair: lestat hair by @wistfulpoltergeist

outfit & boots: vincent's fashion set by @happylifesims

poses: jane austen poses

[luna-rainbow]

Amygdala and the super soldier serum

I read this interesting meta about Steve's brain changes post-serum, specifically this bit:

Steve’s brain is smarter and faster, the neurons have a longer life span, the hippocampus — that’s your memory storage — is nice and healthy; whatever. But then they said that the part of Steve’s brain that increased the most in mass and synaptogenesis was the amygdala.

So I had to be a nerd and crack open a Neuroanatomy textbook. Accordingly, the amygdala forms part of the limbic system (which I've briefly talked about in another meta), one of the key parts of the brain that governs memory, emotions, and by extension, behaviour. It serves a role not only in creating and regulating emotions, but also in recognising facial and verbal cues for emotions.

Onward for super soldier angst!(?)

Neuroanatomy is still an evolving field so our understanding of amygdala function is still immature. There are multiple areas to the amygdala, but the main ones are:

Basolateral: this is the largest part of the amygdala and receives information from higher-order sensory cortical areas and the association cortex. In plain English, this area links sensory input (e.g. music, objects, etc) with particular emotions. I think this is what the original meta was describing -- a simple stimulus could be so much more intense for Steve (and presumably for other super soldiers too) because it would bring on an emotional response. The pure joy of a tasting vanilla, the melancholy of the smell of rain, the nostalgia of old music, the grief of seeing the Howlies' pictures. And because this area draws from the association cortex as well, I would presume the more he has a particular emotional response to a stimulus, the more it becomes reinforced -- so going to the museum to see Bucky and the Howlies again and again reinforces the sense of grief he associates with them...and that's what stopped him in his tracks when he saw Bucky with his mask off.

Central: this area is key in mediating an emotional response, and both receives and sends information to the autonomic system, which controls things like heart rate/blood pressure/breathing rate/"gut feelings". It plays a key role in fear conditioning. It forms a central part of the rewards pathway, meaning it often serves a role in addiction and (on the flip side) depression. It also forms part of the pain regulation pathways. This may mean Steve has a strong physiological response to stimuli he associates with threats, regardless of whether or not he can control his own emotional response, i.e. even though he is used to explosions and gunshots and he knows, rationally, he can deal with them, this area might still kicks his heart rate and blood pressure up and make him feel dread. This makes me wonder whether the same amygdala development applies to the other super soldiers. For example, the Siberian Winter Soldiers had a very heightened fight-or-flight response, and similarly with Walker. It also begs the question of whether the heightened fear and reward pathways were used for Bucky's conditioning. E.g. Bucky's look of terror when he was trapped under the beam on the Helicarrier, but after Steve freed him, he was still intent on finishing the mission, because he was conditioned to think not finishing the mission was worse than dying. A lot of headcanons also involve Bucky being given drugs of addiction by Hydra -- and while I think the neuroanatomy of addiction is still not well understood, this could mean that quitting those drugs are more difficult for super soldiers once they became dependent on them. (Also, my headcanon is that the other super soldiers get a kick out of hurting people and post-serum, that reward pathway goes into overdrive and it becomes an addictive action for them.) And also, another area that is still developing, the pain regulation pathway being affected could also mean either more or less chronic pain issues, and likely a different emotional response to pain.

Basomedial nucleus: I thought I'd throw this in here because even though it wasn't mentioned in the neuroanatomy book, it is mentioned in this article. This area is thought to have a role in motivational behaviours under the influence of sex hormones, and in combination with the olfactory (sense of smell) processing being part of the amygdala structure and this apparently being a big factor in animal sexual behaviours...make of that what you will, A/B/O fic writers!

I think most places where I've read about the amygdala points to it being a primal center for emotions, i.e. the emotions that are key to our survival, and fear being a major part of it, triggering the fight-or-flight response. I think this means -- and I think it's fairly well-backed by canon -- that super soldiers innately have a heightened response to threatening stimuli, and because most of them are skilled, enhanced and trained, they respond to threat with aggression.

What's key here is that emotional regulation is done by higher centers outside the amygdala (frontal cortex). What that means is that the person has to make a conscious, cognitive effort to override their instincts for aggression. I think it says a lot about Steve and Bucky that they do keep a handle on their emotions, despite the over-development of their amygdala -- I think it also is in keeping with headcanons about Steve secretly having a huge anxiety problem under his stoic demeanour. We never see Steve lashing out, and the only time we see Bucky lashing out was when he got flashbacks to his arm being amputated. In a way...it's even more amazing that Bucky is as placid as he is, because despite having his memories wiped and therefore being only able to depend on primal emotions to guide him, he still has enough cognitive control to control his fears.

I also wanted to briefly address the "bleeding heart" part of the original meta (which was kinda what prompted this dive down the rabbit hole). As mentioned above, amygdala deals with primal emotions like joy and fear and anger, while some of the other "emotions" listed in the meta - sympathy and guilt and sense of duty and altruism - they are high level cognitions. I am inclined to think that Steve's empathy didn't change after the serum -- he just remained the same empathetic person he always was (although he might feel the emotions more keenly), which helped him be a better super soldier than the Winter Soldiers and Walker, and probably helped him keep a handle on the instinctive aggression.

Lastly, I just wanted to touch on grief. The neuroanatomy of grief is complex, and involves many different networks of emotions, autonomic responses, memory, and sensory processing. This study is interesting in that it identifies that increased functional connections in the amygdala is associated with a more protracted grief response and development of depressive symptoms. So yes...it is quite possible that Steve's more developed amygdala (and Bucky's too, but we shan't talk about The Movie that Does Not Exist) means he feels sadness more intensely, for longer, and the abnormal reward pathways might send him down a depressive or self-destructive spiral where his perceived reward is by doing something self-sacrificing.

One last thing (I promise this is final) the amygdala is also involved in REM sleep, aka dreaming. Theories are varied, but there is thought that being the fear/stress centre, the amygdala likely has a major role in generating nightmares.

Now put that together with two super soldiers living with PTSD and one canonically waking up from a nightmare...

[cowpokeomens]

Pas de Trois: Part One

Pairing: Reader x Noah, eventual Reader x Nicholas

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: None! (Yet)

I was just thinking, like: Swans, right? But Noah and Nicholas. No beta we die like Odette and Siegfried!

It was as cold in the beginning as it was in the end.

You could pretend all you wanted- that the embrace of a not-quite lover could warm you enough to stay alive. But you both knew better by now. 

It starts the way it ends: at a pond. 

You need a breather from your mother and her love schemes. Something about a party at the Van der Whatever’s condo on the east side, the unwed men rumored to be in attendance.

All those years of safeguarding your virginity like a crown jewel, only to be whored out to the first eligible bachelor the second you turned 23 and expressed no interest in marriage. 

You roll your eyes at the thought of it; the idea of preserving your chastity whilst being surrounded by the scum of the earth in Bottega stilettos. It feels like you rub elbows with literal vampires most days: creatures that linger in the shadows, waiting to drain you of whatever they needed from you in that moment. 

At least Bela Lugosi never asked you about why you decided against Yale after your father’s hefty (and unrequested) donation. 

The air is crisp, biting at your cheeks as you walk. You wander into a familiar park near your apartment, the street lamps illuminating the freshly fallen snow in a gentle glow. All around you, trees creak and groan in the wind, as if they, too, were ready for spring again. It isn’t so secluded that you felt any real danger, but it was far enough away from the sounds of traffic to give your mind space to wander.

Faintly, you hear the sounds of people milling about on the street. There’s a theatre up the road- they’ve been hosting a ballet company performing The Nutcracker for the last month or so. Looking through the gaps in the bushes, you can spot a few people dressed in rich velvets and fur coats taking photos under the gleam of marquee lights. You haven’t gone to see The Nutcracker for years now. Your mother stopped taking you when you confessed that you did not have the talent- nor endurance- to be a real ballerina, the same time that she unenrolled you from dance classes altogether.

Humming Tchaikovsky's Pas de Deux to yourself, you meander through the park until you come upon a pond. A treasure in your heart, it’s a spot you come to often to clear your head- though this is your first nighttime foray. 

Longer than it was wide, the pond was not the most impressive in the city by a longshot. Most people didn’t even know of its existence, save the few dog-walkers who came through in the mid-morning and late afternoon. It was familiar, though, having been situated here as far back as your memory could recall. 

Winter crept over the small body of water in sheets of ice at the outer perimeter. If the temperature continued to drop (it would) the entire thing would be frozen solid by next week. As it was, the ice at the edges looked thick enough to hold up an entire person.

You fight back the melancholy this brings you, knowing the incoming freeze would take with it the many creatures that inhabit the pond. The ducks have long since left, flying somewhere further south, somewhere warmer. The fish have been awfully quiet the last few weeks as well, settling in for their winter rest. That really just left the-

Ah, You think, sounding hushed even in your head. There you are. 

They glide in silently, slicing through the water like moonlight. Long, graceful necks with great plumes puffing up behind them, the swans are pure magic in the stillness of the night. They make a triangle in the water, with four smaller fowl following the swan at the crest of the formation. Its dark eyes meet yours for a moment, and you feel so utterly vulnerable under its gaze that you look away, suddenly very interested in your shoes.

Must you be intimidated by everything? You sigh to yourself internally. Seriously, a fucking bird?

You felt silly as you built the courage to finally look back up, but the bevy had disappeared. Craning your neck around, you were halfway to considering searching for them on foot when a branch cracked behind you. 

Whirling around, your eyes scanned the tree line, pulling the mace on your keychain out with shaking hands. The neighborhood was safe, sure, but you weren’t stupid. A girl alone in a park well after the sun had set? Yeah, you’d seen the crime shows- no thanks. 

“Hello?” You call, your voice wobbling despite your best efforts. 

Another crack.

Your mace was up in an instant, poised and ready to fire. You are not a damsel in distress, you are certainly not going to be a statistic. As your heart pounded in your throat, a figure came into view. 

“Ew, there’s bird shit everywhere- Woah!” The stranger stumbled backwards, hands up in the air as he saw you. “Oh my god, please don’t tase me-“ 

“It’s not a taser.” Was, for some reason, your first response. Then, “Who are you? What are you doing lurking around in the dark?” 

His eyes went wide. “It’s a public park! I’m going for a walk!” 

Your eyes narrow, the hand wielding the mace never moving. “A walk? At 9:45 at night?”

Impossibly, his eyes grew wider. They were dark- familiar in a way you couldn’t fully place in your panicked state. The snow reflects off of them, reminiscent of starlight. “You are also in the park at 9:45? And you’re armed?”

Well, that was certainly a valid observation. You take two deep breaths, then lower the mace, though not pocketing it entirely. You spend a moment observing his appearance. 

He was tall- tall enough to be threatening, if he wanted to. Slim build, dark eyes, like you’d noted before. His hair was parted down the middle, brushing against the top of his cheekbones softly. He’s handsome, you think. Not the overly-manicured handsome you were accustomed to, though. He reminded you of the first dandelions in the spring; The delight you feel at seeing a living thing burst forth from the frozen ground, uncaring of if it's a weed or not. 

A huge sweater encompassed him, something light in color and soft-looking. The sleeves poked out of the arm holes of his jacket in a strange way, as if it took a great deal of work to stuff them in there in the first place. A hat topped it all off, giant pom-pom bobbing at you in a way that was far from menacing. 

“That’s a weird hat to wear while you creep on people in the park.” You quip, cocking an eyebrow at him. 

His mouth drops open in shock. “My grandmother made me this, fuck you very much. And it’s winter! Of course I’m wearing a hat. Are you always this bad with logic and reason?”

“So you don’t deny creeping?” You ignored his question. 

The face he gives you would have been comical under different circumstances. “Wha- Okay, look, I’m sorry for encroaching on your turf- even if that turf is city property-“ he mumbles the last bit to himself- “But I’m not like, a serial-killer-murderer. Pinky promise.”

He looks so earnest, it reminds you of a little kid. He is holding out a single pinky to you, a safe distance away. 

You eye him warily for a second, then sigh, taking a few steps forward to interlock your pinky with his. He beams at you, smile as bright as the snow that began to silently fall around the two of you. 

You introduce yourself, shifting on your feet in a way that feels awkward and uncomfortable, like you were suddenly too aware of your body’s movements. 

“I’m Noah.” He offers warmly, cheeks and nose tinged a rosy pink from the winter air. The longer you look at him, the less intimidated you feel. He was still large- but in the way that the inflatable noodle-people outside of used car dealerships were large. He didn’t flail, necessarily, though. His movements seemed fluid, controlled. Where you were rigid from years of posturing amongst socialites, he was naturally elegant, as at ease under your gaze as the swans in the pond earlier. 

Soft, your mind supplies. He looks soft.  

His voice is gentle when he speaks again. “So, what brought you to the park in the middle of a blizzard?”

You try to resist the grin that creeps across your face; you fail miserably. “If you think this is a blizzard, you’re in for a shock come February.” 

“Do you defer every question someone asks you, or am I just special?” His dark eyes are trained on you, head cocked to the side curiously. It wasn’t an attack- his expression was too open to be on the offense. He was genuinely waiting for your answer. 

“I needed to get away from my mother.” You answer honestly, shrugging, though not meeting his gaze. 

You can feel his eyes on you, though, searching for more. “You got into an argument?” 

Shaking your head, you cast your eyes back to the pond, hoping to get another glimpse of the swans. “Not an argument. We have the same discussion every week, knowing fully well that we’ll disagree and end up screaming at each other.”

You have not felt… seen, like this, ever. You aren’t an adamant rule-follower, but you’re far from a rebel, too, allowing you to safely pass through life unnoticed. Even your mother only really seemed to remember you after your older sister had been married off to some fishing industry tycoon. To have a stranger see through your facade was unnerving. 

“Disagreeing and screaming sounds like an argument to me.” He pushes, to which you hum noncommittally. Sensing your apprehension, he follows your line of sight to the pond instead. “The ducks left weeks ago.”

“I’m not looking for the ducks.” You answer shortly, perhaps a bit too harsh. 

“Oh?” Is his only response.

It’s obvious he wants you to continue. This was a safer topic than your mother, so you yield to his piqued interest. “I like watching the swans. They were here earlier, but I think you scared them off.” Your eyes slide over to him slyly.

He scoffs, looking insulted. “The swans probably left because they were scared you’d mace them.”

You whirl on him, poking a finger into his chest. “The swans don’t lurk in the bushes at the park like a weirdo.” 

His expression is unimpressed, but there’s a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “No one was lurking. Besides,” He grabs the finger directed at him gently, guiding it down to your side. “You don’t make a good damsel in distress. Anyone trying to steal you would just bring you back when they figured out how mean you are.”

“I’ve been nothing but cordial.” You sniff, brows furrowing at him. 

His smirk is a little overwhelming. “If this is you on your “Nice” setting, I’d hate to see you pissed off.” 

“Stop pushing your luck, then.” You respond dryly. He throws his head back to laugh, and the sound makes you feel warmer in your coat. 

You turn back to the pond, giving up on seeing the swans again tonight. You probably need to head home, anyways- you were expected at this stupid party, and suffering through it would be better than dealing with your mother’s nagging if you were absent. You let out a soft sigh, resigned to your fate. 

“I should go.” You say to no one in particular. 

You feel Noah’s eyes on you again. “Hey, don’t let me run you off. I can go if I’m bothering you-”

You shake your head, body turning to face him before you realize you’re moving. “No, it’s not you- really.” You offer what you hope is a kind smile. “I’m expected somewhere. My mother will be horribly cross with me if I’m not there.”

He’s giving you an understanding smile, eyes crinkling up at the edges. “Sounds like a real rager. Will I, uh-” He glances down at his shoes, kicking at the snow before continuing, “Will I get to see you again?”

The question genuinely startles you. You assumed your demeanor (and mace) would be off-putting enough for him to be quite happy not speaking to you from this moment forward, but he… wanted to see you again? 

“I mean,” You stammer, unable to find your words, “I’ll be around. At the park. If you’re also around.”

When he looks up, his face is alight. “Okay, yeah. I’ll also be around. Near the swans.”

A grin sneaks its way onto your face, unbeknownst to you. “Yeah, near the swans.” You avert your gaze, needing to look anywhere but at his hopeful expression. “See ya, Noah.”

He calls out a goodbye, but you’ve already scurried past him, the heels of your boots clicking rapidly against the sidewalk as you make your escape. You don’t dare glance back. 

Your home is a few minutes away, shorter than usual given the fact that you’re practically jogging through the winter night. By the time you’ve shut your front door behind you, you’re out of breath, chest rising and falling heavily. 

Your mother appears from the kitchen, her usual expression of passive annoyance plastered on her face. She calls your name, as if she needs to get your attention when you’re the only two people in the room. “Where have you been? It’s been snowing for half an hour, you’re going to catch a cold. And your boots are covered in mud- for heaven’s sake, really, we need to leave soon. Why are you grinning like that?” 

You don’t register the smile on your face, still panting. Schooling your features into neutrality, you mutter out a quick, “I’m going to change clothes, be down in a sec.”

She’s ranting about punctuality and manners, but you barely hear it as you run up the stairs, grin overcoming your features once more as you think about dark eyes and soft smiles.

[mieeaahhh]

The foxes as types of clown because I’m a freak and obsessed with clowns

❗️there is pictures of clowns on this post❗️

Neil Josten- Tramp clown!

The Tramp clown was inspired by homeless people late in the nineteenth century.

(The clown in this photo is Emmett Kelly)

Andrew Minyard- Mime clown!

Some clowns combine the art of mime with clowning.

(This clown is Marcel Marceau)

Aaron Minyard- Pierrot clown!

The embodiment of a certain strain of artistic sentiment: sensitive, melancholy, and intrinsically alone, playful and daring through the subversion of language while suggesting the fraught and facile nature of gender.

(This is Jean-Charles Deburau I think)

Kevin Day- Costume Clown!

a specific character ( such as a fireman, police officer, etc.).

(This clown is Frankie Saluto)

Nicky Hemmick- Auguste clown!

During most of the twentieth century, the Auguste clown was a stupid and clumsy character.

(This clown is Lou Jacobs)

Renee Walker- would also be either a mime or Pierrot!

Allison Reynolds- a Jester?? I don’t really know actually

A member of the household of a nobleman or a monarch employed to entertain guests during the royal court.

(Stańczyk is a painting by Jan Matejko finished in 1862.)

Matt Boyd- Also an Auguste clown!

Dan Wilds- Whiteface clown!

The Whiteface is the big brother of the clowning world: in charge, a know-it-all, a straight man setting up the situations that other clowns, like the Auguste or the Tramp, turn funny.

(This clown is named Francesco Caroli)

Seth Gordan- Creepy Clown!

The evil clown archetype plays strongly off the sense of dislike it caused to inherit elements of coulrophobia; however, it has been suggested by Joseph Durwin that the concept of evil clowns has an independent position in popular culture,

(Just think of pennywise or something LMAO)

[telekinetictrait]

True paradise is not in heaven but on the lips of one's beloved. (Mademoiselle de Maupin – Theóphile Gautier, 1835)

guys... i love the 1830s. i would kill to wear the 1836 dress :( so the sim modeling this decade is based loosely off of how i look! i am flying through these decades lol sorry

anyway. 1830s! you see the puffy sleeves in this era that you also associate with the 1890s, but they're much more romantic and soft in this area. as the decade goes on, the hemline falls again, and you see the skirt start to widen exponentially.

1834 deviates in this series, but that's just because i wanted to use it to honor anne lister, a.k.a 'gentleman jack', who is known often as the "first modern lesbian".

1800-1809 / 1810-1819 / 1820-1829

cc links under the cut!!

see my resources page

darcy : linzlu's fancy bonnet / the-melancholy-maiden's ringlets updo / peebsplays' 1830s riding outfit

deridre : the-melancholy-maiden's pinned curls updo / the-melancholy-maiden's 1820s-1830s hair flowers / peebsplays' 1830s tabitha day dress / acanthus-sims' rose brooch / simverses' silk flats

dionysia : buzzardly28's 1830s hair / glitterberrysims' turquoise necklace / acanthus-sims' simple fichu / peebsplays' 1830s eliza dress / simverses' silk flats

djene : cringeborg's amelia hair / elfdor june hat / makesims' revolution rosette / tzuhu's lace accessory top / vintagesimstress' 1830s ballgown / joliebean's satin tipped shoes

dmitriya : buzzardly28's anne lister hair + top hat / renorasims' lilith corset / vintagesimstress' 1890s working girl bottom (i know, i know, but it worked.) / gilded-ghosts' hartfield boots

dorcas : cringeborg's amelia hair / the-melancholy-maiden's 1820s-1830s hair flowers / glitterberrysims' saxe necklace with pearls / tzuhu's lace accessory top / moon-simmers recolor of sunlittides' simple 1830's evening dress / gilded-ghosts' hartfield boots

drusilla : the-melancholy-maiden's ringlets updo / linzlu’s birthday bonnet / sunlittides' 1830s dainty dress / simverses' silk flats

dsinara : buzzardly28's anne lister formal hair / moon-simmers recolor of vintagesimstress' 1830s mourning dress / simverses' silk flats

dulcie : buzzardly28's ann walker hair / the-melancholy-maiden's 1820s-1830s hair flowers / simverses' mistress mysterium scarf / sunlittides' plain 1830s day dress / joliebean's satin tipped shoes

dymphna : simverses' hat with plumes, bow, and roses / deathpoke1qa's nancy rosary / sunlittides' 1830s garden stroll dress

thank you to @linzlu @the-melancholy-maiden @peebsplays @acanthus-sims @simverses @buzzardly28 @glitterberrysims @cringeborg @makesims @vintagesimstress @joliebean @renorasims @gilded-ghosts @moon-simmers @sunlittides and @deathpoke1qa !!!!

[hermitthrush]

"-- you have too good a mind to throw away. I don't quite know what we're doing on this insignificant cinder spinning away in a dark corner of the universe. That is a secret which the high gods have not confided in me. Yet one thing I believe and I believe it with every fiber of my being. A man must live by his lights and do what little he can and do it as best he can. In this world goodness is destined to be defeated. But a man must go down fighting. That is the victory. To do anything less is to be less than a man."

Walker Percy, The Moviegoer (1961) | Part 1, Chapter 5. Aunt Emily to Binx.

[lady-phasma]

Happiness at the end of the world

Chapter 3 of ?

Daryl Dixon x OFC

Warnings: 18+ MDNI; this is really different than anything I have ever shared on Tumblr before - it's fluffy and has lots of feelings and quite a few warnings; Smut, Not Canon Compliant, PTSD, mentions of past SA, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Demisexual Daryl Dixon, p in v sex, ultra-Light Dom/sub

Summary a/n: I'm terrible at summaries, it's just more fluffy smutty stuff like chapter 2. No beta. 4.5k words.

Kristina scrubbed her eyes with her fists and squinted at the sun light. They had fallen asleep, possibly overslept. Thankfully neither of them had a run planned. Daryl might have work detail, she wasn’t sure, but she had the day off. He would probably need to take Dog out soon. She yawned as silently as she could manage, not wanting to wake Daryl yet. She was surprised to find she had fallen asleep naked. He was still wearing his jeans. He was barely snoring but the soft sound made her smile. She snuggled in close to his side. One of his arms was flung above his head, the other draped across his chest. She put her head close to his arm pit, indulging in the guilty pleasure of how wonderful he smelled, embarrassed even though only she knew. She thought she might not care if he did know, he would probably like that she liked it. She curled next to him, took a deep breath, and slipped her hand under his on his chest.

He stirred just a bit, one eye opening to assess the interruption, then he swept his arm down and crushed her into his side. She smiled against his skin. The illusion of being small with him would never get old. She let her mind wander and relished being here, in the moment, no urgency. She savored it. Her thoughts drifted through the sleepy fog of memories from the previous night. She was more satisfied than she had been in years. She watched his stomach as he breathed, the sunlight from the window highlighting a few scars and fine blond hairs. It took all of her willpower to resist the impulse to touch them, move her palm over and down his stomach. The waist of his jeans was low on his hips, revealing the darker hair just below his bellybutton. Of course she noticed the bulge in his jeans. Her mouth watered. She suspected it wasn’t a particularly comfortable way to sleep.

Her lazy thoughts drifted through things she would like to do with him, to him, back to their present arrangement, and then to coffee. It was a luxury she had long ago learned to live without but this morning felt so normal, so like before, that she could almost smell the dark roast in the French press. An impromptu fantasy formulated in her mind’s eye of a world without walkers, Daryl in her bed in her last apartment. Laying with him on a Saturday maybe, windows open to let in the cool spring morning air. The smell of him, coffee, clean sheets, and the anticipation of toothpaste combined into a snapshot that made her a little melancholy. She let the thought of toothpaste guide her back to the present and wondered if he had any. He probably did, he had the basics most of the time.

She wriggled from under his arm. When she started walking to the bathroom she was very aware of her nakedness but didn’t cover up, just in case he was awake enough to watch her. She smiled to herself as she searched the bathroom sink and medicine cabinet for toothpaste. Fuck yes, she thought, as she picked up a flat, rolled up, tiny tube of the stuff. She never knew she would love it, miss it, so much. With just the tiniest spot of it on her finger she scrubbed at her teeth. Her toothbrush was at her place. She took her time, it was a lovely feeling, then sipped some water from the faucet and rinsed. She breathed into her palm, sniffed, and was satisfied that most of the morning breath was gone.

Daryl had at least one eye on her as she stepped out of the bathroom. He tried to play possum but she saw his eyelids flutter. She leaned against the door frame. If he was pretending then he would be curious when he didn’t hear the expected footsteps approach or feel the dip in the mattress as she got back in bed. Ha! There it was again.

“Playin’ possum, huh?” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“Huh?” he opened his eyes slowly but his lips made a tight line as he suppressed a smile.

“Yeah that’s what I thought,” she walked toward the bed. She tossed the toothpaste at him. “I’ll pay you back what I used and find some more on my next run. That shit needs to be a priority unless some hippie around here can make us some from tree bark and dandelions or some shit.”

He scoff-laughed and picked up the tube from the bed. She knew him pretty well, knew he wouldn’t care if he had water or not. In a pinch just the paste would do and she didn’t want him out of bed just yet. She stood at the side of the bed as he pushed his toothpaste around his mouth. No one ever looked dignified “brushing” their teeth with their finger. She waited until he was done and held out her hand for the tube.

“Wha?” he asked.

“Gimme and I’ll take it back to the bathroom,” she answered, making a grabbing motion with her hand.

“Nah,” he said, tossing the tube on the floor. “Com’ere.”

She blushed while she hesitated. She had wanted his attention, that’s why she hadn’t put on clothes. However, Daryl’s attention was intense, she kept forgetting that.

He put his hand out to her but he remained laying down. She gingerly stepped onto the mattress, using his hand for balance. She was unsure where he wanted her so she stood, one foot on either side of his hips. She felt a bit like an Amazon and didn’t hate it. He slid his hand out of hers, letting each finger trail down hers. His eyes moved slowly over her. Just before she was about to sit down or run or sink into a hole in the floor, he sat up and slid his hands up both legs from her ankles, over her calves, and cupped her ass. Their communication was simple, silent queues, pressure with fingertips, glances with eyes. She loved it. Some combination of his signs instructed her to kneel, straddling him. She did.

She shivered. It wasn’t a cold morning at all but she felt like all the heat in the room was now only where their skin touched. His grip on her ass never faltered. This helped her get to her knees gracefully instead of the careless, unsexy way she probably would have done on her own. He also wouldn’t let her sit back on her heels. As much as he was learning her, she was learning him and she had not moved her hands from her sides since he let her hand go. She was looking at him, shivering a little, and struggling to think of anything other than her bare pussy spread open exactly how he wanted it. She blushed a deeper shade of pink.

“Mornin’,” he said. Before she could reply he moved both hands in tandem to cup her ass cheeks. She bit her bottom lip. Then his fingers began to move between her thighs. One hand held her thigh from behind, the other found her pussy.

“Ya get wet real fast, huh?” he grinned. She nodded, lower lip still pinched between her teeth.

“How come?” he asked.

“Uh, you, uh,” she mumbled and gulped and remembered she actually knew words. “You make me wet. Thinking about you, looking at you, smelling you…” She trailed off. His eyes had flashed a little at the last one.

“Mmmmhm,” he responded. Then he started to move his fingers. The sensation of being played with from behind while looking at him made her knees weak and her mouth dry.

He pulled her legs toward him, for better reach, but she lost her balance a bit and steadied herself with her hands on his shoulders. She was now straddling his lap, her stomach almost pressed against his. He looked at her and slowly shook his head. As soon as she understood she dropped her hands from his shoulders and made an apologetic face. His face was unreadable.

Then his fingers parted her lips and pressed against her clit. He stroked back the full length and then forward again, stopping to dip into her and then out quickly to circle her clit. He repeated the motion. God she was dripping wet. His hands were rough and felt amazing on her sensitive skin, on her swollen clit. She had never been stroked in quite this way before and found herself once again admiring his instincts.

“Oh Daryl,” she moaned. “Oh shit you feel so good.”

“Yeah, ya like that,” he growled. “Ya want me to make you come?”

“Fuck, please,” she begged. She had started to sway with his rhythm and her back arched to push her hips closer to him.

“Nah,” he said as he pulled his fingers out. Her eyes flew open at the sudden loss of stimulation. Before she could protest she watched him lick his fingers, tasting her, and she moaned.

His other hand still held her in place. Her breasts were nearly level with his mouth and he leaned forward sucking a nipple into his mouth. She squirmed and his grip on her thigh tightened. He placed his other hand on her side, high up on her ribs, and pulled her chest closer. She felt off-balance and unsteady. Every sensation from his mouth and hands on her tugged at her cunt with electric strings.

“Daryl, please,” she moaned.

“Please what?” he immediately put his mouth back on her nipple.

“Can I please touch you?” she whispered. She wasn’t afraid to ask but was unsure of the answer.

An mmhmm vibrated from his mouth through her nipple and straight to her clit. Her hands flew to his hair and grabbed fistfuls. Her hands roamed everywhere without thought. She caressed his neck and shoulders, his chest, arms, anything she could reach while remaining upright. She kept her eyes closed and made a mental map of him. He had given both nipples attention as well as the sensitive skin under her breasts. The sensory overload forced unintentional sounds from her.

He hands rested on his upper arms. She couldn’t get enough of his biceps flexing under her fingertips. She didn’t grip to steady herself, she didn’t need to.

His mouth moved away from her and his hands began to slide to her hips, his thumbs pressed hard in the hollow of her hip bones. He understood how much she enjoyed that almost immediately the night before. He gently pulled down on her hips so that she was sitting on his lap. Her knees ached but she cared with only a small sliver of her mind. His dick was so hard that she gasped when her pussy came to rest on the zipper of his jeans.

Kristina took advantage of the permission to touch him and slid her hands to the back of his neck. She held his gaze while she moved close enough to kiss him but stopped just out of reach. He leaned in to meet her lips and she pulled back, teasing, grinning a little. She enjoyed having his lips just out of reach, sharing his air, watching his expression change from control to something like pursuit. She darted out her tongue and licked his bottom lip. He was faster than her. He pressed his lips against hers and tugged at her bottom lip with his teeth. She moaned into his mouth as he released it. She wanted to learn every way he liked to be kissed, felt she could do that all day. She moaned again when he forced her mouth open with his tongue. He responded to her moans by gripping her hips and adjusting his.

His jeans were rough and delightful against her. She was almost sure they were soaked by now. She was aching and couldn’t imagine how he must feel. She wanted to make him feel everything, help him experience everything, she was impatient. As they kissed she moved her hands from his neck to his chest. She ran her fingers through the rough hair and avoided the scars she could remember with her eyes closed. She was learning as quickly as she could but sometimes part of learning was testing. She let her fingertips graze his nipple, her nails tracing the muscles of his pecs, and returned to his nipple. Each time she did, he moaned and slightly rolled his hips.

She didn’t want to be made to choose but this new information was intriguing so she pulled back from their kiss. She placed small, delicate kisses up the line of his jaw to his ear, and breathed hotly next to it. She increased the pressure of her fingers as she passed over his nipple again. Slowly, she told herself, don’t rush. She circled her other arm around his shoulder and pulled him closer. There was almost no space between them She loved this closeness. She got a bit braver and made gentle circles around his nipple. His short, quick breathes guided her. His head was in the curve of her neck and he was lazily sucking and kissing her neck and collarbone. She hummed, licked his earlobe, rolled her hips, and almost pinched at his nipple.

This was too much. Daryl grabbed her by the waist, moved her off his lap, and almost pushed her onto her back. He was hovering over her before her surprise had subsided. She giggled. She squirmed a bit, wiggling her hips and him, taunting him. Her giggles turned into quiet laughter at the look on his face. God it was endearing. It was a comical mix of delight and annoyance but with a trace of something like fear.

He began to smother her chest and stomach and hips with greedy, kisses, sucking and nibbling at times. Her laughter transformed into panting and moaning as he slipped a thigh between her legs. He ground the coarse denim against her as he kept kissing. When she felt his teeth she arched her back toward him, forcing her hips against his thigh. He groped and searched for her wrists while his kissing slowed. He brought them together in one hand and pinned them above her head. He raised up to do this and was looking down at her, hunger and need in his blue eyes.

Kristina defied him and raised her head to kiss his chest, reach her mouth almost a nipple. He pressed harder on her wrists, not painfully, and she dropped her head back on the pillow. She bit her lower lip in a challenge. He made a point to push his leg against her cunt as he moved off the bed. She knew better than to lower her arms. She had no idea what he was doing until he walked back into the room with one of his bandanas. He got back on the bed, straddling her. The cloth smelled of motorcycles and Daryl and earth as he wrapped it around her wrists. After he tied the knot he tugged on it and her arms moved but her wrists stayed together.

He looked at her. Just looked. She tried to make her face unreadable but the more she tried the hotter the blush felt. He got up from the mattress again. He assessed the scene and tapped the inside of one of her ankles. He was gentle but knew what he wanted. She spread her legs.

He nodded once, satisfied, and the rested a hand on the fly of his jeans. He held her gaze to ensure she was watching. He was insecure about almost everything about himself except his abilities to track and hunt. Only a day ago what he was doing now only existed in his imagination, nothing he could actually do. Kristina looked at him the way he looked at her. He wasn’t comfortable in his skin, might never be, but that seemed okay when he was with her. She didn’t expect him to be. Not that he thought she preferred he be some beat up mess but that it didn’t really matter to her or if it did at all it only made her enjoy him more. He always overthought, analyzed, tried to anticipate what would happen next. A survival skill he developed to dodge words and fists and pain. Last night he had moments when his brain took a break from the extra work, when his world was nothing but being wrapped up in her. He could do that as long as she would let him.

So with her he did things that scared him at first or made himself feel a little unhinged. He was sure her psychology shit had words for all that. The words didn’t matter to him. He just wanted to keep returning to that edge and finding out that he could go past it. And that he had someone who stood on the other side with her hand out, helping him. He rarely felt brave, he did what was necessary, but there was a small flicker of bravery when he pushed past the fear.

He watched as her eyes did what he wanted and followed his hand to his jeans. He cupped the bulge, pressed the zipper a little too hard against his dick, but the slight pain helped him focus. Once his jeans were unzipped his narrow hips couldn’t hold them up. He let them fall to the floor and stepped out of them. She licked her lips. He liked that a lot. He enjoyed being able to watch her shallow breathing in the sway of her breasts, how her belly rose and fell, close to panting.

He wrapped his hand around his dick and stroked, long, lazy strokes. Her eyes followed. He swiped the precum off the tip and she licked her lips again. Oh yeah? he thought. He leaned over the mattress and painted her bottom lip with it. Her eyes nearly closed as she slid her tongue out to taste it. Watching her enjoy that tugged at the base of his dick and he groaned through gritted teeth. He knelt down next to her, hand back on his aching dick, and licked at her nipples, her belly button, kissed her carefully above her pussy. He breathed in her smell. He wanted his mouth on her, to taste her, feel her with his tongue, almost as much as he wanted to fuck her. He had already moved his mouth away though. The very fucking last thing he ever wanted was to make her uncomfortable. He kissed her ribs, her arm pit, mostly to watch her squirm but also to learn all of her smells, kissed her elbow, and her curled fingers.

Her eyes narrowed as she watched him sit down beside her. He reached over and helped her sit up, her bound wrists making that action particularly difficult. Then he guided her over him while he lay back. She let herself be led. He positioned her straddling him, she was so easy to move like this, compliant, willing, but, most of all, enthusiastic about letting him take control. She sucked in a small gasp of air when he had her where he wanted. Her pussy rested on his lower stomach and his dick was hard against her ass.

He slid his hands in tandem over the insides of her thighs, let his thumbs brush her swollen lips, press into her hips, and continued up her sides, along her ribs, and then pulled her down onto him. Her arms relaxed with her wrists on the pillow just above his head. She felt almost weightless. The only part of her not supported by him were her knees. When he breathed she felt herself lifted with him, her breasts pressed hard into his chest. He placed a gentle kiss on her lips as he moved his hands to her ass. She liked being able to figure him out and not be too many steps behind. He wanted her to get used to letting him hold her up, feel safe.

Daryl kissed her cheek, her neck, her arm beside his head, and started to lift her ass. For a moment he knew it would be awkward and difficult for her but he had her. Having her lay on top of him was a wonderful feeling. For a brief flash he wished he could communicate that to her in words but then he focused on where his hands were. He had to strain just a little to reach behind her. He guided the tip of his dick into her hot, wet pussy, taking his time to brush against her clit before fully sliding in. Then he slowly pressed her hips down with his hands. She didn’t make a sound, she only breathed, her head tucked between them. Her breath was warm and almost damp on his chest.

He groaned enough for both of them. He adjusted his hips for a better angle and they both hitched in breaths. He didn’t know quite where to put his hands so he placed one on her lower back. When he brought his hips up he could keep her steady with that hand. She made a soft purring sound when he did that. He pulled out a little and slid back in, repeated, just to hear that sound again. His other hand searched her body as he rolled his hips. He wasn’t fucking her yet. He wanted to go slow as long as he could. When his fingers grazed the fold of her hip she twitched away from his hand but pressed her hips into his. He touched the side of her belly, she was so soft that he sighed, nothing in this world was soft anymore. He gently worked his hand between them, palm on her stomach, and circled her clit with a finger.

She pushed down onto his hand. She wasn’t in control of her body anymore. Her hips moved without her instruction, her arms were jelly beside his head, her mind was empty, and now every nerve in her body was either focused on her clit or his dick inside her. The slow, steady rhythm of his hips and finger were overwhelming. She wanted to grope and grab at something. Her hands clenched into fists. With her wrists bound she couldn’t touch anything. Her forehead was pressed hard into his chest and she was breathing her own recycled air in the space between them. He held her still with his hand on her back and couldn’t fuck him like every part of her ached to do. Panting, her eyes closed tight, she could feel her lips on his chest. Without thinking she bit. She knew it wasn’t hard, probably not even enough to bruise, but it was the only action her mind could find.

“Shit,” Daryl groaned, at first in surprise and then a wave of intense feeling ran from her mouth to his dick. His hips jerked as a reflex and she gasped. The place where she had bit him throbbed momentarily. He snatched his hand from between their bodies. He grabbed her with all of his strength and rolled them over. Kristina made a small oof sound and when he looked at her to make sure she was okay she was smiling. In one smooth motion he pinned her bound wrists above her head with one hand and swept one of her legs over his shoulder with the other.

He thrust deeper into her. He leaned into her leg as far as he felt he could without hurting her and put his mouth next to her ear.

“This what ya want woman?” he asked through gritted teeth, quickening his pace with shallower, faster thrusts. “Ya wanna be bad, that it?”

“Yes, oh god, yes Daryl,” she yelled. “Fuck!”

“Fine,” he growled as he lifted himself up enough to move his hand from her wrists. At first he gently slid his hand to her throat. She looked into his eyes and nodded. He squeezed and she rasped out a please. Just a bit more pressure and they found the sweet spot. Her breath was ragged and her eyes rolled back. He felt her leg wrap around him, pressing on his ass to push him deeper. His thrusts became more erratic as her muscles tightened around his dick.

He watched her face carefully as his orgasm started to tug at him. Her lips were parted, her eyes shut, and her cheeks flushed. She was so beautiful. Seeing his rough, tan hand around her pale throat nearly sent him over the edge. He didn’t pull back on his last thrust, he ground his hips against hers. He felt her groan in his hand before he heard it. Then he released her neck and her body rocked against him. Her muscles pulsed around his dick.

Her orgasm tore through her. She yelled his name and gasped. Loud, hitching breaths shook her chest. He let her leg slide off his shoulder, wrapped his arms around her, and buried his face in her breasts. His hips bucked against her. He felt her hands find his neck.The bandana strained against her movement. The sensation of the fabric on his skin made him moan a quiet, drawn-out fuck against her chest. He felt his cum pour into her. She wrapped her legs around him and held him as his entire body vibrated.

Kristina kissed the top of his head. She loved his smell and nuzzled her face into his hair for a moment longer. She felt his body relax on top of her. Her pulse pounded in her ears, her wrists, her cunt. His cum seeped out from between them before he pulled out. He slid his arms from underneath her and raised up to see her watching him. She held her bound wrists in front of her face. He didn’t think he had ever seen someone as beautiful as her in his life. He carefully pulled out of her with a small moan in his throat. He sat up and untied the bandana. He pressed his lips against each wrist. When he let her hands go she sat up and kissed him hard.

She flopped back down on the mattress, completely graceless. Daryl laid down beside her. She kissed his shoulder. It was so easy for them to forget what the world was like now. Walkers didn’t exist, they didn’t have to forage for toothpaste, potable water wasn’t a limited resource. Unfortunately this spell would break. They would have some daily tasks to do and normal human things to attend to but for a moment she enjoyed this small bubble of peace.

“Guess Dog’ll be needed some attention,” Daryl sighed. “Imma take him out and feed him. Ya want breakfast too?”

She smiled and nodded, her eyes half closed.

[pastanest]

if you’re wondering why I’m having to repost this, or why you were perhaps previously following me but no longer are, please refer to this post. I was able to retrieve this thanks to @iamburdened - thanks so much!! ♡

Daryl Dixon x she/her!reader

spoilers: set in season 7

Forever

The floorboards of your bedroom stare back at you, creaking with what feels like sympathy as you stand up. It feels like your strength is drained simply by taking the two steps from your bed to the window. Not even an echo of him stands in the doorway watching you, but you turn around so quickly, with just a moment’s hope. And just like every morning, it falls flat. Tears collect themselves in your eyes, the sensation no longer one of stinging, because your body is so used to it by now. What day is it?

The sound of a truck pulling up to the gates of Alexandria brings you back down to the melancholy bedroom that has been yours alone for far too long. Spencer opens the gate to see who it is, and all you catch is a glimpse of the sun reflecting off of the barbed wire around that bat, and your body is alight. You’re running, pulling clothes on at random, grabbing the ring from your bedside table that you stole from a walker that no longer needed it, because if you had any chance of doing this, you needed a plan.

By the time you make it out of the house, Negan is walking at Rick’s side, Rick carrying a pained expression, his entire body tense. But your eyes barely focus on him, because behind Negan, keeping his head down, clad in a filthy outfit fit for a prisoner of war, is him. Not a ghost, not an echo, not something that disappears before you even have the chance to blink. Daryl. Your heart breathes a sigh of relief at the mere thought of his name, but at the sight of him it shatters into millions of shards of glass, creating a path to him that wounds you with every step. Assessing the situation, you realise Negan must have set some rules in place for Rick to not be communicating with Daryl right now, and for Daryl to be following behind him so solemnly. You try your best to walk as calmly as you can, until you’re standing directly in front of Negan.

“Oh my goodness! It’s the lady that couldnt keep her eyes off Daryl in the lineup! Shit, not much has changed about you!” Negan greets you, noticing how your eyes linger on the man a few feet behind him.

“Hi, Negan.”

It’s only at the sound of your voice that Daryl is pulled from whatever horrible cage his mind is trapped in, and he looks up from the ground, his eyes finding you immediately. Even from a distance, you can see the agony in his eyes alone.

“You’re a big fan of deals, I was wondering if I could make one with you.” You finally meet Negan’s gaze, catching a glimpse of Daryl scowling at you, thinking you’re going to do something stupid like offer yourself in his place. If only it was that simple.

“Let me hear what these deal is first, sweetcheeks.” Negan sticks his tongue in the side of his mouth, slouching casually.

“Could you please, please let me hug Daryl, for three seconds. Just three, that’s all I ask.” You present his side of the bargain, trying to play into Negan’s hands by giving him the feeling that he’s in control of this. You dont want him to be, but he is, and he loves it, so you may as well use his ego to your advantage.

“Well, what do I get in return?” Negan tilts his head, his smile cruel, but curious.

“My wedding ring.” You lift your left hand, and Negan takes it, examining the ring on your finger.

“Oh-ho-ho shit! You guys are MARRIED!?!” Negan uses Lucille to gesture between you and Daryl, before he settles his focus back on you. “That’s not a bad offer, but Im not sure I can do three whole seconds.”

If he was anyone else that you happened to despise, you’d make a joke about how you’re certain he cant last three seconds, but you refrain.

“Two?” You offer up, your heart pounding against your ribs, using everything you have to hold your eye contact with Negan. If you look at only him, it’ll fuel his ego even more. Even after only meeting this man once, you know him far too well.

“Hmm...” Negan is beyond cruel, but you cant argue with him or you wont get anything.

“Just one second, then. Please.“ You plead with your eyes, your own honest desperation leaking into your voice and bringing up the pitch.

Finally, Negan nods.

You make a show of handing him the ring, pretending that it hurts you, closing your eyes in a pained blink as you drop it in his hand as though you cant bear to look. Those of the group that are witness to this are sure to applaud your acting later. Negan grins obnoxiously, closing his leather bound fist around the ring, celebrating what he believes to be another victory of humiliation for Daryl, because he’s under the illusion that he’s actually taken something from you.

But none of that matters. Your eyes meet Daryl’s, and he’s staring at you in disbelief at what you just managed to pull off. Knowing you quite literally dont have much time, you pull him into your arms. His head drops to your neck, but he doesnt wrap his arms around you, he cant, or he risks being unable to let you go and making you pay the price.

You manage to whisper a quick “I love you” and leave a small kiss on his shoulder, just under his prison clothes. A secret, hidden kiss, something that Negan will never be able to take from him.

“And your second is UP!” Negan cheers, and you and Daryl jump apart, even though it was you who moved closer to him. In an effort to make sure it was definitely clear you only hugged him for a second, to protect you, he jumped from you anyway.

“Nice doin’ business with ya, sweetcheeks.” Negan smirks at you, patting your shoulder.

You nod in reply but dont say anything, and he gets distracted by a conversation with Rick so he doesnt notice you continuing to look at Daryl. A Saviour clears his throat, diverting your attention and making you aware that you are being watched, and are not supposed to be looking at Daryl. So you walk away. Just to the other side of the street, but far away enough for you to sit on a random porch and pretend to be looking at other things, despite anyone who knows you recognising there is nothing else you want to see but him.

It is torture of an unknown degree, watching Negan work Daryl like a servant, aiming a gun at his head for nothing more than his own amusement. You know he could snap and kill Daryl at any moment, and although you doubt he would do that because it would bring hell down on him, your body is swarmed with paranoia. Your leg is bouncing anxiously up until Negan heads back to the gate with his minions. Pushing yourself back up, you jog over to stand beside Rick. Daryl is loaded into the back of a truck, and hearing you suck in a painful breath behind him, Rick reaches for your hand, and you grip it fiercely.

The truck pulls away, and you drop Rick’s hand, sprinting after the truck until Rick grabs you and you collapse to your knees. Daryl’s tearful eyes watch as you physically reach out for him, until a cloud of dust masks you from his view and he turns away, unable to look back without risking it all.

A shocking realisation awakens you abruptly from sleep that night, and you sit bolt upright in a cold sweat. Packing a bag as quickly as you can, you grab a pencil and piece of paper to write Rick a note. Then you’re on the back of a horse, not needing to say anything to Rosita for her to know that whatever you’re doing is absolutely necessary, as she opens the gate for you.

When Rick wakes up the following morning, he finds a note posted under his door. It’s rushed handwriting, but he can make out what it says.

“He wont come back here, first place they’ll look.”

Rick knows you well enough to understand what you’re referring to, and he’s quick to tear up the note so that nobody else finds it. Michonne walks up behind him, rubbing his back gently.

“Everything alright?” She asks him in a hushed voice.

“(Y/N)’s gone.” Rick looks over his shoulder at her so that Michonne can see he isnt upset.

“Where?” She frowns.

“To the Hilltop.” And then, Rick smiles.

It’s your only option, realistically. But Rick knows that your quick exit means you have hope, you are waiting for Daryl, because you believe that he’ll get himself out somehow before the group figures out a way to free him. Alexandria is where you are, where Rick is, where Daryl’s family is - it’s the first place the Saviours will look for him, so Daryl wont go back there, and you should wait for him elsewhere. Knowing that hope had been a lost concept to you ever since Daryl was taken, Rick couldnt be happier to find out that you were coming back to yourself.

Maggie is surprised to see you, neither of you saying anything as you share a look that you both understand. What she has lost, and what you are without, creates a bond that extends your deep friendship in a way you never imagined.

You spend a few days at Hilltop, mainly wasting time by pissing off Greggory and doing your absolute best to be of far more help to the people of Hilltop than he is. Which, let’s face it, isnt a difficult task. When you’re not pissing off Greggory, you’re usually out on runs. You want to earn your keep, obviously, but Maggie and Jesus both know that the only reason you continue to come and go so frequently is because you’re hoping that maybe, just maybe, while you’re out there, you’ll find him in the middle of his escape. Or that when you return to Hilltop, he’ll be waiting for you.

This is the first run you’ve done that has lasted more than one night, you treasure the time completely by yourself because being around others reminds you of his absence more. When it’s just you and the trees, it’s ever so slightly less excruciating.

Your horse approaches Hilltop, and you see trucks outside. Before you know it, your horse and your wide eyes are almost flying through the gates. Jumping off your horse, you run as fast as your legs will carry you into the mansion. Greggory is just leading Simon into his office when you appear, and Simon stops dead in his tracks, frowning at you.

“Dont you live in Alexandria?” He asks, looking at Greggory suspiciously.

Thinking on your feet, you smile. “Nah, I pretty much live here now, cant keep myself away from my man.” You saunter over to Jesus, who plays along and wraps an arm around your waist.

He leans close to whisper in your ear, everyone else viewing it as a kiss on the cheek. “He’s in the basement.”

Feeling goosebumps erupt across your entire body and your stomach flip, you hurry to mask your shock. You nod and giggle, patting his chest. “I’ve missed you too, babe.”

All of the Saviours seem to believe you, rolling their eyes and scowling at what appears to be a scene of an innocent couple.

“I was just out hunting, got some rabbits if you guys want them?” You offer to the Saviours, your eyes lingering on Simon, who smiles back at you.

“What a kind offer! Where are they?” Always so greedy.

“Strapped to my horse outside, you can just grab them on your way past, dont let it distract you from whatever you’re doing.” Your smile widens almost unnaturally, and Simon chuckles, shaking his head.

“Y’know, I always liked you. It’s a shame you’ve already moved on from that redneck piece of shit.”

Your fists shake at your side, and Jesus wraps his hand around yours to calm you, and hide your fist.

“She figured out what’s good for her.” Jesus says, shooting you an apology with his eyes.

Simon seems satisfied with that answer, and goes back to following Greggory into his office.

You make a casual exit from the scene, heading into another room to grab a torch before you leave the mansion. The bones in your legs feel weak all of a sudden, like they’ll snap on your way to the basement doors. You open them carefully and jump right in, the daylight streams in for just a moment before you close the doors behind you, then your torchlight is your only vision.

Searching the room frantically, the miniature spotlight finds him. Curled up in a corner, shielding his eyes from the light, looking almost like he’s cowering. He thinks he’s been caught again.

“Daryl.” You breathe his name and his hands leave his face.

The torch falls from your hand as you run to Daryl, falling into his lap and cradling him, the two of you clinging to each other with an intensity that should probably be painful. But after everything, this is the only way to know that you’re really together again.

You can hear Daryl’s heart pounding against you, his tears leaving trails down your skin beneath your shirt as he nuzzles into you, his hands trembling. Running your own shaking hands through his hair, you lift his head gently to kiss his forehead with such tenderness that Daryl’s eyes close, more tears falling from them.

Neither of you address the elephant in the room, this isnt the time. The Saviours are still outside, and right now is the time for tearful smiles and kisses. They’ve already taken so much from him, you wont let them take this by making you talk about what they’ve done.

To your surprise, it’s Daryl who speaks first.

“Y’know, when I was in that cell, I saw you.” He begins, sniffling and wiping his eyes, resting his head against your chest as you sit sideways on his lap, drawing patterns on his arm with your fingertips. “Thought I was goin’ crazy, but now I think yer the only thing that kept me sane.”

Daryl remembers it all too well. The sound of his cell door opening was so haunting, and he was so exhausted by the torture that his own mind played tricks on him. Daryl would hear the door open, and he’d see you walk in, crouch down in front of him and hold his hands, telling him it was time, that he was free. But when he’d try to hold your hands, to lean up to kiss you, you would disappear, and so would the image of his open cell door. Other times, he would wake up from one of the short-lived naps he was allowed, and you’d be sitting beside him, humming a tune, any tune to anything at all while smiling down at him. It didnt matter that the view around him wasnt the bedroom you shared, all he needed to see to feel alright was you.

There’s no time for you to reply, because Simon is calling out for you, wondering where you‘ve disappeared off to. You break free from Daryl, grabbing a case of beer while you run to the basement doors. Daryl comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your neck from behind, an action that he’s never done before because of his hesitance towards initiating affection.

“Don’ go, please.” Daryl’s husky voice is broken just like him, in a way that he’ll only ever let you witness.

You turn your head to kiss his cheek “I will be right back, I promise you.”

With that, you force yourself out of the basement, Daryl running to hide as you jog over to Simon.

“Sorry about that, I was just trying to find this for you guys, thought it’d go well with the rabbits!” You cheer, noticing the Saviours have already taken the rabbits that were previously strapped to your horse.

Daryl gingerly makes his way back to the doors, watching the scene unfold through a tiny hole in the wood, confused as to why Jesus wraps an arm around your waist from behind. But then he Daryl notices you tense up, and it isnt because Jesus makes you uncomfortable, he’s one of your best friends. It takes Daryl a second to understand why he’s reading your body language as so uncomfortable, but then he realises, you hate pretending that you’re not his.

But just like the ring that wasnt really yours, just like the man beside you that wasnt really your boyfriend, and just like the bottles of beer in the crate werent intended for the Saviours, you will lie about whatever you have to do in order to keep Daryl safe. Even if it means pretending that you’ve moved on from him. Despite the idea of that bringing a new sadness to his heart, Daryl cant hold back the small smile from his face. You really do love him, after everything he’s done.

With the Saviours gone, you take Daryl’s hands and pull him out of the dark, in more ways than one. He lands in your arms, this time unafraid of being incapable of letting you go, because there arent any consequences that could result in hurting you.

“I love you too.” Daryl tells you the words he was unable to say the last time he saw you, and you pull away from him slightly to stare up at him, smiling with tears in your eyes.

“Maybe I should’ve kept that ring after all, huh?” You tease, and you bring out the first laugh from Daryl that you’ve heard in what feels like an eternity. Laughing through tears.

“Aint need no damn ring to call ya my forever.” Daryl sniffles, smiling down at you as he holds your hands, his thumbs tracing over your knuckles.

You wonder if he’s going to say anymore, you’re his forever what? But the more you think about it, you realise that Daryl has said something truly profound. You arent his forever partner, lover, or even friend, because that implies that you are simply part of forever to him. What he’s telling you is that you are his forever, in its entirety, and that speaks louder than a ring ever could.

“You’re my forever too, Daryl.” You lean up to kiss him, and Daryl feels himself fall against you, his hands meeting at the small of your back while yours find solace in his hair. He pulls away first, resting his forehead against yours with his eyes closed, feeling his tears finally drying and his heart starting to heal.

Even if he has forever to search for them, Daryl will never be able to find the words to express how much he loves you.

[dxcter]

Bullets-Carl Grimes x Male Reader 2

Previous - Next 

Y/n had spent three days alone out there. Running for his life, running away from danger, never stopping to kill a walker in his way. He just ran. During those three exhausting days before the barn he knew, he knew it was his fault. He was the reason his Mother and Father got torn to shreds, and he would never forgive himself for that.

"It's my fault! They're gone because of me. I'm the reason we got kicked out so its my fault that they're dead." He cried, his tears running down his face.

"No, no, no don't say that. It isn't your fault." Andrea said. She kneeled down and comforted the young boy.

"Did you say kicked out? Who kicked you out? And for what?" Hershel asked.

"I c-can't tell you. If I do you'll definitely get rid of me." He sniffled.

"It's okay. You can tell us, we wont get rid of you." Hershel's voice was calm and sincere.

"Really?"

"Really"

Y/n's e/c eyes looked at the people around him and swallowed. "I-i. . . I like boys." He confessed, his voice was quiet but everyone there heard it. Andrea hugged the boy, her hands rubbing his back soothingly. She turned her head and looked at Rick and Shane. "We are not kicking him out." She said. Rick put a hand to his holster and gave her a nod.

"I'll take him to Lori. He can be with her and Carl while the rest of you deal with Randall." Rick put his hand on y/n's shoulder and led him away to the campsite.

"You stay here with Lori, okay. I promise we won't get rid of you." He reassures. Y/n gave a nod. He watched Rick walk away, once he left his line of sight he walked to where Lori was. Lori gave him a friendly smile and continued to do whatever she actually does. The person with her though peaked his interest, he was quiet for the most part and he was the only person who hasn't talked to y/n. Maggie was nice, T-dog was funny so is Glenn, and Dale was nice to be around even if you don't have anything to say. But Carl, Carl was a whole can of worms that you haven't seen yet.

He was barely older than you, but he gave off this demeanor that made it seem like he's lived his whole life in this apocalypse. So you can imagine his surprise when Carl sat next to him. There was an awkward silence at first, but as y/n continued to write in one of his many journals he noticed Carl looking at him every once in a while.

He thought this would go on for the rest of the time there but he heard Carl clear his throat. "So... What are the journals for?"

Y/n looked at him quizzically. "It's just a hobby. I just like to write about things." He answered quietly.

"I knew that, I heard you talking to Maggie earlier. I wanted to know about what you write about." Carl looked at the many books in y/n's bag. Seeing this the h/c-ette/blond took out five journals.

"This blue one is kind of like a diary, I write about what's happened to me in their. I just think that it'll be important one day, kind of like a record of our history. . ." y/n slowly flipped through the pages, it was evident in the pages that he's been writing in it way before the world ended.

"This red one is about plants and animals, it helped me survive out there. The yellow one has random stuff in it like how to build basic things like levers and chemistry. The black one is just more random stuff." Carl listened closely to what y/n said.

"And this leather one has all the stories of people i've met. It even has other things in their like how old they are and small details like that." Y/n smiled as he looked through the book. Every once in a while a photo of a person would appear, y/n's melancholy expression painted across his face.

"How did you get all of this? Its pretty cool and they look like you wrote them yourself." Carl pointed out.

"I didn't do it myself at first. Lots of people helped me with it." He explained. "They kept me safe, they taught me things, and they were. . .like family to me." Tears welled up in his eyes.

Carl frowned at y/n's sad expression. "Well your here now aren't you? We can be your new family now."

Y/n gave a sad smile as he wiped his tears away. "I wish you could. . . I like you guys. Your nice to me but. . . I won't live for long." Y/n gazed into the sunset.

"T-thats not true!" Carl grabbed his hand giving it a soft squeeze.

"But it is true Carl. . . your strong I can see that, I'm not. I got my parents killed; My mother died saving me all because I panicked."

"Then I'll protect you! I'll keep you safe."

"Thank you Carl but you shouldn't have to be my knight in shining armour."

"Then let's be friends first." Carl smiled.

"I'd like that" y/n smiled.

The moon was up, casting an eerie glow over the farm. Carl and y/n were sitting on the front steps while the adults were talking in the living room. They were quietly talking until Dale angrily left the house. Y/n quickly grabbed Carol's arm before she got away.

"What happened in there?"

Carol gave him a sad look before saying "It's nothing you need to worry yourself about."

Y/n unsatisfied with the answer hesitantly let go of Carol's arm and watched as everybody went their separate ways. Y/n turned to Carl. "Can I stay with you. . . I have a bad feeling that somethings going to happen." Carl gave him a nod and started walking to his tent.

It was calm and quiet, the moon was big and full in the night sky. It was peaceful. But it could only be peaceful for so long.

"AAGGHHH!!"

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Hello i’ve finally gotten around to posting the second chapter on tumblr, yes this is short but i will be shortly uploading the third chapter so stay tuned!

[mote-historie]

George Barbier, La Promeneuse mélancolique. Robe d'après-midi de Gustave Beer (The Melancholy Walker. Afternoon dress by Gustave Beer), La Gazette du Bon ton, 1922.

For sale: EditionOriginale.com

[sailforvalinor]

Doctor Who --Ten and Rose

The Moon Song by Walker Burroughs // Doctor Who 2x01 (gif by @rose--tyler) // Melancholy Astronautic Man by Allie Moss // I Don't Wanna Love Somebody Else by A Great Big World // "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T. S. Eliot // Doctor Who 2x08 // Doctor Who 2x08 (gif from GIFER) // Doctor Who 2x09 // Shrike by Hozier // The Shape of My Heart by Sting // In the Wind by Lord Huron // Doctor Who 2x13 // "The Hollow Men" by T. S. Eliot