#sophia grave | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kiryoutann · 5 months ago

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Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

SOMETIMES, you'd like to know who your mother was before she became your mother.

You want to know where the acidic and corrosive elements that precede each of her statements come from. Perhaps she acquired it from your father—someone even more poisonous than she was. However, from how it blended with her expression every time she said: “a man’s heart is truly a wretched, wretched thing!” you can't be convinced otherwise that before she met your father, she wasn't like that—that she was once a loving girl before he wrecked her and made her your vengeful mother.

Time heals all wounds, they say. And yet, as far as you know, your mother's is still dripping with blood. Rotten. Maggot infested.

You believed it was exactly what she wanted—so that it wouldn't heal, so that she wouldn't forget how much it burned and constricted her. Those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it, and she will undoubtedly carry it with her until death. “A man's heart is truly a wretched, wretched thing,” she says, as if she's sure you'll forget what happened to her—to both of you. As if losing the love of her life was hereditary. “Don't you see, sweetheart? We are a paradox of contrasts and twins.”

You're still wondering whether it was a warning or a prayer. Good mothers ensure with all their body and soul that the past does not repeat itself, that their daughters do not embody everything they might become – their mothers. God forbid they dragged themselves across the floor, trembling fingers stretched stiffly clawing at doors that had been long since being slammed shut. However, your mother wasn’t always a good mother, and she often swore over her mother's grave that you would feel the same way she did.

And yet, despite her curses and how much you hate her as much as you hate your deadbeat father, apparently a sense of familiarity is what you're searching for.

Perhaps, that’s what made him catch your eye.

Soft footsteps were created when several pairs of ballerina pointe shoes came down the hallway after the performance ended. Smiles and laughter were among them—a familiar sight; the audience was satisfied with their performance, and they were sure that the ballet director had no more notes for them because, firstly, Marie, the main ballerina in the role of Giselle, had become the center of conversation thanks to her gifted movements, leaving no room for talking about little "building" errors for the other dancers. Second, this season has reached its end, which means they won't be showing "Giselle" again for at least the next few months.

“I saw you sneak chocolates before the show, El.” One ballerina teased.

“They're for energy!” Eloise insisted with a grin.

The ornaments on their heads moved as they both laughed. You flashed a smile but didn't dare enter into the conversation. Satin-clad feet kept moving in the direction of the corps de ballet dressing room door. More laughter and gossip ensued as you passed through the door to the small vanity you shared with another dancer.

"So where are you going after this?" someone at the next table asked, not at you.

You turned around, periodically glancing in the mirror to wipe away the last traces of makeup. "I don't know! Somewhere that can help me relieve stress, obviously. Soph?” Claudine directed her question at another, still not you.

“Sorry, girls, but I have to sit this one out. My mamma has been protesting about me coming home late lately ever since she saw some protests on TV. You two have fun without me.” Sophia declines—that leaves Jules and Claudine alone then. You were ready to return to your own thoughts when Sophia's hazel eyes fixed on you and called your name. "What about you?"

Claudine turned to you, her lips forming a teasing smirk. “Gonna go home and practice some more, no doubt,” she teased. “Live a little for once! Come out with us.”

You focused on untying your pointe shoes while the other two laughed. “No thanks, I'm tired. Think I'll just relax tonight.”

Rather than a teasing smirk, now Claudine's lips resembled a declaration that she was correct once more: "Look, I'm right, aren't I? She's still the same boring girl. No surprise that the best role she can get is dancing as a leaf in the background." It's no longer a myth. It is no longer a myth that other dancers—old and new—only see a robot prodigy, soulless in her single-minded pursuit of perfection. Your movements were full of precision, tempered by years of being under the training of a Russian coach your mother sought out for you. And yet your body is sharpened for nothing more than the purpose of being a vessel. Hushed jokes about you selling your soul to the devil for your skills.

“Aww, not even for one night? Loosen up that tight bun of yours?”

You shoved the last of your things hastily into your bag, not paying attention as someone else's hairbrush and chapstick were forced to sit on top of your toiletry bag—you can always return them tomorrow. The other girls are still laughing while you swing the overstuffed duffel over your shoulder.

“Goodnight,” you say tensely, clutching the strap of your bag so tightly your knuckles turn white. Without waiting for a reply, you turned on your shoes and hurried out of the dressing room, their taunts echoing in your ears.

London streets glistened wetly as you made your way down the sidewalk. The recent rain left dark spots on the pavement. You pull your coat tighter around you, shivering in the damp night air. As you passed a rowdy pub, loud voices and laughter spilled out onto the street. Warm light and the smell of beer beckoned from within, but you hurried on without glancing in, not wanting to face anyone's eyes.

The entrance to the subway glimmers under the streetlamps. You descend the stairs slowly, your shoes clicking on the concrete steps. The underground platform was nearly empty at this late hour. A lone figure dozed on one of the wooden benches, and a teenage couple whispered together further down the tiles. Your eyes roam over the tiled walls and ads for shows you'd never see—anything to avoid looking at other people and risking a confrontation.

The screech of brakes announces the arrival of your train, followed by beams of lights illuminating the dark tunnel. You boarded the mostly empty carriage and sat down, watching the dark tunnel walls pass by. On the opposite side, your weary reflection in the glass glances back at you.

Soulless.

Soulless ballerina.

TWENTY-THREE YEARS HAVE GONE BY: Thirteen times, you were part of the corps de ballet in Swan Lake. And now, the new director—whom they “imported” directly from somewhere in France to replace the old one—announces that the next season will be Swan Lake. You don't have anything against it—why should you? Thirteen times. Thirteen times in the corps de ballet, and this time will make no difference to you; just another faceless dancer in the flock, never the Swan Queen—they wouldn't risk a soulless ballerina in the spotlight. But wouldn't audiences grow bored of the same classic retold so often?

"Now now, I know you are all tired of this ballet," he said calmly. "But we will be doing something different - a new interpretation, with a fresh artistic vision. This will be Swan Lake as you have never seen it before. Rehearsals will focus on bringing new emotional depth and dimensionality to these iconic roles. Who knows – maybe some new faces will emerge for leading roles. I’m looking forward to seeing what you all can do. Now let us begin."

The familiar piano notes of our warm-up piece drifted through the studio as you took your place at the barre, fingers curling around the worn wood. You close your eyes and focus on steadying your breathing. Even when your muscles hurt from fatigue, you persist through well-known stretching exercises with a focused effort. Your eyelids flutter open, and out of the corner of your eye, you see the new director watching silently at the edge, his sharp eyes taking in each dancer.

“One.. and.. two.. and..”

As you move on to tendus and plies, you let the rhythm of the count wash over you – “.. three.. and.. four.. and..” Your burning thighs, your stretching calves, your flexing toes. "First position...and plié. Second position...and tendu. Third position...and rond de jambe." and the coach's familiar count. Your mind wanders as the dancers continue, thinking about the director's words about seeking new depths. Stealing a glance through the mirror, your eyes returned to the man—his ringed fingers in front of his lips as he pondered.

The music continues to play, swelling with a crescendo. You concentrate on your movements again, lifting your legs high according to standard and extending your lines through fingertips.

You found your eyes drifting to the director's reflection in the mirror more and more. The coach's voice faded into a blur as you studied his intense expression, watching for any sign of interest or approval. But time and again, his gaze passed over you without pause, lingering instead on Claire or Amelia as they executed perfect pirouettes or graceful penche poses. A familiar ache of longing and envy twisted in your stomach. No matter how hard you focused or how flawlessly you hit each position, you remained invisible to him.

Your breaths are shallow, and your head is whirling. Your eyes couldn't stop following him; he was walking around watching dancers who weren't you. He spoke to the coach, then stepped back with his hands linked behind his back. Still not you. As the music nears the end and the dancers have transitioned into combination movements, he still doesn't look at you.

You know the truth: this will be your fourteenth Swan Lake, and you will once again blend into the anonymous corps de ballet. The reflection of a woman in the mirror—your reflection, somber with lifeless eyes and dull hair pulled back in tight bun. The director stated that he wanted to bring forth new depths and emotional aspects to distinguish his Swan Lake from those of other opera houses, therefore it's fitting that he didn't choose you. As an empty ache expands in your chest, you accept the truth: this is your fourteenth Swan Lake, being another swan for the fourteenth time.

The director won’t choose you.

He won't choose you.

He won't choose...

You.

He chose you. You don't know why or how.

An hour later, you find yourself standing in Studio A, facing uncertainly across the hardwood floor. Five of the girls sat at the end of the room while the director watched Claire give her interpretation of Odette in her white swan act. You watch her movements critically, noting the slight wobble in her lower back and how her port de bras could be straighter. Her pirouettes needed more control and spotting—you counted two extra turns that threw off her balance. Then she launched into the black swan's sinister variations. Gone was the white swan, replaced by a vixenish temptress oozing sensuality from her pores. The director made a few thoughtful comments you didn't quite catch before dismissing her.

The director breathed out your name and you were quick on your feet. He crossed his arms over his chest as you took your place in the center. You looked at the girls behind you through the mirror reflection, then at the director, then signaled the pianist to begin.

The famous White Swan melody plays, and you start. Plie, tendu, glissade—your limbs moved through the steps as they had a thousand times, polished, technically perfect. Your movements rely on muscle memory, analyzing your every move through a critical lens. First pose: left arm extended, back straight, neck long. Check. The second one: right leg stretched to the sky, toes pointed to the max. But was your ankle tilted just now? You furrowed your brows while making a mental note to adjust. Entering another glissade, you land on the ball of my foot, keeping your plie low. One.. and.. two. You count the seconds, nitpicking any imperfections.

“Slow down, dear, find your breath.” The director's voice cuts through your thoughts. Find your breath? You were in complete control of your breathing, hitting every mark precisely as the music demanded. What more should you find?

You barreled ahead through the choreography, unwilling to let up on your own rigid standards even as he continued offering feedback. "Loosen your shoulders...savor each moment rather than rushing to the next...let us see you feel the music, not just hear it."

But you are feeling it. You feel every crescendo and decrescendo—you stay in rhythm with the music as the score enters the ritardando section. How could he say you didn't feel the music when you lived and breathed each score? You knew this piece inside and out. From the opening notes, you have remembered not just the choreography but every key change and tempo variation. By the time you sank into your final pose, you were a bundle of nerves.

“Your technique is superb, but so tightly wound,” the director said. “Try to loosen up your lines and embrace the artistry, not just the steps. Now, show me your Black Swan.”

As the dark notes of the Black Swan coda swirl, you pour all your focus into hitting each precise movement with flawless technique. You arch into an arabesque, extending your working leg to the maximum while maintaining perfect turnout. Your spot was fixed, and your balance was unwavering. You continue through the practiced motions, and you fly into your final fouetté combo. As the last note faded, you struck your ending pose.

Slowly, you straightened your body and lifted your gaze to meet his, pressing your sweaty palms together tightly. The director remained silent, hand in front of his mouth, and looked you up and down in a way that made you want to flee. But, you restrained yourself, waiting patiently for his consideration. The pressure in the room was so intense that it made you suffocate.

After what felt like eternity, he gave a small nod – neither acceptance nor rejection. “Thank you, Mademoiselle, that was… illuminating. Please check the cast list tomorrow morning – we will announce our decisions then.”

The compliment is ambiguous, with two implications that you know tend toward the negative. Your anxiety failed to calm down, and all you could muster was a hushed thank you before you left the studio in a daze, questions still swirling around unanswered like always.

Now here you are, unfortunate enough to be under the wailing sky of London with minimal cover from a shuttered cafe. The dense fog and wind impede your eyesight, making it difficult to see the towering structures. On the left side, several cafes and pubs radiate their orange lights from within, beckoning anyone in need of somewhere to go for a quick drink or two. Anyone but you, apparently.

The city streets felt hauntingly deserted through the deluge of falling water. Shivering even in your coat and tights, you knelt down and tightened your scarf. Puddles of water begin to form in the potholes, and you desperately hope that the rain will stop soon; you still have a long ride home on the subway to prepare for tomorrow.

Just then, a splash of heavy footsteps caught your attention.

Through the sheets of rainfall, you glimpsed a tall figure hurrying down the sidewalk, taking in what little details you could discern. His leather jacket and boots, yet the way he hunched his broad shoulders against the storm conveyed a certain roughness. You squinted to make out his face, only to find it covered by a mask and a hood pulled too low. It's unsettling, but disturbingly, it makes you enthusiastically guess what lies beneath it—was he handsome or scarred? Young or weathered by experience? It intrigued you so much that you didn't realize he was only three steps away from you.

As the stranger approaches, you take more details that should have set off alarms. His all-black leather jacket may have been fine material, but it was worn and faded. And although broad-shouldered, his build spoke more of hardened muscle than gentility. Everything about him screams danger. When he drew up beside you, you intended to duck past and continue on your way.

But something held you rooted to the spot.

Now, two strangers stood side by side, between them were raindrops dragged cruelly by the cold wind. His towering figure was as still as a statue; for a man his size, he was skilled enough to be almost invisible, almost. The scent of him washed over you then—alcohol, but not the refined wines and spirits of high society. This was something rougher, meant to burn away thought rather than enhance it. Beneath that, cigarette smoke and a musky men’s cologne, attempting to cover something.

The man is still silent, and you should've taken this as your second chance to leave. There are only two possibilities for a man like him: a perverted stalker or a serial killer—most likely the latter, because for what reason would he decide to take shelter under the awning of a dark bankrupt cafe with a woman when the surrounding pubs are still serving happy hour?

While the stranger settles against the wall, you notice his large hand drift casually into his pants pocket. Your breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding in panic wondering what weapon he might pull out – a knife, or worse. All instincts screamed to run away, but your feet remained rooted to the ground, frozen.

“Nasty night.”

Your body comes to a complete stop. The air is forgotten, and you wonder if you really heard him speak just now or if you were just hallucinating. He has a roughness to his voice, gravels, and a low range with a hint of timbre muffled by his dark mask. Unknowingly turning toward him, you stared at his side profile until he met your gaze, and you swiftly looked straight forward again.

“Uh, y-yes, quite a storm,” You stuttered in reply, cursing your trembling voice. Gripping your duffel bag tighter, you tried not to say anything that might offend him.

Minutes pass, the rain as the only noise. Finally, he spoke again, "Subway, yeah?" Between the sound of the rain and his muffled ones, you tried hard to make out what he was saying. After fully understanding it, you give it a nod.

“Yes, the subway. Though it may be closed by now with the weather.”

The man pulled out a pack of cigarettes. From the corner of your eye, you knew he was taking off his mask. Your heart beats fast as you resist the urge to turn your head, settling to look at the dark street in front of you instead. Smoke wafts between you both, creating faint, short-lived tendrils in the air.

The two of you were in silence. You wanted to talk to him again but didn't know what there was to say; it could be that he just wants to smoke with a company, a quiet company. He let out a puff of fresh cigarette smoke, and you inhaled it all. Toxins are bad for the skin and lungs, and yet you're better off suffocating than giving the impression that you're disturbed.

“Subway's closed, like you said. No sense waiting in the wet.” He took the last drag and threw the cigarette butt into the gutter. “Come on then. Pub's the best place for now.” His voice muffled again – he had put his mask back on.

You hesitated at his offer, biting your lip as you weighed the options rapidly in your mind. On one hand, the rain shows no signs of letting up, and this awning provides only a little protection at best. But to follow a strange man through the streets, alone, allowing him to take you to a spot where inebriation may be present—where his worst pals might be waiting. Girls your age being spiked is something you hear about a lot.

Shaking your head, you manage a small smile. “Thank you for the kind offer, but I'll be right here. Best not to trouble you further on such a night.”

He tilts his head, his eyes peering from the mask's shadows as if reading your unspoken fears. Does he see the consideration behind your polite refusal—how now you are a vulnerable woman, and this relative anonymity without further conversation is a safe option, despite the discomfort? Within his dark eyes, there was a stirring that you didn't understand. Pity? Or mockery? Under his towering height and massive body, you were nothing but a frightened rabbit.

Gusts of wind drive cold droplets under the awning. You suppressed a shiver, hugging yourself tighter. “Really, I'll be fine. The rain can't last forever." A forced laugh follows your words.

You seize the chance to stare back at him. It was impossible for you to know what calculations were going through his mind, or what emotion lay beneath that mask. It's pretty unfair, you think, that he can hide under a hood that nearly makes him invisible in the dark of night while he can see all of you—a greasy-haired woman hoping the man in front of her will respect her dumb decision. It's the least he can do.

Just when you think this staring game would go on for another minute, he turns his gaze. “Suit yourself, love.” His voice comes out gruff, and your heart drops thinking you've let him down (but, for what?). "But you'll catch your death waiting in the rain."

A pang of guilt crashes into you as he turns his shoe the other way. For safety's sake, you rejected him, thinking you're being sensible; but there's an authoritative voice in the back of your mind telling you, "He's the first nice guy in a long time, and look what you gave in exchange for his kind offer." Self-doubt is playing in your heart. His back was already turning, boots squelching away into the rain.

“Wait!” You called after him, hating how small and frightened you sounded. He paused and searched back, eyes questioning through the mask. Steeling your nerves, you step into the downpour. “I'm coming with you.”

If this guy thinks you're an indecisive woman who can't even commit to a decision for more than five seconds, thank goodness he didn't say anything other than give you another stare. He led the way as he went, holding the door of one of the busy London pubs. More liquor and tobacco smells. You both entered, bringing a burst of damp wind with you. The warmth and noise within are a shock after the storm outside.

He steers you towards the fireplace, shrugging out of his soaked jacket. “Get yourself by the hearth,” he said, nodding to an empty chair. “Dry off.”

You did as he said gratefully, holding your hands out to the flames. The colors returned to your cheeks; fear slowly evaporated away.

“What'll you have, love?” He asked, and you frowned before understanding. Oh, drinks.

“Something light,” is all you say, eyes lowered again. The man gave a nod and went to give the bartender the order.

He returned not long after, setting the drinks down and taking the chair opposite to yours, stretching out his long legs toward the fire. You took the gin with a murmured “thank you.” He settled with his own—whiskey in a glass, neat. You glanced at the remains of rainwater dripping heavily from his clothes in a growing puddle at his boots. The drinks were enjoyed in companionable silence, still trying to find calm after the storm's fury.

The fire crackles merrily as you sit. Finding your voice, you clear your throat gently.

“Thank you, for…” Your fingers tapped nervously on the glass. “Well, for everything, I suppose.”

His eyes lifted from the flames to meet yours, and you offered a small smile. “I’m (Y/N).”

As the name slips out, you berate yourself. How stupid, giving up something as personal as your name! This man was still a stranger, no matter his kindness so far. For all you know, bad intentions could be lurking behind that calm gaze even now. But in the cozy glow of the fire, your sense of awareness wavered, lulled to sleep in a false sense of security.

He merely nodded, moving his hand to the mask hook over his ear without expressing much emotion. Your eyes widened, and your heart was pounding. The breath in your lungs stilled in anticipation as the fabric peeled slowly back, inch by inch. Is he about to...?

The man removed his mask, appearing at ease and lacking in secrecy. He looks at you, and you quickly look aside, pretending to offer him a little privacy. You wait for him to finish, to put it on again, but he never does. Is it okay to look-

Deciding to no longer be the uneasy one (since the guy looks completely unconcerned as he takes a long sip of his drink), you follow suit and allow the liquid to cascade down your throat. There's a slight thump as your glass hits the aged wood. Your curiosity is piqued even more by the fact that he hasn't made any moves to wear it again. Slowly, you raised your gaze, meeting that unveiled gaze – a secret not meant for your eyes.

Blonde eyelashes – pretty. Faint shadows hung under the eyes. Light stubble. Scars dotted his jaw, thin white slashes earned from unknown origins. His nose sat slightly off-center, clearly broken more than once in past altercations—bar fights, perhaps? Though something about the precise thinness of the lines didn't seem right for brawling. Regardless of which one, he is clearly no stranger to violence, and being near him is enough for someone to sense the danger he was capable of.

But, there is something about that powerful jawline, the intensity found only in his hooded eyes, spokes of steel and intricate details that defy explanation. Fire in his eyes. Even after taking off the mask and grasping it between his lengthy fingers—just when you think all the curtains have been exposed—he still remains a mystery.

(And you're just another gullible woman who believes she knows how to solve the puzzle.)

You wait; surely he will offer his own name in return now that you've bared yours. But seconds ticked by in the silence, and still he said nothing.

A flush crept up your neck at the realization that he had no intention of reciprocating. Did you misread this entire meeting? Why did he bring you here if not to talk? You observe his stony profile, wishing you could see past him. Did he intend to remain a mystery—an enigma full of intrigue? Or is it actually a test to see how long your curiosity can last?

Your fingers fidget with the condensation on your glass. Under this new tension, the easy silence fell away. Seeking an escape from the awkwardness, you looked for something, anything. Your gaze landed on a group of regulars in the corner, laughing boisterously.

“Do you, um, come here often?” You ask lamely, cursing your inability to make small talk. But there was an amused glint in his eyes that put you back at ease.

“Aye, I'm 'ere often enough,” he replied, taking another sip. You assume he finds humor in your discomfort, rather than mocking it. The knot in your shoulders loosened, and you relaxed into a smile again.

For good or ill, this man stirred something deep inside you—and you're desperate to scavenge for light, safe conversation topics to continue the conversation.

“So, um, what kind of work do you—” You catch yourself, cheeks warming. Too personal to ask a stranger met by chance. You let out a dry laugh. “Sorry, I don't mean to pry. It’s just… making conversation.”

At the small thud of his glass meeting the scarred wood of the table, your eyes darted up in surprise. Already empty—have you been so lost in thought that you missed him finishing? A swell of questions rose inside you as you watched his movements for a clue. Would he signal the bartender for a refill, extending your time together? Or was this the end—the strange encounter came to a close because you somehow offended him for prying too much?

“Military.”

Unexpectedly, he gave a single-word reply. Military—that explains a lot, from his physique and bearing to the scars and the lingering scents that cling to his coat.

"Oh!" was all you could think of as a response. More questions swim to the surface, demanding to be asked, but you quash them, not wanting to risk being presumptuous a second time.

Feeling indebted, you then offer, "I do ballet, with the Metropolitan Opera." The words slip out before you can check them, and inwardly you curse yourself once again.

Great. Name, job, and workplace. Why don't you give him your address next?

You bit your lip. Risking a glance up, you hope he won't take your openness as foolishness. His quiet acceptance has so far calmed your nerves, and now you find yourself craving that ease again.

“Must be rewarding,” is all he offers—you grow accustomed to his terse responses. Plain, perhaps even half-hearted, but you smile as though he had read you a lovely poetry full of flattery.

“Yeah, it's really rewarding to dance and like, share that joy with others.”

Liar. What can a soulless ballerina have to share? So far, frustration is what you inflict on your director, and criticism is secretly a “reward” for your fellow dancers. You understand perfectly well, from the top of your head to the balls of your toes, that there is no joy that you can share. However, this man didn't know. He doesn't know who or how you are. Since the very beginning, you have spoken truth to him; allow this one deception to pass.

Your fingertips made a gentle squeak as they rubbed across the condensation on your glass. “If I may ask… what inspired you to serve?”

For a moment, he was quiet, considering with eyes turned to the flames.

"It was a calling, I suppose," came the gruff reply. “The world had its darkness even then. Felt a duty to stand against it.”

After providing an answer, the two of you returned to silence. You gazed thoughtfully into the flames, thinking of how you might spark another conversation that didn't rely solely on question and answer. The last thing you want is for him to view you as overbearing or pushy.

“What drew you to ballet, then?”

It was unexpected for him to pose a question, and you were taken aback when he did. Your lips curved into a smile as you thought about the answer, and your mother's role in starting it all.

"Well, I think it started because Mom thought ballet was 'cute'." A tone of amusement permeates your voice. “She had no idea about the art or discipline—she just wanted to see her little girl swirl and spin in frilly costumes. But I had fun dancing, dressing up, and listening to the music...”

Somewhere in your head, your mother's voice echoes again. Bitter and resentful, encased in an everlasting nightmare. Your mother stood in the audience, and you ran towards her, tutu skirt fluttering gently. She wiped her eyes and knelt down in front of you, whispering, "You were marvelous, sweetheart," as she drew you in. She smiles, but it stops short of her eyes. Then a string of apologies, saying that he’s gone—that she knew he had promised you to be here, but he's gone. Dad is gone. And he'll never see what you can do.

“My first real performance, in elementary school… I was so proud when the curtain fell.” You continue, remembering another face that has long been a ghost in the past.

("Why did you let that man walk away?")

You clear your throat softly. “After that, it just felt right, you know? Like I'd found where I belong.”

Liar.

Steering away from the bitter past, you change the direction of the conversation again. “Are you from around here?” It's a simple question, maybe even stupid. His accent alone makes it plain he grew up in this land, but, no matter how long you've lived in England, you have a small grasp of regional dialects within the country.

“I mean, I know you're obviously from here—your accent kind of gives it away.” You waved. “I just meant—is this area home for you? Or are you from elsewhere originally?”

The barest upturn of his lips catches your eye. Was that a smile? On this gruff, grumpy stranger who has only revealed so little so far? Your heart beats at the sight, rare as a summer snowflake. He reached into his pocket, took out a cigarette, and held it between his dry lips. The lighter ignited, and white smoke was blown out.

“Manchester, originally,” he said, intonation hanging. He took another drag of his cigarette before exhaling slowly and adding, “A different world now. You?”

“I've been in the city for years now, but I'm from San Francisco.” You said. “When the chance came up to transfer here from my old opera house back home, I leapt at it. Felt it was time for a fresh start, to spread my wings and live on my own. And maybe get out from under my mom's feet—love her to bits, but she can be a bit much sometimes.”

From your own remarks, you can't help but question if mothers are as harsh on their sons or if this is solely reserved for daughters. Girls are taught to keep close to home and their hearts, while boys are free to roam and explore. Is it any wonder, then, that spreading your wings felt like escaping? You wanted to ask him but ended up lacing your tongue tightly.

The fire's burned low, just embers burning gently in the fireplace. Time passed unnoticed as the two of you sat chatting quietly. But outside, the rain began to subside until it was a fine patter on the roof.

“Storm’s passed, seems.”

As he speaks, you glance up to find his guarded mask has fallen once more into place. The easy openness that had soothed tired nerves now closed again – strangely making you bereft. A feeling of melancholy welled up in your chest at the thought of parting, of kissing away the intimate bubble the two of you had crafted and going back out there into the cold reality where you would be strangers again. Your fingers fidgeted in your lap as you searched for words.

“I suppose you're right… it has eased off some.” Your voice came out small and awkward to your own ears. Licking your dry lips, you added, “thank you, for your company. It was…nice, not to feel alone.”

He stood up, stretching his tall frame. After this, the spell of the evening will evaporate, and everything will return to the reality of loneliness once again.

“C'mon then, let's get you home,” he said gruffly, offering a hand to help you up. His strong hand envelops your smaller one—rough yet tender, sending warmth through your limbs that have little to do with the fire now dying.

Pushing through the heavy doors, the night air is a contrast to the warmth of the pub. Thick fog covered the streets, rain-slick stones glistening under the street lights. He waved at the first cab that passed—and you prayed it wouldn't stop so you could buy a little more time with him.

It stopped. The night was set to end.

He holds it while you slip inside. Through the open window, your eyes met his; he crouched beside the window, broad shoulders hunched. He's talking to the cab driver, but you can't hear it—not when your heart flutters madly in your breast over a single question. The ache of still not knowing his name. It seems wrong, unfair, that he knows you so well, yet you know nothing of him in return.

The cab lurches into motion, snapping the spell. Panic rises in your throat; you can't let him disappear into the night—to the back of your head like another passerby.

“Wait—please! I don't know your name."

Before you can stop yourself, the words tumble out in a desperate rush.

The second ticks by as you wait. He finds you foolish, for sure—just another desperate, nosy girl who wants to play detective the second she sees a puzzle. The clinginess in your request must have given the impression that you were a fool in love—gullible and name-obsessed.

Something shifts in his dark eyes, and you hope it's a wall crumbling away. Then, in his low rumble – “Simon.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, almost parting your lips in question before—

“Name's Simon,” he repeats.

(And the sun breaks through storm clouds.)

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daryltwdixon · 1 month ago

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The Ruins of Us: Chapter 22

Summary: As you dig graves for Hershel’s family and Sophia, the weight of loss settles heavily, leaving you emotionally drained. After an intense encounter with Lori, you find comfort in a raw, vulnerable moment with Daryl, sharing an unspoken connection amidst the grief. In a flashback, you meet a new friend at a party after a heated break with Shane, only to find yourself in a complicated tangle of emotions when the night ends with the party getting busted—and Shane insisting on taking you home.

Warnings: drinking, mentions of drug use

notes: emoshie softie Daryl (I'm not well). I want to point out I realize he's an asshole more in the first few seasons than the quiet softie he becomes later, but in my head he only lets Y/N see the softer side of him from all they've been through.

x flash forward x

It’s silent. Utter silence, except for the incessant hum of cicadas rubbing their wings in the trees. And Carol’s sobs. She’s gasping for air, struggling to breathe as Daryl crouches behind her, his face twisted in pain as he tries to pick her up and move her from the scene—twenty dead walkers, including her own daughter.

“Don’t look—don’t look,” he mutters, his voice gruff but gentle, his arms tightening around her as he tries to lift her from the ground. His face is etched with anguish, each movement heavy with the weight of failure. But Carol jerks away, wrenching herself from his grasp. She stumbles forward, her sobs filling the air as she disappears into the distance, her cries echoing into the trees.

You watch frozen. The dry tears streaking your face stick to you as you watch the scene in front of you—Carol’s heartbreak, Beth’s muffled cries as she clings to Jimmy, the bodies piled in the dirt like broken memories. You barely register Beth running toward one of the corpses, her voice trembling as she calls out softly, “Mom.”

Suddenly, the walker she turned over jerks back to life, its hand shooting out toward Beth. She screams. There’s chaos—a flurry of movement as people rush to help. Glenn reaches the walker first, the butt of his gun smashing into its head with a sickening crunch. The group breathes again, but the air is thick with grief and disbelief. The Greene family pulls back, their spirits shattered, walking away from the horror without a word. It’s all such a blur of emotion you hardly react to any of it at all.

You’re lost for words, lost for direction as you watch them walk away. You see Shane, Rick and Glenn following them, words being exchanged, ironically louder and louder as they go farther away.

Without a word, Andrea kneels beside Sophia's lifeless body, laying the wool blanket over her small form. You drop beside her, placing your hand over Andrea’s. Her hand trembles under yours, and when your tear-filled eyes meet again, you can’t help but pull her into a hug. You both collapse into each other’s arms, quietly letting your tears fall with silent understanding. When you pull away, Andrea’s hand lingers on yours, a tender gesture of a shared sadness.

Rick appears then, his shoulders sagging as he approaches the aftermath. His eyes are hard, determined despite the pain written across his face.

“Want us to start burying them?” T-Dog asks him as he approaches.

“We need a service,” Andrea argues, standing now.

Rick doesn’t answer immediately, but Lori’s quiet voice cuts through. “Let’s dig a grave for the family members—Sophia, Annette, Shawn… over by the trees.”

“And the rest? That’s a lot of digging,” Jimmy murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

“We bury the ones we love,” you say, your voice trembling but firm.

You wipe your brow with the back of your hand, sweat dripping down as you finish the last grave with the others. Shane comes over quietly, his face pinched with emotion, offering his hand to lift you out. You look up at him, eyes squirting in the sun that sits high above his head. After a deep resigned sigh, you take his arm, his fingers rough but steady as he lifts you easily out of the hole. You see Daryl bringing Carol along with Lori from the RV.

The air is thick with the weight of loss as you all stand in silence, heads bowed, eyes red-rimmed after all the loved ones are buried There are no words, just the crushing grief that presses down on everyone. One by one, people start to drift away, leaving only the mounds of earth behind. Some go off to take the truck load of bodies away to be burned. The sorrow is suffocating.

“Hey,” you softly call to Daryl as he walks away, jogging up to him now. You reach for his arm, your hand landing softly on his warm skin. He pauses but doesn’t turn to face you.

You face the front of him, searching his eyes. He worked so hard to try to find the little girl–the only one that was out in the woods everyday for her… Your hands reach for his face, but he flinches, not letting you touch him. His eyes swim with guilt and pain. You let your arms fall to your sides, not taking offense to his rejection. You are lost for words–there’s none that can be said to him. He’s grieving her more than the rest of you, maybe almost as much as Carol. He glances up at you and away, and beckons you with a single nod, and you walk far out into the field together, offering nothing but quiet solidarity in your presence.

And sometimes, that’s all you can do.

------

An hour or so must’ve passed by now, the only sounds breaking the stillness are Daryl’s knife scraping against the piece of wood he holds, making an arrowhead. He sits hunched over, sitting on the stone wall you both sought out as the dust of camp life settles into routine. The rhythmic metal-on-wood sound mingles with the soft clicks from the gun in your hands as you carefully dismantle it for cleaning. You sit across from him under a lone willow tree, trying to find solace in the mechanical repetition. You suddenly hear footsteps approaching, and you groan quietly to yourself as you see Lori coming closer.

“Movin’ to the suburbs?” she asks, jogging up. Her eyes are locked on Daryl, almost deliberately avoiding yours.

Daryl stays silent, not looking up at her approach. You try to avert your eyes as well, not in the mood for her cold stares.

“Look,” Lori begins, a little too sharply, “Beth’s in some kind of catatonic shock. We need Hershel.”

Worry flits across your mind, and you look toward the direction of the house for a long moment, waiting to see if Daryl will reply.

“Yeah? So what,” Daryl snaps back, still not meeting her gaze, his focus remaining on the carving in his hand.

“So I need you to run into town real quick and bring him and Rick back,” she presses, her tone insistent. Your worry is replaced by agitation at her presumption of Daryl being her errand boy. You can feel the irritation rise in your chest as you look back down at the gun, trying to focus on reassembling it. Her tone grates against your nerves.

Daryl remains quiet, his jaw tight as she crouches down to eye level with him, pushing further. “Daryl?”

Finally, he looks up, meeting her gaze for the briefest of moments before returning to his carving, “Your bitch went window shopping. You want 'em? Fetch 'em yourself. I got better things to do.”

You pull your lips between your teeth as you wait for her response, looking up for a split second. Lori looks between the two of you, “What's the matter with you? Why would you be so selfish?”

The words hit you both like a slap, and something in you snaps, “What the fuck, Lori?” you growl, anger flushing your face, but before you can get another word out, Daryl explodes to his feet.

“Selfish?!” he shouts, and she gets up at the sudden raise in his voice, “Listen to me, Olive Oyl, I was out lookin for that little girl every single day! I took a bullet and an arrow in the process. Don’t you tell me about getting my hands dirty!” His knife points outward, not in threat but as an extension of his fury, his hand trembling with the intensity of his emotions. You can see the vein bulging in his neck, his voice thick with frustration and pain.

The irony of the comparison to the cartoon character isn’t lost on you. You would laugh if Daryl wasn’t so pissed and Lori wasn’t getting on your last nerve. You let Daryl stand his ground, knowing he was close to losing it.

“You want those two idiots? Have a nice ride, I’m done lookin’ for people,” he spits out, turning his back on her and dropping back down to the stone wall. Lori stands there, speechless for a moment, before she scoffs and walks away, throwing one last venomous glance in your direction as she goes.

You catch the look, but you’re more focused on Daryl—his chest heaving with the weight of what just transpired. He watches her retreat, and then his eyes flick to you, softer now but still dark with the storm inside him.

Without a word, you carefully place the gun and cleaning kit aside, your movements slow as you approach him. Gently, you lift your hands, palms up, offering to take the knife and wooden shard from him. He sighs deeply, and surrenders them without a word. You place them beside you and then, before you can think twice, you lean in, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him close. Your fingers lock at the elbows behind his shoulders, hugging him tight. His body stiffens at first, caught off guard, but you don’t let go. You can feel his breath warm against your neck, shaky and shallow.

After a long, tense moment, his arms come up slowly, hesitantly, before wrapping around you. His grip is tight, almost desperate, and you feel him shudder as the first quiet sobs escape him. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his body trembling as the grief, frustration, and heartbreak pour out in the safety of your arms. Maybe it was only about Sophia, maybe it was years of bottled up emotions, or just everything.

You don’t say anything. Words wouldn’t be enough right now. All you do is hold him, your fingers threading softly through the hair at the nape of his neck, hoping that he knew you were there for him through anything, that you’re not going anywhere. Not again. You close your eyes shut tight, the anguish in hearing him fall apart breaking your heart. The silence between you is heavy, but it’s shared. And for the first time in a long while, Daryl lets himself fall apart, trusting that you’ll be there to help him pick up the pieces.

x flashback x

It was late evening, the headlights of Shane’s car casting long shadows as he pulled up outside the apartment you shared with Dana. The tension in the air was palpable–you could feel it from the moment the car slowed to a stop. Shane’s jaw was tight, his hands gripping the steering wheel harder than necessary. He was angry, but trying to keep it under control. You were exhausted, not just from the day, but from this pattern with him—hot one minute, cold the next.

As he put the car in park, he didn’t say anything at first. The silence between you was thick, filled with all the words you were both too tired to say. Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore, the frustration bubbling over.

“You’re just gonna sit there and not say anything?” you snapped, staring at him. “Again?”

Shane clenched his jaw, looking out the windshield. “What do you want me to say, huh? We’ve been over this. It’s the same shit every time.”

You let out a frustrated breath, rolling your eyes. “No, Shane, it’s not the same every time. It’s like you’re here one minute and then you’re not. Like we’re fine and then you just—check out.” You glanced over at him, feeling the weight of everything that had been building between you.

He finally turned to look at you, his gaze hard. “I’ve been checkin’ out? You hardly even talk to me anymore. But hey, maybe that’s ‘cause I’m tired of feelin’ like I’m the only one who gives a damn. You’re always somewhere else in your head, off thinkin’ about whatever—”

“Don’t even try to put this on me,” you cut him off, anger flaring up. “I’ve been here. I’ve tried. But you’re the one always pulling away when things get too real.”

He wasn’t completely wrong. In the months that had passed through the summer you felt unmoored. You felt like you could barely keep yourself together to get to work, your hours got less and less at both the women’s shelter and dog pound. You felt like something was missing, and your mind was always so blank and…just elsewhere.

Shane exhaled sharply through his nose, his temper flaring, but he didn’t yell. Not yet. “Maybe we need some space,” he finally muttered, the words coming out cold and distant. His hands were still gripping the steering wheel tightly, like he was holding himself back from saying more.

Your heart clenched at that. Space? After everything? You felt the anger drain into something colder, more bitter. “Fine. Maybe you’re right,” you said quietly, your voice tight with emotion. “Maybe we do need some space.”

You could feel Shane’s eyes on you, but you didn’t look back at him. Without another word, you opened the door and stepped out into the cool night air, the door slamming behind you. You barely heard the car start up again as he pulled away, leaving you standing there in the driveway, feeling the weight of everything settle on your shoulders.

—

Inside the apartment, the tension was still clinging to you. You shut the door a little harder than you needed to, throwing your bag down on the kitchen counter. Dana, who was lounging on the couch with her laptop, raised an eyebrow when she saw your face.

“That bad, huh?” she asked, shutting her laptop and sitting up.

You sighed, running your hands through your hair. “Yeah. We’re...we’re taking a break, I guess,” you muttered, collapsing onto the couch beside her. You didn’t want to talk about it, but the frustration was still simmering just under the surface.

Dana gave you a sympathetic look, but then her eyes brightened with a mischievous glint. “You know what you need? A party,” she said, nudging you playfully with her elbow.

You groaned, leaning your head back against the couch. “Not tonight, Dana.”

“Yes tonight,” she insisted. “I heard the guys on the wrestling team are throwing a huge party tonight. Free drinks, music, the works. And you’re coming with me.”

You gave her a look, but she was already grinning. “Come on,” she pressed. “You need this. You deserve to blow off some steam. Forget about Officer Hottie for a night. Have fun.”

The thought of going to a party, of putting on a carefree face when you felt anything but, sounded exhausting. But at the same time, the idea of sitting here alone, stewing in your feelings, sounded even worse. Maybe Dana was right. Maybe you did need a distraction.

“Fine,” you sighed, giving in. “But can we stop calling him that? Not helping. And I’m not getting wasted. I’m not in the mood to deal with a hangover tomorrow.”

Dana’s grin widened as she jumped up from the couch, already heading to her room. “Don’t worry, babe, I’ll take care of the wasted part. You just have fun.”

A few hours later, you found yourself standing in the doorway of a packed house, red solo cup in hand, music blasting from the speakers so loud you could feel the bass in your chest. The living room was crammed with people—some dancing, others shouting to be heard over the music. The air was thick with a mix of sweat, perfume, and the faint scent of weed. You sipped your drink, trying to ignore how strong it tasted.

-----

“I’ll be right back, I see someone I know,” Dana called, disappearing into the crowd before you could protest. Typical.

Left on your own, you drifted toward the kitchen, hoping it would be less crowded. The kitchen was just as full, but at least the music wasn’t as deafening. You leaned against the counter, scanning the room for familiar faces, but none of them stood out. You were about to head back to the front room when a guy bumped into you, nearly spilling your drink.

“Oh shit, sorry!” he said, his voice loud and slurred. He turned around grinned at you, his dark hair tousled like he hadn’t bothered to comb it. “Didn’t see you there.”

“No worries,” you said, stepping aside.

“I’m Randy,” he said, leaning against the counter beside you, making himself comfortable, “Haven’t seen you around here before. You new?”

You raised an eyebrow, glancing around. “Pretty sure we go to the same school.”

Randy chuckled, taking a swig of his beer. “Yeah, I meant around the party scene. You don’t look like the type.”

“And what type is that?” you asked, amusement flickering across your face despite yourself.

“You know, the wild, drink-till-you-drop, dance the night away kinda girl.” His eyes flicked up and down your body, lingering for just a moment too long before he met your eyes again. “But maybe I’m wrong.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, taking another sip of your drink. “Not usually my scene, but Dana dragged me here. Said I needed a distraction.”

“Distraction, huh?” Randy’s grin widened, leaning in slightly as if that word opened a door for him. “Well, I could be your distraction. I’m a nice guy.” His voice lowered a bit, his tone suggestive, and you knew exactly where this was headed.

You gave him a half-smile, indulging him for now. “A nice guy, huh?”

“Yeah,” he said, stepping a little closer, his arm brushing against yours as he took another drink. “You seem like you could use some fun.”

You chuckled softly, feeling the buzz of the alcohol starting to make your limbs feel a little lighter. Randy wasn’t bad looking, and his bold confidence wasn’t the worst thing. Maybe this could be your distraction.

As the conversation went on, he flirted more openly, his hand grazing your arm every now and then, his eyes locking onto yours like he was trying to reel you in. He was charming in a dorky kind of way, and in your slightly tipsy state, it was easier to flirt back.

At some point, you weren’t sure if it was the alcohol or just the heat of the moment, but Randy leaned in closer. His face hovered just inches from yours, his breath warm against your lips.

And before you even thought to stop it, he kissed you.

It wasn’t a bad kiss—he knew what he was doing—but something about it felt off. There was no spark, no rush. Just lips pressed against yours, hands grazing your waist as he tried to deepen it.

But as quickly as it started, you gently pushed him back, breaking the kiss. “I should, uh, probably go find Dana,” you muttered, trying to smile politely but taking a step back.

Randy blinked, looking a little surprised but not discouraged. “Yeah, sure. But hey, don’t be a stranger.” His smile returned, though there was a glint in his eyes now—a spark of something more, like he thought he’d made some kind of connection.

“See you around,” you said with a quick smile, leaving him in the kitchen as you made your way through the crowd, your mind spinning from the kiss and the realization that Randy might have taken that moment more seriously than you did.

As you slipped through the sea of people, you found Dana laughing with a group of friends, and you couldn’t help but feel relieved to have escaped Randy’s attention. You weren’t mad at the distraction, but just hoped the glint in his eyes didn’t mean he expected anything else from you. As you approached the group, Dana saw you and whispered into the ear of the guy next to her.

She threw her arm around you when you got close, pulling you into a clumsy hug.

“Where’ve you been?” she slurred, her eyes bright and unfocused.

“Around,” you said, shrugging her off, glancing over your shoulder to make sure Randy hadn’t followed you. “You good?”

Dana giggled, nodding emphatically. “More than good. I think I found my future husband.” She jerked her thumb toward the guy next to her, who gave you a half-drunken smile.

Before you could say anything, the sharp sound of sirens pierced through the pounding music. Red and blue lights flashed through the windows, and your stomach dropped.

“Shit– cops,” you muttered, your heart suddenly pounding in your chest.

“Maybe Officer Hottie will save us,” she laughed out loud, and you rolled your eyes. You prayed silently to yourself he wasn’t one of them outside the front door.

The partygoers reacted like startled animals, people scattering toward the back of the house, others trying to duck into different rooms or slip out the back. Dana was too drunk to care, but you grabbed her arm, pulling her up.

“Come on, we need to get out of here.”

But as you and Dana made your way to the door, two uniformed officers were already stepping inside, blocking your exit. You didn’t recognize either of them, thank god. One of them looked around, his flashlight sweeping over the mess of empty beer cans and the crowd of tipsy partygoers.

“All right, everyone stay where you are,” one of the officers said, his voice stern. “We got a noise complaint and we’re going to need to ask a few of you some questions.”

You exchanged a worried glance with Dana, who was still giggling like this was all some kind of game. You were amazed she hadn’t sobered up as fast as you did with your current predicament.

“You two,” the officer pointed to you and Dana, “come outside.”

Randy appeared out of nowhere, stepping up beside you as if he were about to play the role of knight in shining armor. “Is there a problem, Officer?” he asked, his tone overly polite.

“And you two,” the officer said, nodding at Randy and the guy Dana had been hanging all over. “Outside. Now.”

With a sighed and followed the officer out to the front yard, your stomach twisting in knots. The cool night air hit your skin as you stepped outside, and you saw several partygoers milling around, nervously checking their phones for rides home or trying to disappear into the shadows.

But what really made your blood run cold was seeing Shane standing off to the side, talking to one of the cops like they were old pals. Of course. He was here too. Guess your prayers were going unanswered tonight.

“Oh my god,” Dana hiccuped drunkenly as he sauntered over, “I have never seen him this close before, Y/N, he is hot.” You barely had time to roll your eyes as he approached.

“Well, well,” he said in a low voice, his eyes flicking between you and Randy. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

You clenched your jaw, keeping your gaze focused on the ground. “I’m just here with Dana,” you muttered, your tone clipped.

She waved at him, batting her eyes, “I’ve heard a lot about you, Officer Hottie,” you elbow her hard in the ribs.

Shane’s smirk widened, his eyes narrowing. “I’m sure you have,” he looks over to you again, “Seems like you moved on pretty fast, huh? What’s this guy’s name?” He nodded toward Randy, his voice dripping with mockery.

Randy, who was clearly oblivious to Shane’s history with you, puffed out his chest a little, flashing a cocky grin. “Randy. Who’s asking?”

Shane ignored him, keeping his focus on you. “Gotta say, didn’t think you were the type to go for frat boys. Thought you liked ’em a little tougher than that.”

Your face flushed, both from anger and embarrassment. You shot a glare at Shane, hating how easily he could still get under your skin. “Like you really give a shit,”

He chuckled, his eyes cold. “You’re right. I don’t. Just funny, is all. Here you are, all cozied up with a new guy just after I dropped you off at home.”

“Oh, fuck off, Shane.” you shot back, your frustration bubbling over. The guys next to you stiffen, but Dana covers her mouth as she laughs out loud.

Shane’s expression hardened, his smile fading slightly. He stepped closer, his voice lowering so only you could hear. “Careful, Y/N. Don’t make me remind you of the position you’re in right now.” he turned and walked to speak with the rest of the officers that came along as back up. As the other officers returned to the front of the house, their flashlights sweeping over all of you, one gave a sharp nod to Shane.

“All right, this party’s over. We’re shutting it down. You kids need to clear out and head home. Don’t give us any more trouble.” one of them calls out.

The tension in your chest eased just a little—at least they weren’t hauling anyone away tonight. But as people started filing out of the house, heading toward their cars or spilling out onto the lawn, Shane caught your eye again. You barely had a moment to exhale before he was striding over again, his expression somewhere between smug and serious.

“Come on,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’ll take you home.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but before you could get a word out, Shane’s eyes flicked toward Randy, who was still hanging close to you. The tension that flared between the two of them was almost palpable. You looked between them, weighing your options. You never really planned on leaving with Randy since you escaped him from the party. But the thought of getting in the car with your ex right now wasn’t exactly tempting.

Shane’s lips curled into a half-smirk, but his eyes stayed cold as it seemed like he read your mind. “You’re not seriously thinking about going with him, are you?”

You frowned, glancing from Shane to Randy, who looked like he was about to step in, but Shane beat him to it.

“I don’t think so, man,” Shane said sharply, stepping between you and Randy. “I’ve got this. She’s coming with me.”

Randy blinked, clearly taken aback. “Hey, man, I was just—”

Shane cut him off, finishing Randy’s sentence for him, his voice hard and final. “--Leaving.”

Your breath caught as Shane’s possessiveness sent a jolt of anger through you. But before you could say anything, Shane turned back to you, “Come on, Y/N,”

You hesitated for a second, still frustrated with him, but deep down, you knew Randy wasn’t someone you wanted to deal with anymore tonight. And despite your anger, Shane’s offer seemed... safer, despite everything.

With a sigh, you nodded, giving Randy a small, apologetic look before reluctantly stepping away from him. You turned to say goodbye to Dana who was already getting in an uber with her mystery man. Randy’s face fell, and he gave a half-hearted shrug. “All right. See you around, I guess.”

Shane’s smirk widened just a bit as you walked past him, his hand lightly touching the small of your back as he led you away from the scene.

As you stomped toward his patrol car, you grumbled, “wipe the grin off your face, I’m still mad at you,”

“Whatever you say,” he said with a smug playfulness to his tone.

You stayed quiet, knowing the night was going to end up with Shane dropping you off whether you liked it or not. But part of you couldn’t shake the feeling that, once again, Shane was always there, always hovering, always finding a way to make sure you were under his thumb—even when you didn’t want him to be.

As you both climbed into the car, Shane started the engine with a smirk on his face, the tension between you simmering but unresolved. The ride back to your place was filled with an uneasy silence, one that left you wondering if you were just trading one mess for another.

#two chapter one day baby #daryl #daryl dixon #twd daryl #the walking dead #daryl x reader #the walking dead daryl #daryl one shot #daryl fanfiction #daryl dixion imagine #daryl twd #the ruins of us

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lunajay33 · 9 months ago

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New World🍂Part.7

Summary: Everyone thought that the Sophia incident would be the worst of it all but awful events happen one after another

Part.6

•Masterlist•

Sophia’s death really got to everyone and you’ve tried to be extra supportive with Daryl, now that he’s assured you that he wants you around and doesn’t see you as clingy, you’ve both been more vocal with your feelings especially everything that’s been going on with Randall the past few days was stressing everyone out

You were eating dinner with Daryl around your little fire finally being able to relax from the days work and just enjoying the silence that you and Daryl both preferred

You were about to take another bite of your food when you heard a blood curdling scream from the field, you both shot up and got your weapons running to try and help

You saw a walker that Daryl was quick to tackle and kill, you looked at Dale as the others circled, his stomach was ripped open, his inside on full display, you turned and walked a bit away as you threw up hard, the sight you had just seen making you sad and extremely sick, you’ve seen gore but this was different

You cried as you heard the others feel the same emotions as you, then Daryl stepped up and put Dale out of his misery, everyone was distraught but Rick and Shane picked up Dale and brought him over to the graves

Daryl rubbed his hand up and down your back as he guided you back to your tent, you were shaken and you could tell Daryl was upset, you hated that no matter what you did you couldn’t keep everyone safe even when you thought everything was secure

When you were both back in the tent Daryl stood infront of you and helped strip you of the dirty day clothes, he pushed back you jacket dropping it on the ground as he continued to lift you shirt over your head, followed by him unclipping your bra then got to his knees to pull down your pants all going to the clothes pile

He took one of his clean shirts from your bag and helped you put it on, he then pulled you into him and placed a gentle kiss to your forehead as you let out a despaired sigh

You felt so loved being with Daryl even when he was upset he always looked out for you

You tried to shake yourself out of your haze so you could help him now, you took off his vest, shirt and pants, leaving him in his boxers

You both got into bed as you held him close his head laid against your chest, even though he tried not to show it you could tell that having to put Dale down was keeping him up

“Daryl…..do you wanna talk about it?” You asked as you gently ran your hands through his hair

“Nah, just be here” he mumbled against your chest

“I love you D”

He didn’t say anything but you could feel him squeezing you tighter

~~~~~~~~

The next day everyone was moving closer to the house including you and Daryl, busy doing that Daryl said he was gonna go and check on Randall with Rick, after a while you heard yelling and when you got to the shed where they kept Randall Shane came out of the trees with a busted nose screaming about how Randall got out came at him and clocked him with his gun

“Daryl Glenn go look me and Shane will go together, everyone else stay in the house” Rick said but before they could go you took Daryl’s hand

“Please be careful, keep your guard up” he looked at you nodding as he squeezed your hand in reassurance as he took his crossbow off his shoulder and was off with Glenn disappearing into the trees

You went back to your tent as everyone else went inside, you could never be too sure what could happen with the world now so you packed your bag with a blanket, yours and Daryl’s clothes, some of his other arrows and some food cans Daryl still had then you went back to the house

You sat on the couch next to Maggie and you saw how nervous she was

“Hopefully our men have each others back out there” you said making her smile

“I told Glenn I loved him the other day when he went to get dad, it freaked him out but he came around today and told me he loved me too, I don’t wanna lose him now right before we even start”

“He’s with Daryl, I know you don’t know him that well but Daryl is a survivalist, he’ll watch over Glenn I have a feeling they’ll come back fine” she nodded as she pulled you into a hug

~~~~~~

The sun was set now and you were getting more anxious but then the door swung open and in came Daryl and Glenn

“What happened?” Andrea asked

“We found Randall he was dead” Glenn said

“The others ain’t back yet?” Daryl asked

“No can you please go look for them” Lori asked and it made your blood boil but Daryl nodded not even looking at you before he left again

“Why would you send him back out there? If you want to find Rick do it yourself, Daryl’s not your errand boy” you said to Lori getting made

“I’m sorry” Lori said acting like the victim as usual

“Ya you’re always sorry” you said as Maggie held you shoulder and pulled you away

~~~~~~~~~~

The barn caught fire and everything went south fast, walkers were everywhere, you could find Daryl but you had to go, you got your bag and got in a car with Rick, Hershel and Carl

He drove you to the interstate where you first stopped hoping the others might be there but when you got there, it was just you four

“No no no, I need Daryl, we have to go back, I need to find him” you said starting to hyperventilate

“Dear you need to calm down” Hershel said as he placed his hands on your shoulders

That’s when you heard the beautiful rumble of Daryl’s bike, you looked up and there he was with Carol on the back of his bike, when he pulled up and got off he came over and wrapped his arms around you tight, breathing eachother in as you cried

“I was so scared Daryl, I didn’t know where you were” you cried into his chest

“I’m sorry peach, I looked for ya but I was gettin surrounded”

“I’m just glad you’re safe and with me”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

They reunion was amazing but now on the road it was getting hard, you and Daryl had gone threw the food cans you had packed quickly, it’s been 8 months on the road, sleeping in random houses even storage lockers and scarce food

The others were holding up better than you, when you didn’t get enough food your body dwindled fast due to low iron, it made you weak and that scared Daryl

You were leaning against a wall in a house you all had cleared out and sitting around as Daryl was out trying to hunt

You were so tired, when you entered the house the first time you looked at yourself in a broken mirror and you noticed the pale complexion, the sunken eyes and how thin you’ve gotten, you looked haunting

“You doing okay y/n?” Maggie asked as her and Glenn sat next to you

You just nodded but they knew you were doing awful, everyone’s noticed your rapid decline compared to everyone else

Daryl came back quickly kneeling infront of you, holding your face in his hands as he checked on you

“You’re back” you smiled weakly glad he made it back safe

“I got ya a deer, big enough to feed everyone” he said as he placed a kiss to your lips giving you a worried look as he went to skin and prep the deer

“Maggie…..” you said trying to get her attention and she was quick to pay attention

“What are you okay?”

“I’m gonna…..rest…..can you watch and……check on Daryl please” you asked feeling yourself drifting off

“Of course” she said in the thick country accent

~~~~~~~

Daryl’s POV

As I was skinning the deer Maggie came out and sat with me

“You need any help?” She asked as I chopped up pieces of meat

“Ya can started cookin these on the fire” I said pointing to the small fire near by I lit

She took them and laid them on the little fire pit

“How’s she doin?” I asked breaking the silence

“She’s getting weaker, I think the deer will help”

“I’m scared for her Maggie” I groaned feeling the stress overcome me, I knew ever since we were teens that she had low iron and that she’d get tired when she didn’t eat proper but this is the worst I’ve ever seen even Hershel was worried and we couldn’t find any pills either

“We’ll get her better Daryl, ya just gotta have hope, she still here for you, she’s fighting for you, she told me earlier” that warmed my heart, god I loved that woman so much that’s why I needed her better

~~~~~~~~~~

Normal pov

You felt someone shaking you awake and when you opened your eyes Daryl was there with a plate of deer for you

“Ya gotta eat” he said as he held a piece to your mouth, he continued to hand feed you deer until it was done, until he got a second plate for you, it really must have been a big deer

Once you were done you were feeling a bit better hopefully your body absorbed the iron you desperately needed

“How’re ya feelin?” He asked as he came sitting behind you so you could lay your back against his chest as he started eatin

“I think it helped, gotta give it time”

“I’ll find us a place, I promise” he said as he took our blanket from the bag and wrapped it over you as you slowly fell asleep again

—///—///—///—///—///—

Part.8<-

Oop reader is sick can she make it?

Taglist: @thebadbatch2022 @ghostboneswrites @deansapplepie @writer-ann-artist

#daryl dixion imagine #twd daryl #daryl dixon #twd fanfiction #twd x reader #twd fluff #the walking dead #the walking dead series #daryl dixon twd #daryl dixon fluff #daryl x you #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon smut #daryl fanfiction #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl dixon x female reader #daryl dixon series

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lizardsfromspace · 1 month ago

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THE BIGGEST MOVIES OF SUMMER 2025: A PREVIEW

The hottest movies you'll be seeing in cinemas, and three weeks later on streaming, in the following year!!!

BAMBI, MUFASA: THE FIRST LION KING, & DUMBO: WE REMADE IT AGAIN

That Disney (TM) magic (TM) you loved (TM) growing up is back on screen - with some of the emotion intact! The Mufasa one is real

TERRIFIER 4: ART THE CLOWN GOES HAWAIIAN

The movie people on Twitter can't stop saying saved horror is back. You loved Terrifier when he killed people without a real plot for two hours. You loved Terrifier when he did that again. You loved Terrifier when he did it on Christmas. But next summer, it's time for Art the Clown to "catch a wave" as he starts to surf - on waves of terror! ifier.

THE MATRIX 5 - THE RISE OF THE HOLOGRAMS

Original series writer Sophia Stewart returns for another movie of exciting Matrix action. Remember when they built a highway for The Matrix 2? For The Matrix 5, they built a full pyramid for the Egyptian God-King Neo to stand in front of as he fights the machines, and engages in a twenty minute unbroken rant about Rothschild central banks and the power of the all-seeing eye

I SAW THE TVS GLOW

The year is 2466 and a distant human colony has fallen under the spell of gender dysphoria. Now it's time for Tara and Isabel to rise from the grave and kick Mr. Melancholy's ass. For good. In space.

LIFE OF CHUCK

Mike Flanagan's life-affirming sci-fi drama starring Tom Hiddleston won the audience award at the Toronto Film Festival, and is primed to make a splash in the Oscar race next year! Fun fact: it is not only Flanagan's first prominent non-horror project, but is based on a rare non-horror work by Stephen King - shades of fellow Oscar favorites Stand By Me, The Shawshank Redemption, and The Green Mile.

#film #movies #incredible

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lopposting · 7 months ago

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So, I noticed that people tend to notice P is not human, not from the way he looks, but from the way he sounds.

I can hear your springs even if you try to hide them. We musicians have a keen ear, you know. (White lady)

I hear the sound of springs inside you... You're a puppet too! (The Survivor)

[btw I'm going to be paraphrasing quotes and details from memory so I can get this out rather rapidly, so my apologies if they're somewhat incorrect]

Claudia and Lucio give no indication that they know about P not being human. Up until mid-game, they only really treat him as another stalker to con. The black rabbit brotherhood seem to know, but mainly because they know we're specifically "Geppetto's puppet."

I think that Claudia and Lucio find out because they either hear the brotherhood during the fight or Simon tells them as much, because Lucio calls us a "goddamn talking rag-doll" before he attacks us if you choose to fight.

The Black Rabbit Brotherhood and their connection to Carlo

And speaking of which - the brotherhood seems to know immediately that we are "Geppetto's puppet". Which makes me wonder... they seem to have known Carlo or known of Carlo while he was alive, which is probably how they put two and two together and guessed the obvious conclusion of how we came to be, which is the case with Antonia:

Oh, I knew you were Geppetto's puppet the moment I saw you (Antonia)

Is that Tenma's boy? > It can't be Tenma's boy. Holy cow, Tenma must have lost his mind (From Astro Boy 2009)

They also have Carlo's painting and the gravesite which is guessed to perhaps contain Carlo's empty grave has the mark of the black rabbit brotherhood on it. Geppetto also says he had no idea the BRB had stolen the painting.

A child who was a blessing to their family lies here. May he rest in peace. (Malum grave)

[Also I'm wildin now but korean pronouns are usually non-gender specific, so maybe it wasn't a "he" originally? this throws a whole bunch of other things into question though which I actually really don't like]

So, I thought of ways that ALL of these things could be true: That this IS carlo's grave in the malum district (which is strange because why would an aristocratic son be buried in Malum), the grave is empty because Carlo's body is still in the suitcase, the brb mark on his grave makes sense, AND the BRB having the painting is more than just a coincidence.

I have the most bizarre headcanon now. The BRB are a bunch of awful thugs for issuing "protection fees", but still, what IF:

They seem very hostile to us, particularly because we are a puppet, but maybe also because of our resemblance to Carlo - not because they resented him, but because Carlo was dear to them somehow. And the empty grave in the district was set up by them privately to commemorate his death when they heard what happened, (and the "family" they are referring to are themselves!). It's also worth noting that in the original story, The rabbits are aligned with the blue fairy (which would be Sophia in this iteration). [They're also associated with coffins and graves.]

I had no idea the black rabbit brotherhood had stolen it. (Geppetto on the painting)

The black rabbit brotherhood! I hate these guys. <- Gemini immediately remembers them. [They also appear very early on in the game, I guess to show they were watching us?]

So maybe their resentment and disgust for P comes from the fact that they know Geppetto has made an artificial replica of someone they knew into something they hated (puppets!), which they would see as repulsive. Perhaps there's an actual reason why the BRB has the painting. What exactly went down at the monad charity house?

...

extra notes

[The BRB knowing about Carlo doesn't mean they personally knew Carlo (since Geppetto must've been famous), but it's something. The thing is, both Eugenie and Venigni don't seem to recognize who we're "supposed" to be at all, even Venigni who is said to have been a close colleague to Geppetto. Maybe Eugenie and Venigni are just super polite and don't want to mention Carlo at all to us, but I kinda get the feeling that the public never really knew Carlo existed, Geppetto did dump him off at a boarding school early on after all]

[also also!! the golden stargazer next to the grave for DLC, Carlo being associated with ships, and the DLC showing a nautical theme?]

#look away theres BRB apologia here #lies of p #liesofp #lop #spoilers #lies of p spoilers #carlo #brb #black rabbit brotherhood #pinocchio #theory #more crack theory #speculation #btw i also love that they bring out a coffin for us to get into and WE END UP PUTTING ONE OF THEM IN IT INSTEAD #lore

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jakeperalta · 10 months ago

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2024 books 📚 (be my friend on storygraph! / also this is my book account on instagram!)

giovanni's room - james baldwin (☆☆☆☆)

let the light pour in: morning poems - lemn sissay (☆☆☆½)

the anthropocene reviewed - john green (☆☆☆☆☆)

lessons in chemistry - bonnie garmus (☆☆☆)

wearing my mother's heart - sophia thakur (☆☆☆)

othello - william shakespeare (☆☆☆)

tiny beautiful things - cheryl strayed (☆☆☆☆½)

the death of ivan ilych - leo tolstoy (☆☆☆)

how not to be a boy - robert webb (☆☆☆☆)

the fellowship of the ring - j.r.r. tolkien (☆☆☆☆½)

the satsuma complex - bob mortimer (☆☆☆)

the two towers - j.r.r. tolkien (☆☆☆☆☆)

sapiens: a brief history of humankind - yuval noah harari (☆☆☆)

the return of the king - j.r.r. tolkien (☆☆☆☆☆)

funny story - emily henry (☆☆☆☆½)

the island - victoria hislop (☆☆☆☆)

everything I never told you - celeste ng (☆☆☆☆☆)

wish you were here - jodi picoult (☆☆☆½)

tales from the café - toshikazu kawaguchi (☆☆☆)

forever, interrupted - taylor jenkins reid (☆☆☆☆)

all about love: new visions - bell hook (☆☆☆)

unwell women - elinor cleghorn (☆☆☆☆☆)

seven days in june - tia williams (☆☆☆☆)

breasts and eggs - mieko kawakami (☆☆☆☆)

project hail mary - andy weir (☆☆☆☆☆)

lysistrata - aristophanes (☆☆☆)

the sense of an ending - julian barnes (☆☆☆☆)

dog songs - mary oliver (☆☆☆☆½)

carrie soto is back - taylor jenkins reid (☆☆☆☆☆)

you are here - david nicholls (☆☆☆☆)

the mysterious affair at styles - agatha christie (☆☆☆☆)

the murder on the links - agatha christie (☆☆☆)

the life impossible - matt haig (☆☆☆☆)

beautiful world, where are you? - sally rooney (☆☆☆☆☆)

it's probably your hormones - dr mary ryan (☆☆☆)

wuthering heights - emily brontë (☆☆☆☆)

poetics - aristotle (☆☆)

the girl he used to know - tracey garvis graves (☆☆☆)

#a good start to this year's reading!#books read in 2024

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kazesauce · 5 months ago

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TBOC Hopes and Wild Speculation

*CONTAINS REFERENCES TO 201 AND FILMING SPOILERS*

I'm so grateful to see everyone so excited after the Tribeca premiere, including seeing some old names arise from their fandom slumber. Welcome back!

Melissa said that they took some core issues that were unresolved from the main series and built on those. These are core issues I hope they address so Carol can heal.

Sophia - Carol needs to move out of the denial phase of grief and properly mourn her daughter. There are strong indications in 201 that this will be addressed.

The Banishment - I firmly believe that Rick telling Carol no one would want her around if they knew who she really was is what's underpinning her wanting to run away constantly. Carol doesn't know that Daryl knows about Karen and David and he defended her when Rick exiled her. I hope that will be addressed.

Lizzie and Mika - This was an extremely traumatic experience for Carol, and she kept her promise to Tyreese never to talk about it. I hope something happens to help her process that grief and affirm that she made the right decision in that situation, even though it was gut wrenching.

Find Me Fight - I hope they talk about that fight and everything that was fueling it, including Daryl's savior complex that's caused him so much trouble. It's the reason he ended up in France and also why he missed the boat home. (Daryl would have died in Newfoundland and Carol never would have found him, so narratively it's a good thing he stayed, but that's not the point I'm trying to make.)

Wild Speculation/Hopes

Sylvie and Emile's puppy love will stir something in Caryl.

Losang will be revealed to be as evil as Genet.

Codron will adopt Laurent at the end of the season. (Codron and Laurent were present when they filmed Daryl and Carol going down the tunnel to Spain. I guess this would mean Isabelle is dead or gravely injured, but I just want my boy Codron to get a happy ending.)

Please reblog or comment with your own hopes and wild speculations! No judgment, have fun!

#caryl #twd daryl dixon #the book of carol #tboc #melissa mcbride #carol peletier #daryl dixon #norman reedus #twd spoilers

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reireichu · 1 year ago

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If your OC was canon, how would the fandom treat it? - For Sophie

So, I basically had to wait to finish writing Part VI before I could actually answer this question.

Welcome to the giant essay on the Honourable Miss Sophia Catherine Devereaux that absolutely no one wants.

Up until Part V, I would say that fandom's opinion and treatment of Sophia wouldn't be great. Sophie is exactly who she appears to be; beautiful, rich, inaccessible, perfect. She keeps it that way, she likes it that way, she puts on the mask and keeps it on for as long as she can. The little slivers of Sophie, who she is, it starts slipping out all the way through Part I to V. But most of fandom for Part I to V would find her incessantly frustrating, good, and empty and unapproachable--which is, you know, a very deliberate writing choice.

There might be a good amount of Sophie apologists, especially as parts of her get revealed. The hints of her eating disorder, the ambiguous reference to something that happened in her childhood, the slow revelation that she either has been pushed into being exactly like her mother or the opposite of her mother. I think there's a good amount of fandom who would be on the Sophia Devereaux Deserves Better train, because Sophie is very much, deep down, a broken, traumatised girl who has spent her life being repressed and manipulated by every single person around her.

Aegon and Sophie's relationship is probably polarising, because it's a slow burn that isn't very exciting, and the moment they fuck, she pushes him right away. She incites his jealousy by flirting with Rhaenyra. She basically activates Daemon's Creepy Batman mode. Why does she need all this when she has Aegon? This would probably be one of the most frustrating things for fandom, either the people who WANT her with Aegon, or the ones who want 'better' for Aegon. Honestly, it's easy to paint Sophie as a bit of a bisexual bicycle slut, considering that it's hinted that she and Cassandra Baratheon had also been a thing.

Sophie's beauty is something that would also have this great discourse in fandom--is Sophie more than her physical asset, which is her beauty, or is she just this shallow vessel that people project their desires onto? Who the fuck is Sophie fucking Devereaux and why does everyone want to fuck this girl who doesn't give anything away except a witty remark and a dry laugh. She's a projection of ideal feminine beauty, with modern career drive. She's nice and compassionate, she can be a judgement upper class bitch--she's been raised that way, she's a sheltered and manipulated trauma victim--she would inflame a lot of hatred and love. I also think that for some people, she's boring or she's annoying. And then for others, they might identify in her traits about themselves that is a reaction to trauma in their own lives, or a projection of how they react to society--some of this might or might not be writer projection, la la la.........

Fandom's favourite thing for Sophie would basically with a generational comparison to Alicent. Deliberately set up, Alicent and Sophia--two white, wealthy, well bred girls who are being hunted by Targs left and right. Alicent and Rhaenyra in their girlhood versus Sophia and Cassie in theirs. Rhaenyra and Alicent versus Rhaenyra and Sophie. Alicent's distance to Aegon versus Alicent's distance to Sophie. Their physical appearance--although, Alicent has distinctly auburn hair, she and Sophie both have very big big eyes that emote their every thought. It's revealed that Dalton's nickname for Sophia is 'puppy' and her eyes are the reason for that. Those big big eyes, which actually was one thing that Aegon subconsciously draws comparison to his own mother about. The parallels are all there, setting up Sophia to be preyed upon and targetted and ruined by a Targaryen man (or woman), and then...

HELLO THE GHOST OF HAMLET'S FATHER IS HERE TO SUE ME FOR CREATIVE LICENCE.

Enter, Cathy fucking Devereaux.

The ghost of Cathy Devereaux running around like a demented version of Hamlet's dead dad is the best thing about this fic, and I won't hear otherwise because Cathy brings me too much joy as she has singlehandedly devastated every man I put in her fucking path.

The parallels of Sophie and Cathy take over slowly, the shift around Part IV. There's a lot of Cathy in Sophie's memory, even though Sophie stated in Part I that Cathy died when she was ten years old from a sailing accident. It's a throwaway line, drawing this comparison of her and Aegon's relationships with their mothers that then does this face turn, and that's when I think fandom gets really either frustrated as fuck with Sophie or actually want to just put her into therapy. Cathy is this phantom looming over Sophie's shoulder. The beautiful dead girl, the one and only late Catherine Devereaux who Sophie bears a strong resemblance to--I would live for the fucking gif comparison for these two. But to basically be a projection of her mother's memory, I think that's where there's this concern for Sophie. It's taken a toll on her mentally for her whole life--she's described herself as having 'battled nature in my own heart', which is a key thing: is she battling being like Cathy or being the opposite of Cathy? Which is it? How confusing would that be? Who the fuck wants to spend their entire life being compared to the one who came before? I think that's where the fandom view of Sophie slowly slips a bit, they'd honestly either love or hate the amount of influence Cathy has over Sophie even though she's been absent for most of Sophie's life.

Part V, aka the Daemon interlude because how the FUCK did Daemon get his own fucking chapter (I cannot even, I still cannot even--you know what, fandom can either be outraged or happy, I don't fucking know. Daemon's fucking interlude exists bc Hamlet's father deemed it worthy); you start seeing hints of Sophie from a lens that isn't Aegon's or her own. Albeit a Cathy fogged lens, but you still Sophie and Daemon talking, you see how she pushes and pulls a person away with such nonchalance, but you also see that Sophie deliberately plays with fire.

There's going to be one small part of fandom that would gif the fuck out of 'Sophie's staring at someone' to discern whether she's thinking of ruining their whole career. I would again live for these gifs. I will also live for the comparison of them to Alicent and Cathy.

Fandom would also have a blast discussing the Sophie - Alicent - Rhaenyra - Cathy - Laena soft power versus hard power. I wish I could touch more on Laena's divorce, but that's not happening due to the narrative (or for now, because let's face it, I want to see her obliterate Daemon and call him out for being a crappy dad). It adds into the viewpoint of how women either have to push or manipulate and the way they do it. IDK, to me, I would be fascinated over that sort of thing.

Okay, so all of this builds until Part VI where for one gloriously horrid scene that had so much fucking dialogue I wanted to punch every single man in the room (hey Larry!), Sophie's attractiveness, her charm, her appeal, her standoffishness ruins her in the eyes of the viewers and in the eyes of Aegon. A man killed himself over her! She fucked her teacher! She broke up a marriage! She's had an abortion! She's done this to so many people, she's fucking Rhaenyra, she saw you and put you in her crosshairs.

Sophie is a wicked bitch.

She's her mother's daughter.

Beautiful, selfish, wicked.

She's slept around on them, she'll sleep around on you, Aegon. She's the cold perfect bitch you knew she was, and you fell into that trap anyways. Fuck her.

Why is it that Aegon can't have nice things. Did he do this, does he just keep choosing shitty people? He did coke off his brother's fiance's D cups, he drives his lambo into hospitals. Aegon isn't a saint, he's down in hell, but she fucking knew he was damaged and she still decided to toy with him.

And then well.

It makes you wonder, how many people forget the thing that made Rhaenyra worthy of protection, how many people forget that just like her, Sophie was just a girl as well. Alicent was just a girl. They were just young girls in a world where the wolves feast on girls lost in the forest of old country estates.

Fandom, I think, would have no idea what to fucking do about Sophie at this point, because dear readers, no one ever really knew Cathy. She was a beautiful ghost.

Her daughter is exactly the same.

Okay fine, I was being dramatic as fuck.

I think by the end of Part VI, fandom will erupt into two camps where you will either love her or hate her. You can believe what was said at the intervention, or you can question it. How much of it was true? How much of it was real? What part of her 'relationship' with Aegon so far has been real? And then, and be united in the question of "what the fuck happened and what truth are they hiding?" and also united in the camp of "alicent's marriage makes me want to commit violence" and many other things. I'm firmly in the "raise your hand if you've been personally victimised by Cathy Devereaux" camp because I'm writing the whole fucking thing.

Some of the things they said about Sophie at the intervention was true. I won't tell you what was true, you can work it out yourself.

Yes, Sophie has been seeing Rhaenyra since the benefit, one and off.

Aegon, the inflamed little hypocrite, has been fucking Cassandra. I like to think that this is equal opportunity sluttiness for them both.

But, there is something that I think fandom can appreciate about Sophie in a way. I think that Aegon's compassion towards Alicent, how he says to her what Sophie said to him, seeing him lost and broken, the first compassion he's shown to his mother in a long time, I think that some of fandom will appreciate the fact that this was something Sophie has influenced. She's never tried to fix Aegon, but there is an influence there. She's not going to tell him to stop being a trainwreck--she's a bit busy, being haunted by ghosts, being a doctor, telling Jace and Hannah off for being so cute together--but she has gotten through to him without forcing it onto him. It's a rare thing, but it's one of the parts of the story that I've been trying to build towards.

Also, in other breaking news, I now have to write the rest of this fucking melodrama, so excuse me as I go fling myself into the lake with the exiled Russian prince's drowned wife.

Stay tuned for another episode of meta and insight no one asked for, next week featuring the rom-com known as Jace Velaryon and Hannah Kim and how Jace mispronounced bulgogi!

#asks re we’ll forever have the scars #the noble and most ancient house of devereaux #sophia catherine devereaux #aegon x oc fic #aegon x oc #aegon ii targaryen #character meta #wip re we’ll forever have the scars #the ghost of hamlet's father i mean cathy devereaux made me write this #alicent hightower deserves better #get you a wingman who drives your love life from the grave #spoiler alert yes the russian prince did drown his wife #viserys was so punchable in all of part vi #daemon targaryen is his own warning #rei fic #we'll forever have the scars #devereaux cinematic universe

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