#words aptly spoken

[ravenplaylist]

April 2, 2024 - A Word Aptly Spoken by Ray Barbee

[taexual]

sleepwalking ● 1 | jjk

summary: due to unfortunate circumstances, you ended up managing your ex-boyfriend’s band. you thought you’ve both made peace with it, but suddenly he’s very eager to prove to you that first love never dies.

pairing: jungkook x fem!reader

genre: rockstar!jungkook / exes to lovers / fluff / angst / smut (in later chapters)

warnings: explicit language, suggestive themes, SLOW BURN

words: 7.5k

chapter 1 ► when i open my eyes to the future, i can hear you say my name

There was virtually not a single person left on the entire fourth floor of the company building, despite it being a Monday afternoon. Normally, two other managers worked in offices adjacent to yours, so the noise in the hallways never settled below a pleasant hum: producers, promoters, and publicists – the three cursed Ps – shuffled in and out, heels clicking urgently against the marble floor.

This funeral silence was unusual, but you knew it was only a calm before the storm.

Rated Riot were going on their first-ever European tour in two days to promote their sophomore album – named aptly, “ready, set, RIOT” – and today was the final day of meetings. Evidently, the executives at Jett Records assumed that the band deserved to have a whole floor to themselves, so everyone else got a half-day, leaving you and the Floor Administrator, Rue, all by yourselves until the band got here.

This unsettling silence was exactly why you heard them arrive as soon as the door of the building opened four floors below. Rated Riot lived up to their name by making themselves heard before they were seen.

As soon as the sharp ding! of the elevator reached you in your office—your door was always open on meeting days, because the four members of one of the most promising rock bands in the world at the moment lacked any sense of direction—you could immediately feel the atmosphere lighten, the previous silence long gone.

“Rue! The apple of my eye!” Hoseok, the drummer and the de facto mood setter of Rated Riot, exclaimed as you listened to the familiar sounds of the band as they exited the elevator and, based on the repeated clicking of shoes in the lobby, momentarily got disoriented.

“Always looking good, Rue!” Jungkook, the vocalist, as well as the new Golden Boy of Jett Records followed after.

“Good to see you again,” Taehyung, the always well-mannered bassist, said. Silence followed and you assumed he shook Rue’s hand.

“Hello,” Yoongi, who was, technically, the guitarist of the band, but, really, played any instrument he could get his hands on, was the last to speak. He’d always been very well-spoken in songwriting, but quieter and more careful in most everyday conversations.

“Welcome, guys,” Rue greeted them. You couldn’t see any of them from where your office was located, but you’ve been in a similar situation countless times before and you could imagine what was happening without needing to witness it first-hand.

Rue would stand up from her seat and point her right hand down the hallway, reminding them—yet again—that they needed to walk down the hall and take a right turn. The members of Rated Riot, in turn, would walk down the hall. At least one of the four of them would turn left instead, causing a pause as the group gathered back together, exchanging confused glances. Then, they would turn back to Rue—who would still be standing there, her right hand extended like a helpful Statue of Liberty. They’d laugh at themselves, nod at Rue, and take the correct turn.

If things were going well, they’d find your office on first try—they’d just need to find the open door and peer inside; your desk was right in front. More often than not, however, they stumbled around, knocking and chuckling to themselves as they continuously interrupted the offices of everyone else, but you.

They were special. Not just because they looked like loose ducklings, separated from the Mother Duck, whenever they entered the company building, but also because, in spite of their own lack of coordination, they still managed to get things done.

And they brightened the day of everyone they came across. Which was almost ironic—as you realised by watching the four of them enter your office—considering the effortless rockstar aura that surrounded them.

Jungkook walked in first. That was typical because he usually did: sometimes because he was the only one who remembered where your office was, but usually because the other members offered him as a sacrificial lamb when they went knocking around every office on the floor in search of yours.

He was dressed in all-black—always—adorned with silver chains and necklaces that often gave you a start when you looked up, because he had a very specific way of entering the room: he seemed to make sure to position himself in just a way that the light, coming in from the window behind you, always reflected off his jewellery and momentarily blinded you.

Sure enough, you blinked, cringing into yourself as the brightness hit your eyes, and when you opened them again, he was already grinning.

“Hi,” he said and the rest of the members followed in after him—a brighter palette of colours.

Even Yoongi, who was the only one who could have given Jungkook a run for his money if you had to count which one had more black items of clothing in their closet, was wearing a beige, loosely buttoned shirt.

Despite that, however, you could tell they were rock artists as soon as you looked at them—all tattoos, piercings, intense eye make-up behind sunglasses, and old band tees—and you stood up, excited to let them know that, finally, every last loose thread had been found and tightened. They’d get to introduce their artistry on a different continent, and you’d make sure it’d go smoothly.

“We’re leaving for Prague tomorrow morning,” you told them once the five of you settled down at the round table in the back of your office. “So, if you were planning a going away party, I strongly advise against it.”

“We weren’t,” Yoongi said, lifting his glass of lemon water—there was a jug on the table—and giving you a reassuring look. “This is the strongest drink I’m having tonight.”

“Thanks,” you said paradoxically enough, but being grateful when the members of the band you managed didn’t get drunk before an important day was part of the job. “I’d also appreciate it if—”

“Hold on a second, though,” Jungkook interrupted—you’d been anticipating it. “I’m going to a gig tonight, Reconnaissance are in town again. And there’s obviously an after-party—”

Despite Reconnaissance being, arguably, one of the most popular rock bands in the world right now, you were definite when you cut him off, “No.”

“—so, I—wait. No?” he paused. “I never miss their shows, you know that. And I don’t get drunk easily. You know that, too.”

“That’s why you drink so much,” you rebutted. The rest of the band members got their phones out, knowing well enough at this point that this would take a while. “And then I have to come get you out of trouble.”

“You absolutely do not have to do that,” Jungkook insisted. “We’ve been through this.”

“Have we?” you argued. “Because I keep telling you it’s my job to keep you from passing out in a dirty bar bathroom, but you don’t care enough to hear me.”

“Well, you’re not very convincing. What’s the worst that can happen? I’ll wake up again.”

You were used to having this conversation with him—you’ve argued about this way before he became a singer and you ended up as his manager. And yet, the lax way he said this made you clench your fists.

Despite being mostly introverted, Jungkook did enjoy getting drinks with friends: even if said friends enjoyed his celebrity status more than they enjoyed the drinks.

“And if you don’t?” you threatened. “Rated Riot’s vocalist gets his stomach pumped. A catchy headline.”

“Yeah, man,” Hoseok interjected, putting his phone screen down on the table and crossing his arms. “Doesn’t go well with the vibe we’re going for. Don’t get your stomach pumped.”

“Fine, I—”

“What he meant was, don’t drink so much that you’d need your stomach pumped,” you clarified because Jungkook moonlighted as a Loophole Finder.

“I never have!” he insisted. “Seriously, you treat me like I’m still nineteen. Have some faith.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see the other members of the group look up from their phones. The band had only formed a few years ago, so you were the only person in this room who knew what Jungkook was like when he was nineteen. You never spoke about it – that was likely why everyone was so curious.

In any case, Jungkook was wrong. You did have faith—that’s why you spent so many of your off-duty nights driving down deserted streets to pick him up after his asshole friends convinced him it was a good idea to try the biker bar on the outskirts of town, and he’d gotten in an altercation with a burly redneck that was twice his size.

There was no time for that now, not when he was supposed to be on stage in Prague in three days.

“Well,” Taehyung spoke up. “I was thinking of going to the show as well. Not so much the after-party, I have better plans. But, uh, I could come, after all.”

You appreciated the offer, but you knew that these better plans involved him spending time with his girlfriend, Luna, who was going to join him for a few weeks of the European tour, but after that, the two of them were going to be apart for several months.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” you said, not trying very much to hide the hopeful undertones in your voice. Jungkook’s friends felt intimidated by all the members of Rated Riot; they’d be on their best behaviour if Taehyung was there.

“No, I think it might be fun,” Taehyung said. You exhaled quietly and he could sense your gratitude without words. He turned to his younger bandmate. “Should we go together?”

Jungkook groaned and mumbled under his breath, “not if I have to third-wheel again.”

“When have you ever third-wheeled anyone?” you asked rhetorically, but he was already opening his mouth to reply. Quickly, you added, “be careful, is what I’m saying, okay? I am complaining about having to pick you up from all kinds of holes, but if you need me to bring NDAs, I will bring them. So, ask.”

Jungkook rolled his eyes, but chose to stay quiet. He knew better now – the one time he did not make anyone sign a non-disclosure agreement after an impromptu, drunken busking session in New York, pictures of him, half-dressed and giving a lap dance to a random, equally as drunk, groupie, were on every rock page on Instagram. Accompanied with detailed retellings of how it came to happen, of course; all of them more ridiculous than the next. Your personal favourite story was that he was recruiting members for a sex cult.

“We’ll call you,” Taehyung gave you a nod, “if we have to.”

“Perfect,” you said, glancing at Jungkook again, even though expecting him to confirm that he, too, would call you if he had to, was wishful thinking.

Every time you reminded him how he needed to start going out with a less destructive crowd, he’d treat his phone like a poisonous snake – and he’d been doing that even before you became his manager. His friends seemed to get their pleasure fix from watching you arrive and rip him a new one, so they were the ones who called you most of the time, always laughing into their phones like true accomplices.

It was funny how Jungkook was the only one who passed out or got so wasted, he ended up on a ferry to Martha’s Vineyard. His friends always walked away unscathed and, usually, only called you by the time they were back in their bedrooms – “when we left, he was ordering mint and honey daiquiris, you should probably go over there and check up on him.”

It was like they loved pushing him into danger and purposefully bringing the two of you together again, and Jungkook either didn’t realise or didn’t care anymore. It’s been a while, after all.

You and Jungkook had been broken up for almost two years when you got the unbelievable offer to manage an up-and-coming rock band. This was over two years ago now and you were only twenty-four back then. Up until that point, you had worked as an assistant manager for various indie artists, so that offer was massive.

You figured the downside that your ex-boyfriend happened to be in this particular band was worth it, considering the huge leap in your career you’d make by accepting this job.

And, for the most part (excluding the first two months that were pure chaos of repressed feelings), you and Jungkook both made this work, drawing a strict line between your relationship before Rated Riot (back when he still had your phone number saved as “❌”) and after he met you again as Rated Riot’s new manager (ironically, now your name on his phone was “❌❌❌”).

You’ve managed Rated Riot for almost exactly two years now, and if you’d asked the band – which you wouldn’t, partially out of humbleness, but also because you were scared – you’d know that they loved working with you as much as you loved working with them. So, in the end, it all really had been worth it.

“Check your emails for the descriptive itineraries,” you continued smoothly enough. The guys at the table put their phones down and returned their attention to you. “Now, who else is coming with us?”

Technically, the band wasn’t supposed to bring anyone – the label was explicitly clear about that. They wanted the first European tour to go “without a hitch” (meaning, without distractions), but you held a more liberal view here.

You didn’t think loved ones coming on the road were a distraction; if anything, they were a firm support mechanism that made touring easier for the artists.

“I know Luna’s staying until the Barcelona show, yeah?” you asked, double-checking the notes on your laptop.

Taehyung nodded, a small smile on his lips at the mention of the girl. “She flies out the next day, yeah.”

“Okay. Who else?”

“Well, Sid and Jude are coming,” Jungkook spoke up and, after seeing your eyes roll back, added, quieter, “and Minjun isn’t sure.”

The three musketeer-wannabes – Sid, Jude, and Minjun – were on speed dial on your work and personal phones, because if Rated Riot had a performance and the vocalist wasn’t there, it was likely those three who were to blame. They were the only ones who knew Jungkook longer than you did, and they seemed to take pride in the fact that they had successfully been causing you headaches for seven years now.

“Sid and Jude,” you repeated, “aren’t worried they’ll lose their jobs if they travel to Europe abruptly?”

“No, they’re cool,” Jungkook shrugged, not catching the mockery in your voice—both Sid and Jude worked for their families, which really meant that they got paid to occasionally show up at the shareholders’ meetings on behalf of their parents. “I’ll text Minjun right now. Maybe he’ll come when we’re in Poland…”

“I needed confirmation by last week,” you reminded him. “At the latest.”

He glanced at you from his phone and then went back to texting. “So, why’d you ask now?”

“To double-check,” you said. “They’re going to have to book the hotels themselves. Or sleep on the street. Honestly, I don’t really—”

“So, uh,” Yoongi interrupted before another argument could begin, “how many hotels this time?”

“Prague, Amsterdam, and Paris. And some nights in London, depending on our flight time,” you said with an apologetic smile. “Bring your favourite blankets. We’re living on buses for the next three months.”

None of them minded – if anything, you could see a little glitter in their eyes as they listened to you. Being on the road and having to sleep on the tour bus every night was an experience they’d missed. They hadn’t gone on an actual tour in almost a year – as someone who thrived on live performances, they had obviously missed this.

Really, you’ve missed it, too. Rated Riot may have been a riot to look after as their manager – pun fully intended – especially on tour, but they were your riot to deal with.

You liked your job and the challenges that came with it, because, in the end, you overcame most of them: starting with your previous relationship with Jungkook (no one in the band had a problem with it, and the label miraculously seemed not to know about it) and ending with your relatively young age (Jungkook was the only one who had a problem with you being his age, but he had a problem with almost everything).

Hopefully, one day you’d manage to overcome the challenge that was getting Jungkook to open his eyes and realise that the people he surrounded himself with were more groupies than his friends. But all in due time.

“If you have questions,” you said as the meeting approached its’ conclusion, “go right ahead.”

“Wake-up calls,” Yoongi said. “Any possibility of arranging those?”

You smiled – this had been traditional practice ever since you started to work with them.

“I’ll call,” you said and then remembered a particularly frustrating way in which this had backfired. You added, “and keep you on the phone until you’re out of bed.”

Back when you were an assistant manager to a different band, this had been your main task. And, you supposed, if Rated Riot had assistant managers, they’d be the ones making wake-up calls, too – however, the band had only started to live up to their potential now. Before you booked the European tour for them, Jett Records thought they barely needed one manager to begin with.

You’ve made it this far. If the tour went well, maybe you’d get to expand your team as the band gained popularity.

Jungkook felt giddy the whole night. The Reconnaissance show with Taehyung and Luna was a lot of fun, as expected—he’d seen the band five times before tonight, and they never failed to let him down.

When he arrived at the after-party, he was nearly vibrating with excitement—on top of everything, he was going on tour tomorrow and he knew he might lose his mind over it—and this was usually the time when he tended to get reckless.

He did drink a little too much to retain a completely sober mind, but he stayed true to his word and did not wander anywhere or caused any—serious—trouble. You would have said that’s because Sid and Jude weren’t with him, but Jungkook was convinced it was because he simply had great self-control when he put his mind to it.

The only place he went to after the party was his family’s house, so he could say goodbye to his grandma. She probably wouldn’t even hear him—and if she would, then she probably wouldn’t recognise him—but he couldn’t leave to Europe without saying goodbye to her.

He thought he’d take his Katana to the house, but then remembered immediately the last time he got on his motorcycle drunk – his grandma had, literally, smacked him on the back with a rolling pin, yelling about how careless he was. She didn’t say that she hit him out of concern for his safety—that was obvious—and, instead, she focused on how hard he’d worked on restoring the bike after he’d bought it; his first purchase with the money that he made off Rated Riot’s music.

“Don’t you want it to last?” she had said then. She’d been the only person who believed he could bring the bike to life, despite it not having a single properly functioning part, least of all the engine. “You worked so hard on it. Do you want to wreck it in one night?”

Tonight, however, everyone in the house was asleep when he arrived. It was quiet, so he tried to be silent as he went up the stairs to her room—and then knocked over a picture frame after his feet fumbled on the carpet in the hallway. But no one went out to check who was making the noise—which was dangerous, he realised for a brief, semi-sober second; but the house had security, so he figured they were safe from outsiders—and he gently lowered the handle on his grandma’s door, peering inside.

The room was painted in blue hues from the night light next to the bed where his grandma was sleeping. He approached—really trying to be quiet this time—and carefully pulled her comforter up, so she wouldn’t get cold, even though the room felt warm.

It was always warm here and Jungkook had to bite his lip when he realised how much he missed sitting here as a child while dozens of his cousins ran around the house and wreaked loud, childish havoc. How much he missed his grandma reading him books—never children’s stories, he always insisted she read him the thickest, most boring books he could find on her shelves, just so he could stay in her room longer, listening to her soothing voice and feeling her comforting warmth.

Sniffling quietly, he leaned closer to her and brushed a strand of white hair from her face, listening to her soft breathing as she slept, unaware of his presence.

“I’ll be back soon,” he promised in a whisper as he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. She didn’t wake. “We will talk again then.”

He knew he’d keep this promise even if she didn’t hear it, even if she didn’t remember. But leaving her room felt painful and he was far less excited now. The alcohol had begun to wear off and heaviness settled in his chest instead. This happened sometimes when he was left alone with his thoughts, especially after he visited his grandma.

He'd come back, he knew he would. But as he glanced at his grandma’s sleeping frame one more time—remembering how she hadn’t called him by his name in months; not one glint of recognition in her eyes when she’d see him—he wondered if he’d have anyone to come back to.

Surprising exactly no one, Jungkook was the only one who did not answer your wake-up call the next morning. Having foreseen this, you’d already called Hoseok, Yoongi and Taehyung – in that order, because the first two took the longest to wake up, and by that time, Taehyung was already awake on his own – and only then attempted to reach the one remaining member.

Fifteen minutes later, you were already dressed and ready to drive over to his house and personally wake him up with an icy bath in bed. And just then, your phone rang – his name as the caller’s ID.

“Look who—”

“Okay, okay,” Jungkook’s groggy voice cut you off before you could greet him with the appropriate sarcastic remark. “I’m awake. Halfway in the shower.”

“I don’t hear running water.”

He responded with a groan first, then shuffling. You waited patiently, balancing the phone on your shoulder as you unlocked the door of your apartment. Finally, you could hear the water start running on the other end of the call.

“Happy?” Jungkook asked, always the brightest of all rays of sunshine in the morning.

“Ecstatic,” you replied, equally as enthusiastically. “Sending a car to pick you up in half an hour. Don’t be late.”

“I can drive myself—”

“No driving when you’re hungover,” you said, not for the first time. “In fact, don’t even go near your Katana.”

He considered several ways to respond to you; first and foremost, defending his beloved, navy-coloured Suzuki Katana with a matte coating, custom-made leather seat covers, golden rims, purring engine, and—anyway. He ended up choosing to respond with a question, “how do you know I’m hungover?”

“I’ve known you for almost ten years,” you replied. “If you go out drinking the night before, you’ll wake up hungover.”

“Well, how do you know I drank that much last ni—?”

“Listen,” you cut him off, hoisting your suitcases over the threshold of your front door. You fixed your phone against your cheek and continued, “how about you take that shower, and we’ll resume this nice little Q&A at the airport?”

“No,” he replied and, in a purposefully exaggerated breathy voice said, “I simply can’t stop talking to you.”

“Hanging up now.”

Jungkook laughed as he listened to the beep, indicating the end of the call. Putting his phone on the side of the sink, he took his shirt off and was about to continue undressing when his phone vibrated and nearly fell off the sink.

Scrambling to catch it, he smacked it against the cupboard and exhaled in relief when he saw that the screen hadn’t cracked. He was expecting a text from you – a threat, in case he’d go back to bed – but it was actually Sid, asking for the time of his flight.

His friends were taking a separate flight out to Prague – they weren’t happy about it and neither was he, but at least they’d get to hang out in Europe eventually – and, obviously, they wanted to know what time they’d meet up and where.

He double-checked the itinerary you’d emailed him, got confused about the time zone difference and texted Sid back.

“Gonna be there the day before the show,” his text said, “jetlag. Sleep. Maybe beer? Catch u there.”

Sid was, of course, delighted to hear the mention of beer and Jungkook snickered to himself before he resumed undressing for his shower—knowing from experience that you wouldn’t be above shipping him to Prague in the cargo section on the plane if he was late to the airport.

As it turned out, for the first time in his life, Jungkook was so terribly jet-lagged, that he did not feel like doing anything – not even drinking with friends – but sleeping.

He slept through the whole layover in Paris – and, consequently, through Taehyung and Luna’s stories about the 5 minutes they got to spend in front of the Eiffel Tower before rushing back to the airport (never mind that it was about 2 AM) – as well as the flight to Prague.

He only woke up on the bus ride to the hotel when he felt something nudging his lips and opened his eyes to find an open bottle of Coca-Cola in your hands as you held it by his face.

“Did you just—” he started to say, but his voice sounded brittle, more a croak than a voice, really. He cleared his throat and tried again, “did you just wake me up by making me sniff soda?”

“It worked,” you replied, nudging the bottle at him again. “Drink. You need sugar. You didn’t eat anything on the plane here.”

“I had that bagel on the flight to Paris,” he mumbled, but sat up properly and took the bottle from you.

“That was a croissant,” you clarified. It was almost cute to see him barely awake. “And I warned you about flying with a hangover. You did this to yourself.”

“I’m fine,” he replied after taking a big gulp of coke. “Not sure which day it is, but other than that, I’m perfect. Do you have anything for headaches?”

Snickering, you nodded. “Yeah, give me a second.”

You went to fetch your carry-on bag and returned with ibuprofen, which allowed him to go back to sleep until you arrived at the hotel. The other members were also in and out of slumber, but that was their own fault. You and the other girls on this tour, which, really, only meant Luna— Taehyung’s girlfriend—and Maggie—the tour photographer—had planned ahead and taken sleeping pills as soon as the plane took off. Meanwhile, every man on this trip thought too much of himself.

By the time you arrived to the hotel and checked in, it was already lunchtime. If this had been your first time travelling with Rated Riot, you would have been beyond surprised to see what effect food had on them: they looked like they'd just returned from the most refreshing vacation in the Caribbean. Lively conversation and cheerful laughter echoed around the table – no one would have guessed that they’d just spent over 13 hours on airplanes. Their recovery was nearly always miraculous.

And, naturally, since they were feeling better, they wanted to do something as soon as the first rehearsal was over. You had far too many things to do before the show tomorrow, so you couldn’t babysit them – again, an assistant manager would have been life-saving – but you knew you’d still have to keep an eye on them.

Taehyung and Luna went sightseeing, but they were the sort who kept you updated on their adventures through pictures, which you were endlessly grateful for. There was never a reason to worry here; if you were a teacher who had to pretend not to have a favourite student, Taehyung would be the student you were pretending about.

Yoongi and Hoseok, initially, went to a record store together, but then split up – one of them returned to the hotel for a nap, and the other one went café-hopping. Those two were also fine – they usually took some members of the crew with them anyway, so you knew that in the worst-case scenario, you’d still have several people you could call to reach them.

Now Jungkook was going to meet up with Sid and Jude, both of whom had, most unfortunately, successfully landed in Prague. The Diabolical Duo would take him out drinking, you had no doubt about it – and this was where you’d have to step in with another warning. You weren’t the angry mother, dragging her children by their ears, but you felt it necessary to remind Jungkook of what was at stake if he allowed his friends to be their usual, obnoxious selves tonight.

However, you didn’t want to ask, so you had to figure out where to find them yourself. You didn’t even have to use the seven years that you’ve known them to deduce two logical, universal-for-all-assholes things: one, Jungkook’s friends wouldn’t be nearly tired enough not to want to drink. Two, they’d be too jet-lagged to look for their usual hole-in-the-wall spot that sold drinks. Therefore, they’d have to settle for the bar of the hotel.

And when you exited the elevator on the ground floor later that night, your assumption was confirmed – you could hear their laughter from where you were standing in the lobby.

You’d texted Jungkook as you arrived, hoping he’d leave his friends and come see you at the back of the bar for a minute, but unfortunately, Sid and Jude noticed you and waved you over with loud cheers.

Embarrassed as the people in booths around you began to turn to look, you swallowed and walked towards the front where Jungkook and his friends were sitting by the bar.

“Wow, it’s been so long!” Jude exclaimed as you approached. In your opinion, it wasn’t nearly long enough, but you only lifted the corners of your lips and did not comment.

“Jungkook, a moment?” you said instead.

“Let’s get you a drink!” Sid suggested as though you hadn’t spoken and extended a hand, clicking his fingers to get the bartender’s attention. “Hey! Can we get some Margaritas here?”

You cringed watching this, but, again, restrained yourself. They could behave like pricks all they wanted; it wasn’t their reputation that you had to protect. Someone else would, hopefully, teach them a lesson.

“Sure,” Jungkook said to you, sliding off the stool. He seemed sober enough to walk without any sort of waddling or stand without swaying, but you could tell by the relaxation behind his eyes, that he was already tipsy.

His friends patted him on the back and whistled as he followed you to a quieter spot in the back of the bar. He shook his head at them—but had a grin on his face, and for that alone you wanted to punch him.

“Can I count on you to take it easy?” you asked, once the two of you were out of earshot. “Not because you’ll make my job much harder if you don’t, but because you have a rehearsal tomorrow at eight, and that’s hard with the jet lag alone, but add a hangover into the mix, and—”

“I’ll be fine,” he said, but you’ve heard this song many times before. It was one of his top hits. “I’m actually tired, so I might have a few and then go straight to bed.”

“Okay,” you said, choosing to believe him, because that was easier than making him sign a contract, swearing not to wake up in a dumpster. “Can you text me when you’re back in your room? So I know you’re not lost somewhere in Prague with Dumb and Dumber.”

His lip twitched in an almost-smile at the nickname, but he resisted – a loyal friend, even if they didn’t deserve it – and gave you a nod.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll text you. And I won’t get lost.”

“Okay—” you started to say and then squinted your eyes at him, realizing. “I meant don’t go wandering the city streets while drunk.”

He snorted and placed a hand on your left shoulder. Gazing into your eyes, he enunciated very dramatically, “I will not get into trouble. Promise.”

You pursed your lips. “You’d better not.”

“I realise what that would mean, believe it or not,” he said, straightening. “Tomorrow is an important day. I’d never do anything to ruin it.”

“I know,” you said. “I trust you to make smart choices. I don’t trust them.”

You pointed at the twosome by the bar – both of them watching you like you were the entertainment of the night – and Jungkook turned to look. Sid and Jude both immediately waved at him. Jungkook waved back and, when he looked at you again, he was smiling softly.

Clearly, he genuinely enjoyed hanging out with those two. You’d never believe that there was anything about them that was bearable—let alone enjoyable—so Jungkook’s weird attachment to them had to come from some sort of weird destructive force inside of him.

“I’ll keep them in check,” he said and then, possibly prompted by the skeptical frown on your face, he felt the need to explain, “they help me relax. If it weren’t for them, I’d probably be shaking from anxiety all the time. Kind of like you are.”

He winked as he said that last part, grinning at his own wit, but you rolled your eyes in response.

“Goodnight,” you said then. “Don’t forget to text me.”

“Are you going to stay up late waiting for my text?” his tone was humorous and it stopped you from leaving.

“Hopefully not,” you said, ignoring the flirty comment that was obviously meant to rattle your composure. “But it’d do you well to remember that I can make life very difficult for you if you disobey me.”

He lifted his eyebrows at this, but did not lose the grin. “Oh? Will I get punished if I—”

“Goodnight, Jungkook,” you said again—louder—and turned away.

You glanced over your shoulder when you reached the archway leading to the lobby and caught him watching you leave—he was still beaming, but he composed himself and nodded when he caught your eye. You nodded back.

Maybe he really would be fine tonight.

And, truly, Jungkook had meant what he’d said – he couldn’t wait for tomorrow and there was nothing he’d do to ruin that. Not even if the smirking faces of his friends prompted him to laugh as soon as he returned to his seat by the bar.

“What do you want, assholes?” he asked, punching Jude on the shoulder as he walked past his friends. As soon as he sat down, leaving Sid in the middle, he took a big gulp of the beer he’d left waiting; only his third one tonight.

“We don’t want anything,” Jude said, still smirking. “What did she want? Another moral how you’re not being a good boy?”

Jungkook rolled his eyes. “No—”

“I was always curious,” Sid interrupted. “Was she like that when you dated, too? You know, always in charge?”

Even before you and Jungkook had settled into a steady enough rhythm of working with each other, neither of you spoke to others about your relationship. Not while you were dating, and not after you broke up. So, all your friends—real friends and whoever the hell Sid and Jude were—essentially knew nothing of your relationship.

And there was nothing he’d tell them now.

It’s been four years since you broke up—plenty of time to move on. Not to mention, you were both (trying to be) professionals. There was no point to bring back the past; there never had been.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Jungkook teased, managing to keep the banter going without revealing how the question irked something inside him.

“I would. That’s why I asked,” Sid replied, laughing haughtily. A few heads turned his way. Sid sounded very much like an entitled heir—or an elephant high on helium—when he laughed, especially when there was nothing funny going on. “I mean, you never talked about her to us. Was it getting rid of her that made you who you are today?”

Jude snorted, slapping Sid on the back in a half-supportive, half-warning manner. Jungkook knew that the level of your patience for his friends ranged from Sid (no patience) to Jude (case-by-case), to Minjun (bearable)—and he could see why.

“I didn’t get rid of her,” he said, an edge to his voice. “We broke up and moved on. Did you hear from Minjun?”

Sid laughed again—even louder than before; the glasses behind the bar seemed to clatter.

“Look at him, trying to change the topic!” he wheezed, looking at Jude over his shoulder.

“Leave him be, man,” Jude said and nodded at Jungkook. “So many girls around us and this dumbass is still hung up on your ex, huh?”

Jungkook finished his beer and held the liquid behind his cheeks for a second before swallowing. He caught the bartender’s eye and lifted his empty glass, indicating a refill.

“I don’t think I’m the one who’s hung up,” Sid said with a very knowing look in his eye.

Jungkook looked at him and raised his eyebrows—surprised and momentarily distracted from his drink. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you come to her as soon as she calls, like a puppy,” Sid replied. “So, you tell me.”

“I have to come when she calls,” Jungkook defended. “She’s my manager.”

“Yeah, dumbass,” Jude said, slapping Sid on the back of the head this time. “She’s his manager.”

Jungkook suddenly found himself smiling when he realised that you’d probably consider this the reason why Sid acted the way he did sometimes – permanent brain damage from Jude’s incessant slaps.

“Well, then someone,” Sid said, angrily accentuating the word—the anger was clearly directed at Jude, but the pronoun at Jungkook, “has a fucking crush on their manager.”

“I don’t have a crush—”

Sid spoke over him, “I bet you could never get her to go out with you again.”

Jungkook saw the bartender approach to pour him a drink and he heard Jude scoffing, but he could only blink, taken aback by what sounded like an accusation.  “Why—why would I even—why—”

“Oh, see, see?!” Sid screeched, turning to Jude with a triumphant expression. Jude gave him a pitiful look—and looked about ready to give him a black eye, too. “He knows I’m right, it’s why he’s stuttering!”

“Dude,” Jude said slowly. “You are yelling.”

Jungkook cleared his throat, nodding at the bartender as a thank-you and then bringing his refilled glass to his lips. “And I’m not stuttering.”

“You so are, my man,” Sid taunted, patting Jungkook on the shoulder with so much force, the beer nearly spilled from the glass and from his mouth. “Your ass is so whipped, you’re going to be singing at her wedding to some random producer.”

Suddenly hyper-aware that there were several producers on tour with them right now, Jungkook put his drink down and straightened in his seat.

“I’m not fucking singing at weddings,” he said.

“Not yet,” Sid pointed out, grinning. He knew he'd gotten under his skin.

“Okay, come on now,” Jude interjected, leaning back in his seat to be able to see Jungkook. “You promised you’d sing at my wedding.”

“As if anyone would ever marry you,” came Sid’s snide.

“You shut the fuck up,” Jude snarled, but there was no malice behind his bark. “I have more chances of marrying someone than he has of marrying his manager.”

“He—oh, fuck!” Sid was about to argue, but then burst into laughter—so loud and thunderous again, that the bartender was forced to glance over at the security guards by the entrance to the bar. “That’s good! You’re so right!”

“Both of you are fucking idiots,” Jungkook spoke. The edges of his vision were red. “I could get her to go out with me again if I wanted to.”

“Oh, sure, sure,” Sid nodded, wiping invisible tears from his eyes. “Big talk.”

“Jungkook, no offense, my dude,” Jude said, leaning forwards this time. “Let him have this one. Sid may be dumber than box of rocks, but he’s got a point here. Forget about her.”

Another insinuation that had Jungkook throwing his head back in frustration.

“There’s nothing to forget!” he groaned. “What the fuck are you even talking about? I just fucking told you I moved on.”

“So why are you getting all riled up, then?” Sid smirked, more and more satisfied with each curse that he provoked out of him.

Jungkook felt even angrier, because he was getting riled up, but he had a good reason for it. He enjoyed banter as much as the next person, but he did not enjoy mockery at his own expense—especially not the kind that involved you.

He snapped back, “because you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

His friends snickered at this – convinced that his irritation only proved the point they were both making – and Jungkook clenched his jaw, annoyed.

“If anything,” he added sharply as he picked his beer up—as if that could somehow distance him from this conversation, “it’s her who’s still hung up on me.”

That was a cheap, childish defence, and everyone by the bar knew it.

“Yeah, right!” Sid cried out, but resisted from laughing again. “We’ve heard her yell at you more times than we can count. You fucking wish she was still hung up on you.”

“Okay, to be fair, Sid can probably only count to five,” Jude added—Sid finally punched him on the shoulder—as he toyed with the paper umbrella on his fourth cocktail; the Margaritas they’d ordered were long gone. “But he’s right, you know? You’d never get her to go out with you again.”

There was pity in Jude’s voice—as if he felt sorry that Jungkook lived in denial, chasing after you and convincing himself that it was only a matter of time before you’d come back to him.

This made Jungkook’s temper vile, his face red, hot, and angry. He slammed his beer back on the table, forcing some of it to spill. “Yes, I fucking would!”

Sid was hiccupping as he laughed.

“Okay, okay, listen—let’s make a proper bet,” he managed. He picked up a napkin from the bar top, then looked around for something to write on it with—not finding anything, he stood up from his seat and leaned over the bar, grabbing a pen before the bartender could notice. “$1000 says you can’t get her to go on a date with you again.”

He glanced at Jude for approval—Jude shrugged.

“I’d suggest $500,” he said. “We don’t want to rob him blind.”

Jungkook’s face remained stoic, prideful.

“Fine with me. But you have no idea what you’re getting yourselves into,” he bit.

“Oh, that’s right, he’s been awfully cocky about the whole thing, hasn’t he?” Sid spoke, addressing his rhetorical question at the bar. He wrote something on the napkin and then lifted it to show the number “4000” to Jungkook. “How about this: Jude and I each pay you $2000 if you win. But if you lose, you give us your Katana.”

Jungkook lifted his eyebrows, the sudden mention of his bike catching him off-guard. Sid came from old money, he could afford fifteen brand-new motorcycles with the change he found in his suitcase, probably.

“How is that fair?” he asked. “Do you even know how much a Suzuki costs these days? It’s not $4000, I can tell you that much.”

“Why should you care?” Sid asked, his eyes glinting with mischief. “You were so confident about winning the bet just a second ago. Scared you’ll lose after all?”

In his defence, Jungkook did hesitate for half a moment. But there was a shit-eating grin on Sid’s mouth that he wanted to wipe off more than anything else, and he downed the rest of his beer in one big gulp—a showcase of his determination.

“Not at all,” he said then. He wasn’t sure if he was lying as he said this, but he had no time to figure that out. He extended his hand at Sid. “Get your money ready.”

Here, he was putting up a front – this wasn’t about the money at all. It was more a thing of pride; they were teasing him, purposefully making fun of him—and he wanted to prove them wrong, regardless if they were actually wrong.

Smirking, Sid shook his hand—cementing the bet between all three of them, as Jude was busy finishing off his cocktail—and was about to say something when Jungkook jumped off his stool.

“Have to go now,” he said, always a show-off with his overly creative comebacks when he was tipsy. “My horoscope predicts a date and a big fortune in my near future. Got to prepare.”

chapter title credits: sleep token, “rain”

special shout-out & thank you to @eleni-cherie who delivered the much-appreciated kicks in the ass, so that i would keep writing. the odds were really against me, so if it weren't for you & our in-depth fanfic discussions, i definitely wouldn't even be writing this note right now, let alone finally starting this story 💜

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[gutsby]

Cherry Pie

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader

Summary: You know virtually nothing about sex, and Daryl’s done it all. Together, you take on an impromptu anatomy lesson, and you learn that Daryl has a lot more to teach you than what’s covered in the textbooks.

Warnings: NSFW. Corruption kink!!! Loss of virginity. Messy, unprotected p-in-v. Oral (f!receiving). Daryl puts your promise ring on his tongue while he eats you out and does it in front of someone else, in secret. Half-baked breeding kink and an indirect marriage proposal.

Love him or hate him, the man played to win.

Daryl was one of those few unflinchingly stubborn motherfuckers who never saw a challenge he didn’t like, or a game he couldn’t beat. The world at large was his personal sports arena, and everyone around him a rival. You suspected that was why, with his hands planted on either one of your thighs and a smile as wide as the moon shining bright above you two, you almost felt inclined to believe him when he’d said:

“I’m gonna pop tha’ cherry someday, just wait.”

You remembered staring at him in a mixture of confusion and disbelief, hardly computing the words he’d spoken.

“What’s a cherry?” you’d asked.

Daryl just grinned even bigger and dropped a kiss over your two, tightly knit eyebrows, grabbing your hand to hoist you back onto your feet. Then he’d led you back, promising to tell you everything in due time.

That was six months ago—and you hardly knew more about this wild, elusive “cherry” today than you did back then. The longer Daryl led you down this rabbit hole, the more you started to believe this whole thing was nothing but a sordid working of your friend’s imagination. Another sinister game you were destined to lose.

Presently, you squeezed his head tight between your thighs and gripped the headboard even harder, rutting your hips in the most obscene manner above Daryl’s outstretched tongue. You felt your whole body tremble with pleasure, and in a matter of seconds, that merciless, mind-numbing bliss came crashing over your senses.

Orgasms, you’d learned a little over a week ago, weren’t just the stuff of dreams but a real life bodily release. Ever since Daryl had made you privy to that secret euphoric source, it seemed you were aching for it all hours of the day; accordingly, you’d made a frequent seat of Daryl’s face and rode that wave every chance you got. There were moments you feared the man might suffocate between your thighs, but he came up smiling every time.

At length, Daryl happily lapped up the last drops of your arousal and hummed an appreciative note below.

You slid—or, more aptly, collapsed—down his body and brought your head to rest on his chest, panting in awe.

“You bastard,” you hissed.

“That good?” Daryl grinned.

“Surely this...oral fixation isn’t gonna last forever, is it?”

You tilted your head just in time to see Daryl swiping his thumb over his bottom lip before bringing it down to your own. Coaxing the digit between your lips and waiting for you to suck it, all wide-eyed and innocent.

“Mhmm,” he nodded, pushing his finger even further. Whether he was answering your question or simply urging you to take more of him, you couldn’t be sure.

Though you weren’t particularly fond of that unfamiliar taste in your mouth, you accepted it anyway and sucked on his thumb like you knew he wanted you to do. You even got the sense he liked when your eyes locked on his, so you did that too, just staring and suckling and feeling a bit like a fool. Daryl groaned and drove his finger even deeper, smiling when your throat convulsed around him.

He withdrew his hand and admired the strings of saliva that followed it. Then, with that same hand, he patted your head affectionately.

“Gettin’ there,” he said. Already sliding off your bed and heading toward the bathroom.

Getting where? You thought, almost forlorn at the sight of his retreating figure.

Daryl did this every time—lick, rub, and tonguefuck you dumb ‘til you came all over his face, then leave you sprawled out on your bed while he locked himself away in another room. It was bewildering.

He wouldn’t tell you why he left, or what he was doing while tucked away from your prying eyes, but you surmised it had something to do with the lump in his jeans. That zipped-up, bulging mass that always seemed to disappear mere minutes after leaving your presence, the “puffy” thing you’d prodded once or twice above the fabric of his pants. You ached to know what inhabited that space between his legs, and even more, what made it vanish so fast. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to suss out that those parts of him had something to do with the analogous parts on you, so it seemed you had only to feel yourself up to get a little closer to the truth.

You slipped a hand between your thighs and ran a touch down your slick, throbbing core.

You hardly knew what you were doing; you just wanted to learn more.

A shiver passed over your lower half as your fingers grazed a particularly raw spot, one you remembered Daryl calling your clit. It didn’t feel the same beneath your trembling touch.

Nothing did, in fact. You pushed a finger inside yourself and barely made it to the second knuckle before your walls started to sting.

What made Daryl’s tongue feel so good that wouldn’t work the same for your own hands?

An exasperated sigh shuddered through your chest, and your eyes started to close. You teased another finger at your entrance, hoping to simulate the same sensation of Daryl’s mouth, but you whimpered when it burned. You bit your lip, braced yourself, and stupidly ventured for a third, when something tore your attention away.

You jolted back in bed and shot a look to the side, where Daryl had your offending hand pinched between two fingers. You peered up at him and saw him scowl.

“’Fuck ye think yer doin’?” he snapped.

You bit back your nerves and surprised yourself with a quick return, spoken just as sternly:

“Touching myself, Daryl, what does it look like?”

You tried to yank your hand away, but Daryl kept it close to his body. Squeezed it even harder.

“I thought we talked about tha’,” he said, his voice annoyingly even, “We said ye weren’t allowed to touch yerself ‘less I was there with ya.”

You couldn’t help it. You pulled hard on your hand and pried yourself out of his grasp. Then you slotted it right back between your legs, eyes never leaving his.

“We haven’t talked about anything, Daryl. You won’t tell me a goddamn thing about this...thing of mine, or yours, or anything,” you said, flustered and unable to keep from repeating your words the longer you tried racking your brain of its limited vernacular.

You pretended not to notice when Daryl’s eyes drifted down your body, and the once-flat seam of his jeans started to stir. Didn’t spare a second glance when he shifted uncomfortably on his feet and seemed to waver, indeterminately, between two warring ideas in his brain.

In truth, he was debating whether to fuck you senseless right there on your plush, lacy sheets or else sit back and watch you try and piece yourself together, all misguided fingertips and muffled whimpers before his hungry gaze. And, if he were a little more honest with himself, he would admit he wasn’t just hungry but starved for your affections, seeing you splayed across the covers with your fingers dipped between your folds and fumbling around without the faintest idea of where to put them.

You’d been born and raised within the four walls of this post-apocalyptic community and hadn’t strayed an inch outside a second in your life. Folks like you, afforded the unique luxury of never needing to leave the asylum, simply had no reason to learn life’s dirtier dimensions.

You knew the birds and the bees and your mother’s ardent pleas never to let a man corrupt you down there if he wasn’t your husband, but you didn’t even know how that corruption came to be. You were pure, unblemished territory, blinking up at Daryl with the widest eyes of naïveté, and part of him couldn’t bear the thought of taking that away from you—not yet, at least.

Another part of him felt the urge to defile you in the worst ways imaginable, right then and there, with both your parents lounging obliviously downstairs.

While he fought every filthy-minded inclination in his body, Daryl took a seat on the edge of your bed. Averted his eyes from your fingers and swallowed.

“Hey.” He nudged you.

You flinched with the soft intrusion and opened your eyes to look at him.

Instead of finding your touch replaced as they normally would be, you felt your fingers pried from between your thighs and clasped in both of Daryl’s hands.

Then, gently, a touch trailed down your fourth finger. Daryl stopped at the thin silver band adorning its base and wriggled it between his own forefinger and thumb.

“Can ya tell me what this is?” he murmured.

You eyed him uncertainly before looking down at the ring yourself.

“A promise ring,” you answered quietly.

“A promise to who?” Daryl pressed.

“My— uh, my future husband.”

Daryl squeezed the petite metallic flower that was melded to the ring, pressing it between his fingers as if to prove a point.

“Gettin’ hitched any time soon?” he quizzed, a hint of a smile rising to his lips.

“No, but—”

“So you’ve got this hypothetical husband you’re promisin’ yerself to, hm?” Daryl plodded on, pretending not to hear you, “And that thing yer promisin’, it must be pretty important, ain’t it?”

You rolled your eyes and started to pull away, but Daryl made sure to keep your hand locked in place. When you didn’t answer, he pushed the question again—“Sumn’ real, real special, no?”—laced with a little extra venom in his words.

This time, you were the one to feign ignorance, opting instead to shuffle back in the sheets and play stupid as you retreated into the comfort of your bed. Daryl loosened his grip, but not before he’d plucked the ring from your finger. Then he mirrored your movements and made his way up your body, proceeding to plant his hands on either side of your head on the pillow.

Somewhere in the mix, he’d taken your ring between his teeth. He displayed it proudly above you with a smile.

“C’mon, hon. Tell me,” he coaxed between gritted teeth.

When he sensed your tight-lipped pout wasn’t about to budge, he took the ring out of sight and seemed to move off of you. As it was, he simply slid down your body and toward your parted legs. You tensed.

“Daryl,” you started to plead the moment he’d descended between your knees. He was already getting comfortable.

“It’s a very simple question, Y/N,” Daryl murmured, words a bit more distorted than usual.

You couldn’t bear the sight of him teasing you there but also seemed unable to tear your gaze away. You pulled at his hair, helplessly, and had only to beg him not to play these idiotic games. Unfortunately for you, Daryl’s competitive edge had taken a hit, and he was too taken with the thrill of the challenge to heed your wishes.

His mouth had moved dangerously close to your center. You could feel each gentle puff of his lungs fan across your folds.

Then, incredibly, you watched his tongue emerge from his mouth, and, instead of delving right into your heat, he let it rest between his lips, flashing something light and shiny on its surface.

Your ring.

This sick fuck.

“Give it back,” you snapped, clamping your legs over his stupid, smirking head.

One of Daryl’s palms pushed flat against your stomach, pinning you to the mattress so you couldn’t squirm out of reach. Perhaps you should’ve fought back, but in all honesty, you were too entranced by the sight of his tongue to think much else. A whimper caught in your throat the second he made contact with your wet, swollen core.

It seemed Daryl had maneuvered your ring over the tip of his tongue and was dragging a line up your slit. Pushing the metal petals of the flower against your clit, drawing soft, placid circles, and looking you dead in the eyes all the while.

Then he dipped below to your dripping hole and pushed the ring inside of it.

Daryl lifted his head and licked his lips.

“Wanna tell me now?” he grinned.

Your mind was buzzing a million miles per minute, spinning so fast you feared you couldn’t speak, but somehow, you managed to stammer out:

“Chrysanthemums.”

You bit your lip and watched him wait for you to catch your breath. You could scarcely collect your thoughts fast enough to finish.

“The flower— i-it means fidelity, or something. Mom says the ring’s supposed to be a sign of my commitment to my husband.”

Daryl raised his eyebrows.

“And ya know just what yer committin’ to the lucky bastard?” he asked.

You shook your head. Honest, this time.

In response, Daryl moved a finger to your entrance and dragged it in a gentle circular motion, careful not to disturb the ring he’d pushed inside.

“Tha’s it,” he said, his voice almost lowered to a whisper, “Tha’s the spot, honey.”

He locked eyes with you once more, and suddenly, you understood. All the apprehension and dread, distress, and foreboding decorum surrounding that floral token. Every thinly-veiled euphemism from your mother and father and the soft, assuaging delicacies crafted to fall on deaf ears. The answer was with you all along and somehow the furthest thing from your comprehension.

“My...cherry?”

Daryl nodded and chuckled. He took the ring back on the tip of his finger and started to push it farther inside of you.

“Your virginity,” he said.

When you flinched at the feeling, Daryl straightened himself up and brought his other hand to rub your thigh. Sitting across from you now with a touch of concern straining his features.

“I won’t really touch it ‘less ya want me to,” he mumbled, eyes flickering between yours in earnest.

“You can,” you said softly, perhaps a little too quickly, “Just don’t...pop it, okay?” His previous declaration danced before your mind in flashing letters.

Daryl bit back a smile and assured you he wouldn’t.

The two of you were perched on your bed, seated face-to-face and staring down at the small space between you. Cautiously, almost, Daryl came to slide his finger further inside your body, and at the last you watched the whole thing disappear right down to the knuckle.

You waited. Daryl looked up to find your gaze, and you stared back, almost afraid to blink.

“I ain’t no doctor or nothin’,” Daryl began, slowly, “But yer cherry’s s’posed’a be up there.” He wiggled his finger to punctuate his point.

“What is it?” you breathed.

That was a good question. Daryl sat and contemplated his options, how he might politely explain things to you. In the end, he settled on saying,

“Just skin, really.”

“Skin?”

“Yeah, uh, somethin’ called a high-men, I think. Just a stretch’a skin in the middle of yer...cunt, or whatever, and, uh, I guess it gets all tore up when the—” Daryl cut his speech short, cursing himself for getting so thick in the weeds of it without the slightest idea as to how he would explain that dreaded next part.

“Tore up when? Why?” Your eyes widened.

“No, no, not tore up or nothin’—I didn’t mean it like tha’ —I’m just sayin’ it gets popped. By a...a, you know…”

“I don’t know, Daryl, tell me,” you cried, your voice already starting to shake.

Daryl slipped his finger out of your heat, floral ring and all.

This was a bad idea, he thought. You were already halfway in a panic, concocting the wildest notions in your mind of what horrors lay ahead. Daryl ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

“What pops the cherry, Daryl?” you pressed, trying to reign in your fear as you spoke.

Daryl peered down at the tiny ring atop his index finger and felt a pang of guilt. This wasn’t going how he’d planned. When his eyes wandered back to yours and first caught a glimpse of the apprehension welled up behind them, he knew he couldn’t drag this on any longer.

“Just a...guy’s, uh, private parts,” he said at last.

“The puffy stuff?” you returned promptly.

Daryl nodded, almost charmed by the term you’d given his penis, were he not so humiliated by this disaster of an anatomy lesson.

You heaved a sigh of relief and fell back on the bed.

“Thank fuck!”

Daryl shot you a curious look. Before he could ask what on earth you meant by that, you supplied him with an answer, rejoining,

“Thought you had to stick a knife up there or somethin’.”

“Why would I do that, dumbass?” Daryl’s nostrils flared.

“You tell me! You’re the one saying you’d tear me up,” you giggled.

Oh, I would, Daryl thought reflexively. He regained his composure in an instant and chided himself.

“Shit gets messy, tha’s all I meant,” he said.

You were quick to sit up again, the fear in your eyes shortly supplanted by intrigue. Inching closer to him.

“Show me how,” you grinned as your hands skimmed toward the seam of his jeans.

“Show you what?”

“How your puffy stuff works,” you said, exasperated.

“It’s a penis, Y/N!”

Daryl shot up from the bed before you could lay a finger on his crotch.

He knew you wanted to know but wasn’t quite sure you’d be pleased with what you’d see—your understanding of the male form, he’d come to realize, was even cruder than your knowledge of your own. What if you got one good look at his love gun and fled for your life?

If you were to handle it any worse than the way you’d reacted when he’d first told you his mouth wasn’t just good for talking, he’d have his work cut out for him.

At length, he grasped his belt buckle in one hand and kept your promise ring tucked snug on the other.

“If I show ya, y’promise not to scream or nothin’?”

You stood—or, rather, kneeled—at attention on the edge of the bed and nodded.

“Promise.”

“A’right then.”

Daryl had never felt so exposed, or vulnerable, taking a garment off his body. Each time he’d unbuckled himself and shoved his jeans and briefs down before, it was never to strip himself completely—just to free his cock and give him space enough to rut into whatever woman was willing to share his bed for the night. This was pushing his pants down his legs and actually stepping outside them, standing stock-still on the floor and hoping, foolishly, that you’d like the sight in front of you.

Fortunately for him, you loved it. Or, at the very least, seemed engaged.

Your lips unconsciously parted as the outline of his length came into view. You sucked in a breath. With your pupils blown wide and your mouth hanging open, drool liable to spill out any second, Daryl reckoned you looked a bit obscene. He liked it.

He was palming himself over his briefs in gentle strokes, taking his damn sweet time as he took a couple steps closer to you.

“Now tell me what this is called,” he said, watching you ogle every inch.

“A cock,” you answered.

Daryl almost choked on his spit. What happened to “puffy stuff” and all the rest of your innocent paranyms? Where the hell did you learn the word—

“Cock?” Daryl repeated.

“Yeah, like a rooster.” Smiling sweetly up at him.

“Who taught ya tha’ word?” Daryl’s voice broke out a little harsher than he intended, such that your smile came to fade, but he quickly repaired it with a brush of his knuckles on your cheek.

“You did, Dar,” you said, at the last.

“Me?”

“You’re always grabbin’ your junk and tellin’ people to suck your cock, I just figured—”

“Ah. Right.”

Daryl made a mental note not to get so shitfaced when you were around. And maybe educate you on the subject of blowjobs in a more delicate way, at a later date. For now, his focus was just on showing you his penis and hoping you wouldn’t run screaming.

By the looks of it, though, he didn’t suspect you’d have that problem. You quickly resumed your perch on the edge of the bed, staring and salivating at his clothed erection like it was the finest thing you’d ever seen.

Except you hadn’t seen it yet. Daryl was just then starting to hook his fingers under the waistband of his shorts and pull them down, all while watching for your first reactions.

When you saw small tufts of hair stemming from the base of his abdomen, you felt relief flood through you—thank goodness he had those too—and then the place underneath it was…something else entirely. The two of you shared similar patches of hair, and that was about it. In the place of a broad, empty plane of skin, you found a thick, reddish appendage. It was strange. The further Daryl tugged his briefs down his legs, the more you grew in your curiosity, ‘til the whole thing took you by surprise and snapped up against his stomach.

You saw the full length of his cock and almost couldn’t believe your eyes.

“You wanna put that whole thing inside me?” you said without thinking.

That hadn’t been quite the reaction Daryl had been expecting, but he’d take it over shrieking and fleeing any day of the week. He eyed you with an unusually amused look and nodded.

“Whole thing,” he repeated.

You gave him one last skeptical look before nodding too, seeming to accept your fate. You scooted back in the bed and squeezed your eyes shut as you started to spread your legs in a supine position.

“Go on then,” you said, “Let’s get this over with.”

This time, Daryl’s amusement materialized in an outright laugh, and he came crawling up beside you in bed. Then he climbed on top of you and nudged your nose with his, ‘til eventually you opened your eyes again.

“That ain’t how it works, sunshine.”

You glanced down at the fiery pink, worm-like attachment poking up between your bodies and wanted to hide. Not so much because the sight of it frightened you but because you couldn’t fathom it fitting inside your body—and actually feeling good. You thought back to the words your mother had once used to describe that ugly, loathsome process of pleasing your husband and couldn’t imagine this was something any woman wanted to do. Maybe Daryl had had you duped all along to think any differently.

A swell of heat rose to your cheeks when Daryl dropped his hand between your legs.

“See— yer gonna spread these pretty things and let me go back down for a bit,” he said, already sliding toward the foot of the bed with a smirk, “Need ya nice and wet, a’right?”

You grabbed his arms before he could go any further.

“No,” you shook your head fiercely. Then, seeing the look of confusion on his face, adding, “I-I need you up here. With me.”

Daryl nodded in understanding. He kept his fingers brushing light against your inner thigh and looked you deep in the eyes.

“We can do whatever y’want. ‘S’all up to you, hon.”

He paused to bring his hand back up to your line of vision, holding your tiny ring on the tip of his finger. Wordlessly, it seemed, asking for your permission. You regarded the thing for a few seconds or more, while he watched you, and eventually, your gaze flickered back to his. You left the band where it was.

“Keep it,” you murmured.

“Honey, I can’t—”

Daryl was already starting to pull the ring off in protest, but you stalled his hands. Grasping them, momentarily, and holding them between you two.

“I want you to have it,” you said, smiling, “Want you to wear it right here.”

You reached up and tugged the thin silver chain dangling from Daryl’s neck. He looked down, confused.

You didn’t give him the chance to say another word. Reaching behind his head for the little metal clasp, you unhooked it swiftly and took the necklace in your hands. Made quick work of the ring and slipped it onto the chain, eyed it for a moment, then held it back up to him. Before Daryl could blink, you’d moved to re-secure the clasp around his neck and pulled the spindly metal strand to the front. Now the necklace hung a bit heavier on his chest with the weight of your ring strung across it.

Your name just then started to bubble to the surface of Daryl’s lips, but you leaned in and kissed him before the sound ever reached you.

“Yours,” you mumbled, kissing him softly.

Daryl kissed you back and held you tight. He stifled a groan when your legs came to wrap around his waist.

“Ye sure, honey?” he breathed, hardly able to string words together as the blood surged straight to his cock.

You giggled at the sights and sensations your new position afforded you, feeling Daryl’s throbbing member against your heat and seeing him fight every urge to push it forward. This felt easier, somehow, just pressed to each other’s bodies while your limbs tangled together in the sheets.

Daryl kissed your forehead. Lowered his hips so his swollen, leaking cock came to rest between your folds.

Instead of recoiling or contorting your features in a fearful wince, you moaned. You felt your body move against him and spread your arousal up and down his shaft. Eyes half-hooded with pleasure, you rolled your hips and raked your fingers down his back, and Daryl swore he could’ve cum from the sight of that alone.

You didn’t know what the hell you were doing; you just hoped it was something he liked.

When he reached for your chin and brought you in for a kiss, deeper and more desperate than you’d ever seen before, you felt a twinge of pride—closely accompanied by a wave of desire. You opened your mouth in an effort to moan again and were welcomed instead by Daryl’s slick, roaming tongue.

There was a strange sort of pressure between your legs. Something prodding you softly, keen to breach the threshold of your entrance but stopping short every time. You glanced between your bodies and saw Daryl gripping his cock like a vice down below.

“Honey, I— fuck,” his voice broke off in a moan, skimming the head of his cock down your slit, “I don’t wan’ this to hurt.”

You placed a kiss on the side of his mouth and nuzzled your nose against the stubble residing around it.

“It won’t,” you whispered. In truth, you were clueless.

Daryl shook his head, straining with the weight of his body above you. There was something he’d missed, something he needed to tell you before the two of you took things any further. It seemed that somewhere along the line, his mind had hardened to an opaque wall of lust, and he couldn’t retrieve a single thought. All he could do now was peer down into your wide, glossy eyes and pine for you, all impulses escaping him but the singular urge to make you his.

“I want you,” you said, softly, “all the way inside me.”

You took the tiny metallic chrysanthemum dangling above you—your promise ring that was presently hanging from Daryl’s chain—between your lips, and sucked it in a little. Remembering how much he loved to watch you take things on the tongue and roll it around in your mouth, you did just that and kept your eyes locked on his all the while. You slipped the tip of your tongue through the ring, just as Daryl had, and brought it right back into your mouth. You moaned at the taste, your juices still coating the band.

Your silent invitation wasn’t lost on Daryl in the slightest. In a second, his lips were back on yours, snagging the ring between your two mouths in a hot, frantic kiss, and the pressure at your core jumped to new heights as the head of his cock split you open.

Daryl hadn’t been with a virgin before. He thought the process of “breaking” one in and popping the cherry, so to speak, was meant to be taken literally, so he shoved himself in to the hilt in one forceful thrust.

“Fuck!” you said in unison, for two drastically different reasons.

He seemed on the brink of orgasm and you, the brink of tears, clawing at his back and trying not to cry.

The second Daryl saw your agonized expression, he panicked and pulled right out, but the force of the friction only amplified the pain. You clutched the sheets beside you and tried to stifle your whimpers, suddenly fearful for your parents’ hearing.

“Fuckin’ A,” you hissed, “I thought we were going slow!”

“I-I’m sorry— I thought that’s what I was s’posed’a do.”

“You said pop the cherry, not stab it to death.”

In spite of the ache inside you, you managed a playful look up at him and even giggled when he started flooding your face with little kisses. ‘I’m sorry’s tumbling just as profusely from his lips, repeated over and over ‘til you were begging him to let up and get back between your legs already.

Daryl eased himself down more carefully this time. He cradled your head in his arms and seemed almost loath to push himself inside you again. It wasn’t until you nodded your assent that he stirred his hips at all, taking a painstakingly slow approach to breaching your folds.

You felt the tip of his cock graze your entrance. Rub lightly up and down your slit to collect more of your juices.

“Tha’s a good fuckin’ girl,” Daryl growled, overwhelmed by the warmth of your arousal pooling around his cock. Remembering his position, however, he refrained from going any further.

“Is it wet enough?” you murmured.

“Uh-huh,” Daryl panted, gripping the sheets beside your head to keep from moving before you were ready. Then, softly, “I’ll be gentler this time, I promise, baby.”

You spread your legs a little wider and nodded. Dug your heels into his lower back to try to ease him in. Daryl readily aided your efforts and started pressing the head of his cock to the edge of your tight, aching hole.

He couldn’t have penetrated you any gentler if he tried. In spite of how wet you were, there still came a sting, and you seized his forearms the farther he pushed. Only this time Daryl was all eyes, watching and waiting and looking you up and down like another inch of his length might tear you in two. He sponged wet kisses up and down your jaw and hoped the brush of his lips would come as a welcome distraction from whatever discomfort you were suffering below.

Moreover, he found that talking you through it helped loosen your muscles. Whether you were aware of it or not, your were clenching hard on his cock, scarcely taking him more than an inch and unlikely to allow him any further if your walls stayed this rigid. Daryl started stroking your hair.

“So good f’me. So nice an’ sweet takin’ this cock,” he said, tone as tender as it had ever been.

You grimaced at the intrusion of another inch and held the back of his neck between your two hands even tighter. Daryl lowered his head to kiss you again.

“Sweetest thing I ever seen.” He pulled away to marvel at you, all flushed cheeks and quiet sighs.

It was clear you were just trying to survive with your consciousness intact, too focused on breathing and easing him in to think much else, so he nudged your chin to mumble even more quietly, “S’all gonna be okay, hon. I’m right here for ya.”

“Oh, I feel ya here. I know,” you quipped between labored breaths.

Before you could venture a smirk, you felt your walls start to pulse. The gentle throb of your warmth beckoned Daryl further into your cunt, and the two of you moaned at the sensation.

Your eyes shuttered closed, while Daryl’s drifted down below.

“Sonovabitch,” he said in a breath.

His gaze came to a stop and stayed glued on one small, absurd sight in particular: a bulge along your stomach.

He almost couldn’t believe what he was seeing until he withdrew his length a little and saw the swell follow his movement. He watched the outline of his cock protrude from your belly, ran his fingers over the mound, and rutted his hips again, this time feeling it move under his own hand. Daryl was beside himself.

He placed his palm over the spot and pressed hard. He thrusted back and forth and heard a string of expletives sound beneath him as your eyes snapped open.

“Fuck, Daryl,” you whined, “What is that?”

“Cunt’s barely able to keep me in, I’m pokin’ out yer belly.” Daryl would’ve chuckled if he weren’t so violently aroused.

You threw your head back on the pillow and moaned. This new, added pressure above your stomach somehow made things better for you, like a spot inside was getting just the kind of touching it needed. You squirmed against Daryl and felt him bottom out inside you.

The two of you were watching it now, forehead to forehead—Daryl’s fingers spread across your tummy and the heel of his palm digging deep in that mound, your bodies making wet, squelching sounds again and again, and your pussy, for the first time, swallowing him whole. Daryl quickened his pace to an almost vicious cadence and brought his free hand to cup your face.

He jerked your head even closer, fingers knotting tight in your hair, “See this?”

You were barely able to nod as a knot of pleasure was just then starting to form in your stomach.

Daryl wasn’t having it. You felt his nails dig a set of white, angry crescents in your neck as he pulled your hair even harder.

“Big girl words, darlin’— use ‘em.”

You yelped when he yanked your head up to meet his gaze and shook you with a particularly brutal thrust down below.

“I see it!” you shrilled.

Daryl’s hand slipped from the back of your head and took your face in one pinch—almost crushing both cheeks and squeezing your lips in a ridiculous pout to look up at him. Then he smiled, sweet as ever, and placed a light kiss on your mouth.

“Are you a— a woman of yer word?” he asked.

His thrusts continued at breakneck speed. You whined.

“Huh?”

“Keep promises ya make?”

Daryl smiled even wider as he watched you come unraveled before his eyes. One hand placed on your stomach and the other still gripping your face, he made his merciless rounds and savored every last throb of your walls as he pounded you into the mattress. He knew those whines, could sense that that hold on his cock wasn’t just for show. You were close, and dangerously so.

You could scarcely speak above the buzz in your ears but managed to answer in the affirmative.

“Good,” Daryl cooed in your ear, “It’s settled, then.”

If you weren’t mere seconds from your release you would’ve told him that you couldn’t quite understand him with his head so far up his ass. The man was a Grade A prick when it came to telling riddles and senseless tales at the most inopportune times, but this one really took the cake.

Fortunately, Daryl proceeded without requesting any further input from you. He just pistoned his hips, pressed on your belly, and squeezed your cheeks even tighter as he continued on in a casual tone,

“Gonna cum all over this cock?”

You moaned and said you would.

Your legs tightened around Daryl’s waist as he groaned above you and slammed into you even harder.

“Gonna be my good little girl?” he growled, dropping his hand from your face to rub circles on your clit.

You shrieked and swore you would.

Daryl continued to rut his hips and nudge you closer and closer to the cusp of your release, eyes never leaving you. With each ruthless thrust, you felt the knot inside you double in size and send tremors straight down through your thighs, and the only thing keeping you grounded in place, it seemed, was Daryl. He grinned.

Then he leaned even closer, forced your legs even wider, and fucked you faster than he ever had before,

“Gonna be my good little wife one day?”

His words had barely registered before something inside you burst, and you went moaning, writhing, screaming on Daryl’s cock as your orgasm tore through your body. More powerful than any feeling Daryl’s tongue had wrought from you before, this was pure, primal ecstasy. You feared you might actually draw blood from his back with the slash of your fingernails down his skin.

Your body fell limp in the bed. You would’ve liked nothing more than for Daryl to keeping moaning and pumping in your blissful, fucked-out state, but it seemed the man had plans of his own. To your surprise, he jolted out of you a moment later and seized his cock in one hand, wringing it out in the roughest, most slipshod fashion. Daryl let out a long, protracted moan and jerked himself over and over.

Ropes of a milky white fluid sprayed your stomach.

Your eyes widened at the sight, as did Daryl’s. Though his grew not for want of understanding but rather realizing that thing he’d forgotten to tell you earlier.

Babies.

“Shit,” he hissed, already lowering both hands to wipe the stuff off your belly.

You were frozen in place and eyeing the foreign goo like it was the most frightening thing in existence.

“W-What the fuck is—” you said, only to be cut short.

This time, both of you seized with horror as a knock sounded on your bedroom door. Daryl, actively caught cum-handed, had little more to do than dive under the covers while you flailed your limbs and tried to collect every last pillow around you.

Your duvet was thick. Pillows and plush toys aplenty. You could only hope Daryl would keep his long legs bent at the knee and his two feet from sticking out at the end of the bed. Your eyes darted to the door as it opened.

“Hi, mom,” you chirped.

“Hey, pumpkin.”

Your mother paced the few short steps into your room and toward your bed, a warm smile on her face.

“Boogeyman keepin’ you up?” she teased.

You reckoned you thought of Daryl a little more fondly than that, but your mom wasn’t too far off-target.

“All night,” you answered.

Your legs shuddered under the sheets as Daryl nudged your red and fucked-raw pussy with his nose. Clearly not amused.

Then, as your mom had long been accustomed to do, she reached out for your forehead and brushed your hair from your face. Planted a kiss at the top of your head.

“Well tell him to knock it off, because you’ve got a big, big day tomorrow,” she said, crossing her arms as she stood off to the side of your bed.

French lessons from one of your father’s friends and supper club with the girls. Riveting stuff.

You opened your mouth to say something in reply, but your mother was evidently keen to continue,

“Now I know you’ve got a lot on your plate—”

You stifled a whimper when the nose that Daryl had used to brush against your cunt was presently replaced by his tongue. Licking a calm, lazy strip up your slit as the rest of your mom’s speech reached you in a garble.

Slyly, you lowered a hand to the head of hair that was occupying the space between your legs and yanked a clump of it. Silently begging Daryl to cut the bullshit games before both of you got caught.

Daryl would do no such thing. He continued to flick the tip of his tongue across your heat before closing his lips around your clit, sucking gently.

“—missing for a day at least. Maybe even—”

You swallowed and nodded your head, trying to shield your mother from the fact that you and your newly-popped cherry were getting the tonguebath of a lifetime under the covers. Daryl had somehow managed to bring a hand up to your heat and was currently pumping his middle and ring fingers in and out of your hole at a brutal speed.

It wasn’t until your mom said one word in particular that either of you perked up and stopped what you were doing.

“—Dixon—” your mom babbled on until you broke in,

“Who?”

“Daryl Dixon. Went MIA and his brother’s worried sick. Found his crossbow in our backyard a little while ago, was just wondering if you’d seen him.”

Your stomach twisted. Daryl’s fingers stalled inside you.

“No ma’am, I-I haven’t,” you squeaked.

Daryl bit your thigh as if to say, “Liar.”

“Alrighty then, just checkin’.” Your mom clasped her hands together and turned on her heels, “He should turn up sooner or later. Get some sleep now, sweetheart.”

The door closing behind her was like music to your ears.

As soon as it shut, Daryl threw the duvet off and licked his lips in a smirk.

“You fucker!” you bit.

“You liar,” he sneered, climbing back on top of you quick. Careful to avoid the half-dried puddle of semen on your stomach.

“Hey, you never told me what this w—”

“Cum. Stuff I’m gonna shoot in yer belly, not on it, when yer good ‘n ready to have my babies,” Daryl grinned.

Ready? For babies? Your mind was still reeling from the absurdity of your previous predicament, heart all but beating out your chest, and this man remained totally unperturbed. Talking about breeding, of all things.

“There will be no babies had between us, Daryl,” you snapped, “That’s a husband privilege, and like you said, I’m not gettin’ hitched any time soon.”

The smile from Daryl’s face didn’t falter. He just leaned forward and gave you a look as if to say he knew better.

“Thought y’said you were a woman of yer word,” Daryl seemed to taunt as he ran a hand up your calf.

You didn’t bother to swat it away, just shot him a glare and muttered, “I am.”

“You are?”

Daryl moved in, a hint of a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Before you could say another word, you watched him hook one thumb in the ring that hung from his neck. Slid it back and forth across the chain and observed your eyes in wordless amusement as they followed its gentle path.

“You said—” Daryl started.

“Did not,” you returned.

“—and promised you’d—”

Your cheeks grew enflamed with a fierce, angry blush. There was no fucking way he wanted you to—

“Save it for your husband,” Daryl said, still flashing that shit-eating smile as he brought the ring between his lips once more, “And you gave it to me.”

This was undoubtedly the most deranged marriage proposal you’d heard in your life.

You rolled your eyes and reached for your promise ring now pinched between his teeth, ready to yank it off the chain altogether, when another intrusion sent you scrambling for the sheets.

Your bedroom door opened for a second time that night—this time to reveal your mother and father at the threshold of your room, stepping in without a knock.

“Hey pumpkin, I—”

“Shit.”

You ducked behind Daryl, and Daryl chucked the last droplets of cum off his hands in a flash.

You looked at him, he looked at you, and your parents stood terrified, staring at you both.

When Daryl’s gaze flitted up, you saw his jaw slacken considerably as his eyes fell on your father for the first time. The next thing you knew, your ring was trembling out of his mouth, his whole face draining of color. He swallowed, almost seemed to choke on his spit as his throat tightened up, and suddenly he was speaking, stammering, quietly, pupils blown wide in pure horror:

“Mr. Grimes, it’s not what it looks like.”

[secretmellowblog]

So, when Les Mis was first published, this conservative reviewer named Felix and Courtat went on a tirade against Victor Hugo’s disgustingly sensuous portrayal of Marius and Cosette’s romance. Here are some excellent quotes from his review (courtesy of a translation by @psalm22-6 ).

First, he points out that if Marius is supposed to be Victor Hugo’s self insert, this is all a big plot hole:

This reviewer begins by complaining about Hugo's fixation on virginity:

Cosette and him, who have not spoken to one another, fall into each other's arms, call each other “tu,” and they give each other a deeply loving embrace, "the ineffable first embrace of two VIRGINITIES in the ideal,” as the author so aptly puts it. After bravely embracing following the first meeting with Cosette, Marius spends part of the night with her for six weeks, alone together, in brother and sister innocence. I am absolutely ignorant of the youth of M. V. Hugo, however I would readily believe that, in Marius, he wanted to paint himself at the age of twenty. Nevertheless, I would struggle to allow that such an adventure happened to him. . . other than in a dream. His adoration of VIRGINITY, which is found in Valjean, in Javert, in Marius, in Enjolras (I am only speaking of the men), leads his pen astray. But I’m afraid to push that point.

“If Marius represents Victor Hugo, he and Cosette would NEVER be this chaste. Hugo is far too much of a slut.”

Courtat continues:

Now, I will ask M. Victor Hugo, adorer of VIRGINITY, does he think he has honored the beginning of his austere old age as a writer by glorifying sensual passion through the love of Marius and Cosette to the extent that he did? He wrote with a smugness that should make this book forbidden to young girls, and which is unworthy of a social reformer. I hate lyricism applied to the flesh (to employ the least dishonest word); with great difficulty I forgive it with young people; but my pride of almost sixty-year-old is in agony to see one of my contemporaries write of its ecstasies.

I know we’ve reached the romance chapters in the year’s @lesmisletters readalong so I want to make sure your morals aren’t corrupted 🙏

[dearestspirit]

a note heard in heaven - 02

mizu x fem!reader | au based on the film the handmaiden | word count: 3,270 | warnings: mdni. this series will contain sexual and dark themes, including: abuse, sex, sexual assault/harrasment, period typical misogyny, murder, allusions to suicide, and period typical stigmas against mental health.

series masterlist | previous part | next part

You’re taking off out of the library faster than Mizu can keep up with. Struggling to steady the parasol over your head, she dreads the moment you’ll be inside; more aptly, she’s dreading the scolding she’s bound to receive due to you getting wet. She grunts, hurrying her walking to stay next to you. Nearly leaving her behind, you finally make it to your room, doors clattering open.

“I hate those books,” you grumble, perched over the sink in your personal bathroom. “They’re so… boring, they make me sick.”

Mizu watches as you retch, color drained from your face. In a panic, she strokes your back. However, you’re quick to wave her hand away, agitated. When the heaves of your chest finally slow to a halt, you press your heated forehead against the coolness of your sink. There’s a dry irritation in your throat and your eyes are scorched with pinpricks of tears. At the back of your mind you’re acutely aware of how unsightly you must look right now; the thought only serves to embarrass you further. Knuckles white from the grip you hold on the sink, you push to straighten yourself. When you do, you’re met with Mizu’s inquisitive gaze.

“Miss…?” She questions, but it’s not interrogative.

“I’m fine. Please go.” You tear yourself away from her eyes, finding you shrink under her authority despite her rank below you.

“You should-”

“Mizu, I’ve asked you to leave. Please.”

The disgruntled exhale from her nose is audible. She doesn’t speak another word to you before closing the bathroom door behind her, leaving you alone.

In the morning, when Mizu goes with all the other servant girls for breakfast, she finds one of them sniffling. Ise, she thinks, is the girl’s name. When Ise sees her, she skitters over, holding out Mizu’s missing shoe. You must have said something, either to Madame Kaji or the girl herself. Mizu scoffs and takes it back ungraciously. It’s no matter to her anymore, as she sits with her breakfast and listens to the chatter.

When whispers of The Count’s name pass through again, she almost snorts. He had been delayed yesterday, by something or other– she knew it probably had to do with the plan the two of them had. Something about making you wait, growing your anticipation. Some flirting tactic she had no interest in hearing about, especially not from Taigen. She’d never heard of any successful romances on his part, so she doubted he could know all that much about genuinely seducing a woman. Besides, your sheltered lifestyle meant you’d likely give your heart up in seconds once he threw some compliments and risque touches your way. Part of her was thrilled he’d finally be on his way here to get the plan truly in motion. With her bowls empty, she’s speeding to your room.

“Miss!” She calls for you.

The two of you hadn’t spoken since the incident last night. You hadn’t requested her presence at your bedside, choosing to derobe yourself.

But still, you smile when you hear her.

“Hello, Mizu.” You greet her, chin resting in your palm.

She stares at you like you’re mad. “Get up then, we’ve got to get you ready for the day. A bath, first.” Her hands take hold of your arms, guiding you into the bathroom.

With curtains drawn, the sunlight is dim, soaking the room in a gentle warmth. You watch as Mizu effortlessly prepares your tub, checking the temperature of the water. Satisfied, she gestures to you and your clothes.

“I’ll undress myself, thank you.” You mutter.

It’s been a few days of having Mizu as your new handmaiden, yet you insisted on taking care of clothing yourself. Despite it being a duty expected of her, she was nothing but respectful of your wishes. She tries to not stare as she hears the thudding of your elegant fabrics hitting the floor. Obviously, she’d have to bathe you, so she’d see everything. But it was just this once. You’d be swept up by The Count, then off to whatever madhouse would take you, and then…

“The Count is coming today.” She tells you, breaking herself out of whatever impending thought she had.

“That’s why you’ve set all this up.” You state, finally bare.

And then you’re dipping yourself into the water, carefully minding the table of soaps and oils Mizu had rolled over. Immersing yourself from the neck under, you bob back up to sit comfortably.

“Here,” Mizu mumbles, handing you a candy. “Back home, my aunts used to give candy to the babies they’d bathe.”

“So you’re treating me like a baby?” You chuckle, unwrapping the candy and savoring the sweetness of it.

“You’re like one, aren’t you? It’s as if you’re my baby.” She laughs– your heart stutters– scattering an assortment of floral petals into the bathwater.

Overkill, you’re sure, but it endears you. Your eyes follow her, her actions; she’s so dutiful in her work. A hush falls over the two of you. Mizu is concentrated, though when she sees your face fall, she stops. You’re pawing at the side of your jaw, letting out a broken groan of pain.

“Is something wrong?”

“I have a sharp tooth,” You whine. “When I eat… it cuts me.”

She hums in response, tilting your chin up with a hand. With her other, she drags a finger along the row of your teeth. When she comes across the pointed one, she hisses and steps back. At the table of objects next to her, she shuffles through, diligently searching for something.

“I remember,” You hear her call out. “One time, a relative used a thimble to grind down the sharp tooth of her son.”

Your teary eyes follow her as she hurries back to your side.

“Say ‘ah.’” She tells you, opening her mouth for you to mimic.

There’s a jolt in her at how comfortably you obey, how your lips part, how your mouth welcomes the intrusion.

Cradling your neck in her left hand, the thimble on her right thumb scrapes across your tooth. It’s a foreign feeling, one that brings along discomfort with it. You try your best to focus on the remnants of sugar on your tongue, the heat of your bathwater; but what helps the most is holding onto Mizu’s elbow. Her sleeve rolled up, you run your fingers back and forth as she continues her ministrations.

She suppresses a shiver at your touch– she can feel your knuckles tense when there’s a particularly uncomfortable drag of the thimble, she can feel the slight bite of pain as your nails sink into her skin. Even with the way her skin blooms red from your actions, you handle her with more nicety than she’d experienced before. Her eyes never stray far from your mouth, but…

But she follows the droplets that run down the bare flesh of your chest, meeting the water once more. It would be easy to let her left hand trail down, down your wet skin from pulse point to collarbone to the softness of your breasts that peek out just over the surface.

That fragile, delicate softness.

“All done.” She pulls her thumb from your mouth, mindful to not let the thimble hurt you on its exit.

You’re staring at her, eyes never leaving her own. You must’ve seen them lower and lower until no longer appropriate. She could sense the rush of heat to the tips of her ears. Depositing the thimble into the front pocket of her apron, she sits with her back to the tub.

“Go ahead and finish washing.” Her voice is husky, mouth dry.

She tries to not think about quenching her thirst with the water clinging to your body.

Palpable silence stays in the room until you’re clothed once more.

Mizu stands in the far corner, squinting as Taigen– playing as The Count, of course– greets you. The two of you had spent what felt like an agonizing amount of time going over your hair, makeup, and dress.

“Ah, you didn’t have to get all done up to see me.” He grins, laying the sleaze on thick.

A shy expression befalls you; the hint of a flirtatious smile.

“Your painting lessons, I promise they’ll be exhilarating for you,” Taigen winks, though he catches sight of Mizu in the mirror behind you. Turning, he opens his arms wide in a friendly gesture. “This must be your handmaiden! The one I so honorably recommended.”

Mizu wonders how the fuck he can go on and on without giving anyone else a chance to speak. Or have you been stunned into silence? Did you really think of him that highly already? “Yes, at your service.” She takes a shallow bow.

“Are you carrying out your duties well?” Taigen asks, stepping over to her. “It’ll make me look bad if you aren’t.”

“You picked perfectly for me.” You chime in behind him.

“So I did a good job,” That smarmy upturn of his lips is back again as he flicks a coin towards Mizu. “Take this, and keep taking good care of our Lady.”

She can barely contain her complaint, holding back a disgusted ‘ugh’ as he walks out of the room. You’re still over in your corner, looking demure. If Taigen were still in the room, he’d slap Mizu on the head and tell her to strike. So, she does.

“The Count sure is nice, isn’t he?” She plays up an exaggerated smile, fussing at your clothes to busy her hands.

You give a shrug in return, already heading back to your room before she can analyze your reaction and pinpoint your exact feelings for The Count.

Mizu’s breath runs ragged as she hurries to the guest room Taigen resides in. One of the other servant girls had fetched for her, claiming he needed Mizu for an errand. She knew that meant he had something important to tell her, though part of her felt remorse at having to leave your side. A loneliness swam in your eyes, that pout of yours betraying your usually stoic, posh demeanor. Your lips haunt her mind as she travels; the docile way they had parted upon request, or was it moreso a command? Did you care to discern the difference? Though, she supposes, someone like you deserves…

Taigen’s door slides open with an urgency that knocks the wind out of her. It nearly bounces back closed, before his hand stops it. Grabbing at Mizu’s sleeve, he tugs her into the room and shuts the door eagerly. She can’t even focus in time for Taigen to start hushedly whooping, arms waving in the air.

“Easy, idiot,” Mizu puffs, flipping that coin he’d given her back in his direction. “Did you really think you could fool me with that shit fake?”

To you, she’s been your handmaiden that does her duties to whatever standard you deem suitable to hold her to. If you said jump, she’d say how high. But Taigen knows better. He knows when someone tells her to jump, she asks how much.

And he knew that very well when he recruited her.

In that last month before Mizu came to be by your side, she was approached by the son of a local farmer. Taigen. The two lived in a poor, weary village. Little luxuries were afforded to them. It only made sense that in an unseen corner, thievery would thrive here. In that small hut on the outskirts of her home, Mizu would learn everything– pick-pocketing, forgery– and would grow to excel at it.

It’s why, when Taigen shows up in a suit far outside his price range, he’s quick to pick her out of the rest. He’s boasting of how grand a plan this is. How you have millions, and that your current fiance was looking for the same thing he was: getting their hands on that fortune. Taigen’s the one to claim he can snatch you right under that old man’s nose. Mizu almost retorts with a ‘what do you know about love?’ but she holds her tongue.

“After the job is done, you can get all of the mistress’ dresses and jewelry. Everyone here will get a share of fifty thousand.” There’s gasps as he finishes speaking. To them, fifty thousand is more money than they’d all seen in their lifetime, combined.

Mizu nods with a hand on her chin, tapping her foot. “On top of the fifty, I want my own hundred thousand. That’s my price.”

Taigen agrees effortlessly. He insists that Mizu go through the next few days ‘training’ with him. She had never been a maid of any sort before, born into criminality, so she needed at least some preparation. Otherwise this plan would be doomed from the start. For starters, he spends way too long teaching her how to make herself blush. Calling you an ‘uppity bitch’ who would succumb to the inferiority complex of a poor handmaiden. He makes sure she knows to not let you think; no questions, take care of everything in a matter-of-fact way. Honestly, Mizu cares little for whatever Taigen lectures her on. He’s just like her– a poor criminal looking for a way out. She knows she’s intelligent, and she knows how to use people to her advantage. Taigen, on the other hand, is rarely ever self-aware of the drivel that comes out of his mouth.

At some point, the time passes and Mizu’s faced with her last night in the village. She sits on her knees behind the old woman who’s been taking care of her her whole life. Mizu knows it's thanks to her that she's still here. Not quite a mother, but close enough, after losing her own. Something somber settles in the room, Mizu exhaling a sigh.

“When my mother was hanged,” She starts, combing through the elder’s hair. “Did she cry?”

“Mizu,” Her voice has become frail in the past years, age beginning to get to her. “After your mother had you, she told how she was the luckiest woman. She had no reason to cry, not even when faced with her death. You take after her so much… what a thief you’ll be, one day.”

Taigen snaps a few times, taking Mizu out of her memory. “Look, when I give the signal… ‘fully ripe’, make sure that she and I are alone.”

Mizu raises an eyebrow. “She’s very sheltered, Taigen,” she strolls over to the large bed he’s been provided, flopping backwards onto it. “You could touch her intimately and she still won’t know what you want.”

“Well, do your part then. Everything is because of me.” Taigen states. “Like… her nails growing longer because I’m here. Things like that, she won’t know any better.”

Mizu’s mind drifts. Hand stuck down the front pocket of her apron, she finds herself fiddling with the thimble she left there. You and Taigen, alone… He said he wanted to devour you. She remembers now. Someone like you, she remembers, deserves the touch of someone tender. The Count has teeth, claws given to him as the birthright of being a man in this world. A dark cloud simmered in her at his signal. ‘Fully ripe,’ as if you’re something to be eaten, the only fragment left being an empty pit. No, she had seen you– had seen the flush of your skin, the supple ways your body curved. You were meant for more. You were meant to be given to, not taken from.

But she couldn’t. She had to feed you to an insatiable man. From her palm to the white blades of his teeth, she’d comply. No victimless crimes truly exist, she reasoned. If she had to take advantage of yet another person to get to her goal, what did it matter? She repeats it to herself a few times, a mantra to clear her mind: It has to be done.

“Give her these,” Taigen hands a box to Mizu. “From me, of course.”

Gracefully, you pull the golden rope away from the box, admiring the floral pattern atop it. When you open it, revealing the earrings inside, your face lights up.

Taking one of them, you hold it up to your ear and look in the mirror. “Mizu, these sapphires are so blue!”

Mizu nods, watching your reflection. ‘They suit you’ almost tumbles off her lips. It’ll do her good to remember those will be hers as soon as Taigen gets rid of you.

“They remind me of your eyes, don’t they?” You grin. “Just as pretty, too.”

“Actually, it’s blue spinel.” Mizu mutters, ignoring your previous comment.

“What?” You’re frowning.

“But that’s just as expensive as sapphires.” She’s sputtering and correcting herself, catching her slip up.

“How do you know that?” You’re questioning her, eyes squinted.

“My old mistress taught me. That’s all.” Mizu gulps, rarely ever nervous, but she can’t mess up this far into the scheme.

You nod, unrolling the piece of paper The Count had included in his gift. Mizu exhales, glad you’ve moved your mind onto something else. She lets her eyes scan you as you read, thinking back to what you said. They remind me of your eyes. Just as pretty, too. It’s not hard for her to remember all the times she’d been looked at in fear, cursed at, beaten. All the children of the village who had thrown rocks at her, chased after her. Why were you so different? What gave you the right? The boiling heat of anger starts to crawl under her skin. She has no reason to trust you; at the end of the day, once you learn you’ve been betrayed, you’d take those comments back in an instant. You’d call her ugly. A demon. She knows this. She’ll lock the sound of your voice in the far reaches of her mind and she’ll never think of you again, only ever your money. It has to be done.

So why can’t she stop looking at you? Has she ever seen anything so lovely?

There’s a dinner tonight. You, your ‘husband’, and The Count.

Mizu is sure to pull out one of your fanciest dresses for the night, telling you The Count will love it. You look shy again, putting your cheek in your palm as you coyly smile. A hint of disgust brews in her at your awe of him. But when she follows behind you, down the steps to the dining room, she can’t help but let her eyes roll over your figure. Your hair is up. Would you squirm if she pressed her lips there, on your neck? Even down to where your dress dips, exposing your shoulder blades? Between them, as she pushed your sleeves past your arms? And what if The Count did the same? He’s trashy, unable to hold something so vulnerable in his hands with any grace. It wouldn’t happen. At least, not while Mizu was in the room. If she left you alone with him… would you?

She cares so much because you’re a poor, poor girl, is what she decides. Really, she just feels bad at how badly your heart is going to break when you realize The Count doesn’t love you in return. Anything else is simple curiosity– a destitute criminal pondering on the lifestyle of someone so privileged.

A chair clashes to the floor as soon as Mizu holds the door open for you. Taigen’s standing up, mouth open like a fish out of water.

“You’re incredible!” He yells, gaping shamelessly. “Breathtakingly beautiful.”

Mizu’s fist clenches, nearly drawing blood with her nails.

He’s so full of shit.

a/n: so on the last part i had some people interested in a taglist!! personally, i would feel uncomfortable doing that as there will be eventual nsfw content in this. maybe i'll change my mind, but for now i rather not to avoid minors/ageless blogs being tagged. either way i hope you're all enjoying the read!! i'll try to keep getting chapters consistently out if i can <3

[batwynn]

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

            Only this and nothing more.”

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

            Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

    “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

            This it is and nothing more.”

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

            Darkness there and nothing more.

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—

            Merely this and nothing more.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

    Open here I flung the door, when, with many a huff and grunting,

In there stepped a stoutly walrus of the saintly days of yore;

    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

    But, with mien of lord or lady, flopped at my chamber door—

Lay upon the floor at my chamber door—

            Loaf, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this briny creature beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy form be fat and tubular, thou,” I said, “art sure no insular,

Ghastly grim and random walrus wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

            Quoth the Walrus “Nevermore.”

    Much I marvelled this ungainly mammal to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

    Ever yet was blessed with seeing walrus at his chamber door—

Fish or beast upon the floor situated at his chamber door,

            With such name as “Nevermore.”

    But the Walrus, sitting lonely on the cold floor, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a flipper then he flapped—

    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have swam before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have swam before.”

            Then the Walrus said “Nevermore.”

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

    But the Walrus still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of creature, and floor and door;

    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous mammal of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, fat, and ominous creature of yore

            Meant in roaring “Nevermore.”

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the beast whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

            She shall press, ah, nevermore!

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee

    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

            Quoth the Walrus “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if beast or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

            Quoth the Walrus “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if beast or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—

    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

            Quoth the Walrus “Nevermore.”

    “Be that word our sign of parting, beast or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

    Leave no yellow tusk as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the floor at my door!

Take thy tusks from out my heart, and take thy form from out my door!”

            Quoth the Walrus “Nevermore.”

    And the Walrus, never flipping, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the dark and dusty stretch just before my chamber door;

    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

            Shall be lifted—nevermore!

[theweeowlart]

'The Raven' by Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door- Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the lost Lenore- For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore- Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door- Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;- This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you"- here I opened wide the door;- Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"- Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice: Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore- Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;- 'Tis the wind and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door- Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door- Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore. "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore- Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door- Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered- Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have flown before- On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore- Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of 'Never- nevermore'."

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore- What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he hath sent thee Respite- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!- prophet still, if bird or devil!- Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted- On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore- Is there- is there balm in Gilead?- tell me- tell me, I implore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil- prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore- Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore- Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting- "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted- nevermore!

[hold-him-down]

“Will you please help me?”

Bellevue

from this ask game

“Will you please help me?” Ethan, the boy with curly red hair, asks. He walks with a permanent limp as the result of an experimental program gone wrong, but has been terminally optimistic for the three days that Lincoln has been at the site. The resident he speaks to now, River, is slight in stature with dark hair and dark eyes, and has spoken a total of three words to Lincoln since the shut-down which were, aptly, imploring him to "go fuck himself."

River has been, by all observable metrics, the most difficult of the former workers to reach. Lincoln watches the exchange curiously, but tries not to draw attention to that fact.

Ethan holds out a colorful blanket that one of the volunteers delivered that afternoon in one hand, and a roll of tape in the other. “I thought maybe I could hang it on the wall to cover…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but Lincoln suspects that sentence would maybe end with something like ‘to cover the stains.’

River doesn’t respond, though. Instead, he lets his gaze slip back toward the window. Ethan glances around the room and meets Lincoln's eyes. He smiles and holds out the blanket, then walks over toward the office. He hesitates in the doorway, and Lincoln closes his laptop. Ethan shows Lincoln the pattern and issues a much smaller, "Would it be okay if I hung this?"

Lincoln nods and stands up, with a warm, “How can I help?” As he follows Ethan into his room, for the briefest moment, he catches River’s eyes tracking him.

[fnafwritings]

Steeples my fingers. For the kisses, 7 with Sunny or Eclipse? :>

Send me a kiss prompt!

If it weren’t for the fact that you could hear the gentle whirring within Sun’s chassis, you’d almost think he was part of the room—a backdrop against the playful atmosphere within the alcove hidden away above the daycare. Without breath or even a heartbeat, it could be hard to feel comforted while laying on him, cold metal long-since warmed up beneath you.

And it was hard at first to ignore a part of your brain that remained keenly aware of Sun’s anatomy (or lack thereof). But he was gentle to you always—never once did you feel in danger with him, even in the moments when he engulfed you within his arms and held you tight to his frame as if you were a stuffed bear that comforted him.

Maybe you did.

Over time you found comfort where there once didn’t seem to be any; he wasn’t cold and unyielding, he was stable and anchoring. Not intimidating, but familiar.

Even the whirring within his chassis became a source of joy, if even to press your ear against his chest and hear it click and shift in a wondrous echo of a mechanical heartbeat. It felt calming in the same way that white noise was, like rain falling late into the night and pattering against windowpanes.

“Starlight?”

You sleepily lift your head up from Sun’s chest just enough to look at him, a wordless acknowledgement of hearing him speak.

The animatronic looks genuinely bashful for a moment—or at least, you can read his body language as such—and he asks, “Have you ever wanted to kiss someone before?”

A moment passes before the question sinks into your sleepy thoughts. Then, with warm creep of understanding, you adjust your face until your chin is all but perched against his lithe body.

“Why do you ask?” Not denial or avoidance, but mere curiosity. Sun had never asked something like that before, though it’s not entirely out of left field either—the two (rather, three with Moon) had been dancing around one another for months now.

This would just be the first time one of you decided to make the feeling of mutual interest into spoken words.

Sun sputters, “N-No reason! I just… wondered about it. You’d never brought it up before.”

You raise a brow in growing curiosity. “Wanting to kiss someone?”

“No!” Sun says, then immediately corrects himself. “Wait, I mean yes—“

Your lips curl into a smile that only grows wider as the attendant verbally flails about; even in moments like that, Sun was so woefully nervous.

Finally you shift your body higher on his so that you can meet his gaze easier.

After a few moments he seems to find his words again, though this time they are quieter, so much that it’s almost hard to hear over the gentle background noise of the room around you.

“…have you ever wanted to kiss me?”

Though the question was aptly foreshadowed, it nevertheless makes your heartbeat trip over itself for a moment. Restless. Unsure of what to say and less so of what to do with your hands other than keep them curled up between your bodies—has Sun’s chest been feeling this warm the whole time?

After pressing your lips together as if to keep the word silent, you finally whisper in return, “…Yes.”

“Do you…” Sun murmurs, tone so careful as if he is afraid to break something. You can feel his hands pressing against the small of your back, rubbing little circles into the cloth of your shirt. “… do you want to kiss me now?”

“Yes.”

There isn’t even a moment of pause before the answer comes tumbling off your tongue, leading to you and Sun both stiffening with surprise. His arms squeeze tighter around you and your heart starts thumping so loud that it’s in your ears.

A moment passes. Then a second. Your eyes and Sun’s own, practically glowing as he looks at you, hold eachother’s gaze until you realize that your face and his are slowly inching closer.

“I… don’t know how to kiss,” the words sound so low that they’re almost a purr that vibrates through the animatronic’s entire body.

“It’s okay if you don’t-“

Sun shushes you with a look, one heavy with an emotion you can’t read of his for once in your knowing him; it’s heavy, but not negative. It’s similar to the look he has when you manage to wake up from naps with him, but in a way that you can still fake being asleep for a little bit longer as he watches on.

It’s a look of love.

“If you let me kiss you,” he continues, faceplate inching closer still that you can see the minute details of lights in his eyes. “Then I’ll learn how to do it just right.”

Lungs burning and mind ablaze with heat, all you can do at first is nod your head. Sun takes this permission eagerly and closes the gap until his lips are pressed to yours.

And it is awkward, but in the way that all first kisses are—and that’s without mentioning the fact that while his face can certainly emote, it’s still as if he’s learning how to use his mouth for the first time. But it is honest and sweet, down to the way that his fingertips shake as he holds you like something small and precious.

When the two of you part, you can’t help but love the way his attention never strays from your face; what were once wide, friendly eyes made for greeting children with the promise of coloring books are now more reminiscent of Moon.

That’s when you realize his eyes almost are Moon’s in that moment, pupils constricting in a way that doesn’t seem to be part of his body’s programming. They quickly return to normal, but something about the reaction makes your body feel hot and tingling.

A smile tugs at your lips.

“I want to kiss you again.”

He indulges you happily and repeatedly.

[alphabetcompletionist]

on a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door—

"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door—

Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,

"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

This it is and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you"—here I opened wide the door;—

Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"—

Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

'Tis the wind and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing further then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."

Then the bird said "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of 'Never—nevermore.'"

But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee

Respite—respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting—

"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted—nevermore!

ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXY

25/26

literally on Wikipedia for lipograms, my dgo

[lindseybyrd]

"If they cannot be woken to a natural affection for their country, such as we feel, it is our fault and not theirs."

Laurence, truer words have not been spoken in a long time.

Very aptly put. And getting right to the heart of things.

[the-gnomish-bastard]

The Bastard

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of my grimoire—

While I rhyme cast, nearly rapping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my orb room door.

“’Tis some apprentice,” I muttered, “tapping at my orb room door—

Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the mid September;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Seymour—

For the rare and radiant wizard whom the council name Seymour—

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each magic curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

“’Tis some apprentice entreating entrance at my orb room door—

Some late apprentice entreating entrance at my orb room door;—

This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my will grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Witch,” said I, “or Wizard, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was rapping, and so gently you came snapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my orb room door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, conjured dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Seymour?”

This I whispered, and a goblin murmured back the word, “Seymour!”—

Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the orb room turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a speed and scutter,

In there climbed a stately Gnome of the cursed days of yore;

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Dallas just above my orb room door—

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this bastard gnome beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no lizard,

Ghastly grim and bastard wizard wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy cursed name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

Quoth the Bastard “Check your floor.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing gnome above his orb room door—

Gnome or beast upon the sculptured bust above his orb room door,

With such name as “Check your floor.”

But the Bastard, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

Those three words, as if his soul in those three words he did outpour.

Nothing farther then he uttered—not a spell then he muttered—

Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have come before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have gone before.”

Then the gnome said “Check your floor.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

Of ‘Check—check your floor’.”

But the bastard still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of gnome, and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous gnome of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous gnome of yore

Meant in croaking “Check your floor.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion’s velvet lining that the torch-light gloated o’er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the torch-light gloating o’er,

He shall weave, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these magos he hath sent thee

Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Seymour;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Seymour!”

Quoth the Bastard “Check your floor.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if gnome or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether magos tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—are there elves in Felnorad?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

Quoth the Bastard “Check your floor.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if gnome or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by the Gods we both adore—

Tell this soul with sorrow atire if, within the distant spire,

It shall clasp a sainted squire whom the magos name Seymour—

Clasp a rare and radiant squire whom the magos name Seymour.”

Quoth the Bastard “Check your floor.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, gnome or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

Leave no gnome hat as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy sword from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

Quoth the Bastard “Check your floor.”

And the bastard, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Dallas just above my orb room door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of an eldritch’s that is dreaming,

And the torch-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted—nevermore!

[nec-romantic-nightmare]

Nightshade is my PLA oc(who i ship with Volo and I'd like to talk about them)

Nightshade is the current leader of a(fan made)clan called aptly Platinum clan(cause you know Diamond Pearl and Platinum versions). Similar to The Diamond and Pearl clans their clan believes in their version of Almighty Sinnoh, however just like the clan leaders in PLA Nightshade can be spoken to by as you could guess Giratina(ofc in my lore they hear Giratinas whispers long before the other clans could, it's almost generational at this point)

So Nightshade is aware there's more than just Giratina. But their clan does not for sake of Giratina demanding the leaders before them and themselves as well not say a word.

Some lore about the clan before I continue on Nightshad, is the clans for the longest time ofc were feuding, but no feud was worse than the one over a decade before the main game in which their father was a tyrant and used Giratina as an excuse to murder brutally in the other clans, so much so even his own clan was starting to wonder if it was for his own bloodlust....

Nightshade being his only child was heir, when they were 25 was not given the role like they should have been, and with all the slaughter they took it upon themselves to end it. Reaching out to the clan leaders at the time, Nightshade was able to kill their father and take control and ending the feud between the three clans. Afterwards they put their clan in an exile of sorts, separating them from the other two clans(so in game they aren't apart of the feuds and stay out of it)

Now back to them.

Nightshade in the main events of PLA is at least 35(which surprisingly means I made them older than Volo by 2 years, he's 33 I only did that cause Cynthia is apparently 33 and yea lol)

They are very cold and calculating but tend to be very careful and don't really cause trouble, so their clan doesn't mind they're cold demeanor.

I should likely get into their relation with Volo-

Well Volo met Giratina,,,and if Nightshade speaks to Giratina or their whole clan worships it why wouldn't he come sniffing?

So he gets on their good side, harps about his curiosity and even talking in a way to make them feel understood in a way I mean they are rather different compared to most, almost like an outcast. Ofc he didn't expect he'd get attached nor did they, so it's not just a trade information kinda relationship he gets,,,,possessive(my version of him can be don't question).

And this is just like,,,,before I do my own after game lore and other stuff gkdngkdnkd

Which I will,,,just not now lol

[justforbooks]

When Alice Munro won the Man Booker International prize in 2009, many considered it a beatification that was long overdue. For decades, Munro has been publishing collection after collection of beautiful short stories, widely admired, widely read, but it's been an unflashy career, seemingly careless of the trappings of fame or bestsellerdom. This is simply a good writer doing what she loves.

Her fellow Canadian, Margaret Atwood, said, "Among writers, her name is spoken in hushed tones," but unlike many authors who are considered to be writers' writers, Munro's deceptively straightforward, narrative-based stories have achieved an audience beyond her immediate fanbase, despite her rare public appearances and refusal to give interviews. The corollary of her steady, unimpressed attitude to the trappings of fame is mirrored in her cool prose. Each of the 14 stories in this collection is like a novel-in-miniature, concerned primarily with the telling of the tale rather than rhetorical flourishes.

These are not stories that can be read quickly, back-to-back, any more than you would read 14 novels back-to-back. Each needs to settle in the mind because Munro has an uncanny knack of convincing the reader that the characters have real lives before the stories commence and continuing existences after. "On the bench outside the station I sat and waited…" begins "Amundsen", the second tale in the collection – and it's a classic example of how Munro takes the reader straight into a life-in-progress, in this case an account of a young woman, Vivien, on her way to work as a teacher at a residential home for children with tuberculosis. She soon catches the eye of the medic in charge, the aptly named Dr Fox, and the rest of the staff hear wedding bells. Vivien does too, but the ringing sound will have a slightly off-beat echo for most readers as Munro drops one hint after another that Dr Fox is not reliable. When the wedding is aborted, it comes as an inexplicable shock to her, yet seems inevitable to us.

Most of these stories are set in the rural towns around Lake Huron in Munro's native Ontario, around the time of the second world war, and the petty humiliations of small-town life are apparent in each: in particular, the humiliations of being a woman in an era where being seen in public when pregnant, smoking or even expressing an opinion too forcibly was considered unbecoming. In "Haven", a young woman is forced to stay with an uncle and aunt while her parents are in Africa and becomes witness to the way in which the uncle continually undermines his wife and how his hatred of a musically talented sister persists unto the sister's untimely death. "There was a quantity of things that men hated…" the niece observes. "Or had no use for, as they said. And that was exactly right. They had no use for it, so they hated it."

Munro's stories are full of smart young women wryly observing men's desire for dominance and other women's collusion with their own subservience. In "Dolly", the narrator observes of a love rival, "men are charmed by stubborn quirks if the girl is good-looking enough… all that delight in the infantile female brain."

But it would be wrong to think of Munro as a chronicler of the particular disappointments of being female: she draws men just as well. There is a heartbreaking portrayal of a widowed policeman in "Leaving Maverley". Despite the inevitable end of his wife's lengthy and terminal illness, he realises as he leaves the hospital: 'He'd thought that it had happened long before with Isabel, but it hadn't. Not until now. She had existed and now she did not… And before long, he found himself outside, pretending that he had as ordinary and good a reason as anybody else to put one foot ahead of the other."

There is an interesting diversion at the end of this book: the final four stories are, in Munro's own words, "not quite stories… the first and last – and the closest – things I have to say about my own life." A less well-known writer would not be allowed to lift her hands and say, "Look, there are some bits here, and I'm not sure what they are, but there you go," but they are delightful additions to this collection. Plainer, with a slightly more bitter edge, than the "fictional" stories that precede them, they are a tantalising glimpse of the memoir Munro fans would swoon for, should she choose to write it. The first indeed – but let's hope she changes her mind and makes them not the last.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[aidens-ocean-galaxy]

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

            Only this and nothing more.”

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

            Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

    “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

            This it is and nothing more.”

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

            Darkness there and nothing more.

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—

            Merely this and nothing more.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

            With such name as “Nevermore.”

    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”

            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee

    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—

    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

            Shall be lifted—nevermore!

—The Raven_ By Edgar Allan Poe

the way I rapping while reading this lmao

I havent read this in while

thanks babes

[denimbex1986]

'“This is a love story”, says Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s protagonist in the opening lines of Fleabag’s (2016-2019) second season, before all-but-breaking the Internet with the introduction of Andrew Scott’s Hot Priest in the episodes that follow. She utters these words to us, her eager audience, the blood that she’d been wordlessly cleaning up from her nose still drying, no context given. Scott’s Hot Priest, as the Internet has since baptised him, is heard as a disembodied voice from afar. His character’s place in our hearts comes as unexpectedly as the place he subsequently gains in Fleabag’s. This, too, is a love story. A love story between Scott and his many faces, between Scott as one of the most celebrated actors today, and us, his loyal following.

The Meet Cute

Andrew Scott has been set to mend hearts since day one. Born in 1976 in Dublin, he was brought up by an art teacher mother and a father who worked at a youth employment agency. He describes his Irishness in the form of a good measure of Catholic guilt as well as a strong and specific Irish sense of humour and eagerness to talk to people. With the support of his mother, he began attending acting classes in an effort to get rid of his childhood lisp. Despite being a shy kid, he took to the medium almost immediately, acting in TV commercials, portraying the most tragic of Shakespearian heroes in youth theatre productions, and even playing the Tin Man, who he aptly describes as ‘the guy with the heart’, in The Wizard of Oz at age 10.

Fast forward a few years, he is 17, forced to make a decision which will come to define his life and career. On the same day, he receives both a scholarship to study painting at art school and an offer to star in the independent Irish war film Korea (1995). After wrapping up on the film, he attempts studying once more, this time beginning an academic Drama course at Trinity College Dublin, the alma mater of his future co-star Paul Mescal. He shortly drops out, drawn to dreams of taking on the stage over learning about its theory in lecture halls.

So, our meet cute with Scott happens in the theatre, the affinity with which he has maintained to present-day. He describes stage acting using wonderfully-fitting cardiac imagery: ‘It goes directly into your veins. It’s pure. You start at the beginning of the story and you go through to the end.’ Most of Scott’s early career pans out on the stage. After dropping out of university, he joins Dublin’s Abbey Theatre for six months before moving to London at 22, where he graces the UK’s theatrical nucleus with roles in Conor McPherson’s Dublin Carol and Joe Hill-Gibbins’ A Girl in a Car with a Man at the Royal Court Theatre.

He gathers momentum as a theatre actor, working with acclaimed director Sam Mendes on The Vertical Hour and, most recently, taking on lead roles on the West End’s most famous stages in Hamlet, Present Laughter, and a one-man adaptation of the Chekhov tragedy Vanya. Scott has spoken about the exhilaration of creating a microcosm in which anything is possible for a few hours, explaining the theatre as ‘an art form that is ephemeral���. He feels this excitement through his actor’s eyes as well as his viewers who become enraptured with his every move.

His screen debut as the lead of Cathal Black’s Korea (which Scott maintains no one has ever seen so it doesn’t really count) marks the beginning of his relationship to the world of the screen. His first few screen roles are all in war films, from his one-line-long moment of fame in Spielberg’s 1998 Saving Private Ryan (he is credited as ‘Soldier on the Beach’ no less) to Band of Brothers (2001) and 1917 (2019). But surrounding himself with weapons and violence did not come naturally to the actor; ‘I’m a lover, not a fighter’, he jokes. So, he remains a heart-mender at his core.

Did you Miss Me?

It was the hearts of the masses that Scott won on the 8th of August 2010, following the release of Steven Moffat’s and Mark Gatiss’ TV phenomenon Sherlock’s first season finale. Whilst this was well over a decade ago, the world has still not recovered from Scott’s debut as sexy, playful, devilish baddie Jim Moriarty. Sherlock became, for its loyal fanbase of ‘Cumberbitches’ including my own teenage self, a religion in its own right. I endlessly rewatched the sparse selection of movie-long episodes, committing all iconic lines to memory for future quoting to my middle-school friendship group. The show’s force was undoubtedly fed by Scott’s unforgettable performance as Moriarty, who would become one of the most recognisable TV villains of the century. Scott’s face became synonymous with catchphrases like ‘IOU’ and ‘did you miss me?’. He describes the almost overnight change where he went from peacefully riding the tube and walking around London to having his photo secretly taken by fans in public and being given CDs of fan-made videos shipping Moriarty and Sherlock (Benedict Cumberbatch) as initially freaky, even odd, but also says that it doesn’t bother him now.

I Love You. It’ll Pass.

Perhaps the Sherlock fanbase was good practice for the still larger, more explosive Internet phenomenon that Scott was about to become the centre of. Hot Priest could never have existed without Scott. Literally, because Phoebe Waller-Bridge, whom Scott calls ‘one of my main homies’, wrote the character specially for him. The pair’s bond spans a good 15 years of friendship. Waller-Bridge has nothing but praise for her old friend, describing him at once as ‘an absolute pixie of mischief’ and someone who ‘can stop time with his honesty’.

What made us fall in love with Hot Priest was less the Catholic guilt that haunts so many of us (though apparently Scott’s performance led directly to an increase in searches of religious porn by a whopping 162 percent) and more the sheer honesty that emanated from his performance. At its core, the love story between Fleabag and Hot Priest is one that ends with no ‘happily ever after’ in spite of all the love that is left lingering. Beneath the endlessly-memefied closing sequence at the bus stop by night (you remember the one) lies such a raw yet universal experience of love which we can all connect to. We can’t always be with the person we love, whether that is because the world doesn’t accept our love, or because the practical rhythms of adult life get in the way. ‘Not all love stories end the same way’, Scott reminds us.

Scott has stated countless times that his most recent roles have all been punctuated by a certain humanity. Though the name Andrew Scott has become synonymous with the image of the screen villain – think Jim Moriarty, the Bond franchise’s C, Tom Ripley in Steven Zaillian’s adaptation of Patricia Highsmith’s novel, and O’Brien in the 75th-anniversary audiobook of Orwell’s 1984 – Scott vehemently opposes labels such as ‘troubled’, ‘psychopath’ and ‘villain’ when describing his darker roles. His true mastery of the roles comes from the humanity he extends to such outsider characters. For what emerges from his darkest performances is a fervent empathy, an extended arm, an understanding that life beyond the margins is lonely, difficult to survive, and that we all deserve to be loved. Scott seeks to understand his characters’ natures before their actions, to see the three-dimensional life in them. As he so wonderfully puts it in relation to his latest venture into darkness, ‘there’s Tom Ripley in all of us’.

You Are Always on My Mind

Such an understanding of the outsider shines through Scott’s latest cinematic masterpiece as the lead of Andrew Haigh’s All of Us Strangers (2023). Scott plays so subtly with the transcendental loneliness that emanates from the film. He describes feeling the importance of the film as both his first substantial lead role and simultaneously a queer role, revealing that he wore some of his own clothes in the film and often phoned his parents and siblings to ask about details of his own childhood in the 80s. Whilst he tapped into his own experiences growing up as a queer person – homosexuality wasn’t decriminalised in Ireland until 1993 – in a profoundly-personal way, Scott nonetheless maintains that his process as an actor in the film was founded on an exploration which transcends his queer identity.

Scott has expressed his ambivalence at being pigeonholed into the ‘gay actor’ category in the past. Sure, he has provided our community with some of the most sensitive performances in queer cinema this century, from Welshman and owner of the Gay’s The Word bookshop Gethin Roberts in Matthew Warchus’s Pride (2014) to All of Us Strangers and now Ripley. But there is another not-so-positive side to this labelling. The BBC recently faced backlash following a BAFTA red carpet interview with Scott in which the reporter implied that Scott had seen Barry Keoghan’s genitalia and knew how big it was. Speaking about the slew of questions he incessantly faces about his sexuality in the press, Scott argues that ‘the problem is it becomes your schtick. Frankly, I feel like I’ve got just a bit more to offer than that.’

In fact, a running theme of many of Scott’s forays with the press is this sense of profound sincerity. Rather than sprinting through the Q&A format, Scott often asks back as many questions as he answers, and we can imagine the glint in his eye and half-smirk forming on his lips as he does so, feeling like he is breaking the rules of conventional stardom. He has maintained a certain boy-next-door energy; he even describes his dress sense as that of an ‘11-year-old’: scuffed trainers, colourful T-shirt, hoodie, and all. He has often expressed a desire to talk to his fans rather than be the object to their secret photos of him on the tube and in Tesco’s. Even though we must steer clear of the parasocial relationships that often plague such iconic figures as Scott, there is nonetheless an undeniable feeling that he lets us know him, just a little, and that little has become all-too-rare in the age of untouchable stardom and TikTok fame. Yes, he was GQ’s Man of the Year in 2023, and yes, he is an absolute fanboy of Taylor Swift. The two can coexist, he shows.

Scott is a lover of art in whatever form. Despite turning down the art school offer, he frequently draws strangers in the tube and attends life-drawing classes. He is also interested in philosophy, gushing about his experience attending an Alain de Botton talk on loneliness and the importance of Esther Perel’s writing about relationships in his approach to acting and life itself. Discussing in an interview the eerie atmosphere of his Ripley shoot, which occurred between Italy and America during the pandemic, he veers into a conversation on the importance of art in the midst of loneliness, grief, and love. His words dig to the core of our own love affair with him and his plethora of relatable, human performances. ‘As human beings, we tell stories’, he says. ‘Expert storytellers are really vital. No, it’s not brain surgery. But, “Hearts starve as well as bodies. Give us bread, but give us roses.” I love that quote.’ It is through his storytelling that Andrew Scott has won our hearts. Our love story with him may have been a slow burn, but it’s only just beginning.'