#moonshine shack | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 2 months

Text

1968 [Chapter 5: Artemis, Goddess Of The Hunt]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 6.6k

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

“So you smoked grass in college,” Aegon says, pondering you with glazed eyes as he slurps his cherry-flavored Mr. Misty. You’re in Biloxi, Mississippi where Aemond is making speeches and meeting with locals to commemorate the first summer of the beaches being desegregated after a decade of peaceful protests and violent white supremacist backlash. Route 90 runs right along the sand dunes. If you walked out of this Dairy Queen, you could look south and see the Gulf of Mexico, placid dark ripples gleaming with moonshine. “And swore, and had a boyfriend, and presumably, what, did shots? Skipped class on occasion?”

“Yeah,” you admit, smiling sheepishly, remembering. You stretch out your fingers. “I chewed gum, I talked during mass. And I loved black nail polish. The nuns would beat my knuckles with rulers, I always had bruises. I wore these flowing skirts down to my ankles and knee-high boots. My hair was a mess, long and blowing around everywhere. My friends and I would do each other’s makeup, silver glitter and purple shadow, pencil on a ridiculous amount of eyeliner and then smudge it out. If you saw a photo you wouldn’t recognize me.”

Aegon takes a drag on his Lucky Strike cigarette, weightless smoke and the tired yellowish haze of florescent lights. Buffalo Springfield’s For What It’s Worth is playing from the Zenith radio on the counter by the cash register. “I’d recognize you.”

“I used to skip this one class all the time. The professor was a demon. I could do the math, but not the way he wanted me to. Right solution, wrong steps, I don’t know. I learned it differently in high school, and I couldn’t figure out the formula he wanted me to use. So he’d mark everything a zero even if my answer was correct. I couldn’t stand that bastard. Then the nuns kept catching me sunbathing on the quad when I was supposed to be in Matrices and Vector Spaces. I racked up so many demerits they were going to revoke my weekend pass, and then I wouldn’t be able to go into the city with my friends. So I stole the demerit book and burned it up on the stove in my dorm. Almost set the whole building on fire.”

Aegon is laughing. “You did not. Not you, not perfect ever-obedient Miss America!”

“I did. I really did.” You sip your own Mr. Misty, lemon-lime. Across the restaurant, Criston and Fosco are eating banana splits—dripping chocolate syrup and melted ice cream all over their table—and passionately debating who is going to end up in the World Series; Criston favors the Cardinals and the Orioles, Fosco says the Red Sox and the Cubs. The rest of the Targaryen family is back at the hotel watching news coverage of the Republican National Convention, something you can only stomach so much of, Otto’s cynical commentary, Aemond’s remaining eye fixed fiercely on the screen as he nips at an Old Fashioned. “I was wild back then.”

“And you gave it all up to be Aemond’s first lady.”

You think back to where it started: palm trees, salt water, alligators in drainage ditches. “My father grew up in a shack outside of Tallahassee. No electricity, no running water, he dropped out of school in eighth grade to help take care of his siblings when his mom died. They moved south to live with their aunt in Tampa, and my father wound up in Tarpon Springs working as a sea sponge diver.”

Aegon’s eyebrows rise, like he thinks you’re teasing him. “Sea sponges…?”

“I’m serious! It paid better than picking oranges or sweeping up in a factory. It’s dangerous. You have to wear this heavy rubber suit and walk around on the ocean floor, sometimes 50 feet or more below the surface.”

“What do people do with sea sponges?”

“Oh right, you would be unfamiliar. You’re supposed to clean yourself with them, like a loofah. Soap? Water? Ringing any bells?”

He chuckles and rolls his eyes. “You’re a very mean person. Aren’t you supposed to be setting an example for the merciful wives and daughters of this great nation?”

“Painters and potters buy sponges too. And some women use them as contraceptives. You can soak them in lemon juice and then shove them up there and it kills sperm.”

“I suddenly have great appreciation for the sea sponge industry. God bless the sea sponges.”

“So my father spent a few years diving, and he fell in love with a girl who worked at one of the shops he sold sponges to. That was my mother. They got married when he had absolutely nothing, and by their fifth anniversary he had his own fleet of boats, a gift shop, and a processing and shipping facility, all of which they owned jointly. They just opened the Spongeorama Sponge Factory this past April, a cute little tourist trap. But my point is that they were partners from the start. My father listens to my mother, and she works alongside him, and it was never like what I’ve seen from my friends’ parents: dad at the office 80 hours a week, mom at home strung out on Valium, just these…deeply separate, cold planets locked in orbit but never touching each other. I knew I didn’t want that. I wanted a husband who was building something I could be a part of. I wanted a man who respected me.”

Aegon watches you as he lights a fresh cigarette, not saying what you imagine he wants to: And how is that working out? He puffs on his Lucky Strike a few times and then offers it to you. You aren’t supposed to smoke, not even tobacco—it’s not ladylike, it’s masculine, it’s subversive—but you take it and hold it between your index and middle fingers, inhaling an ashy bitterness that blood learns to crave. The bracelets on your wrist jangle, thin silver chains that match the diamonds in your ears. Your dress is mint green, your hair in your signature Brigitte Bardot-inspired updo. Aegon is wearing a black t-shirt with The Who stamped across the front. When you pass the cigarette back to him, Aegon asks: “What music did you listen to? The Stones, The Animals?”

“Yeah. And Hendrix, The Kinks, Aretha Franklin…”

“Phil Ochs?”

“I love him. He’s got a song about Mississippi, you know.”

“Oh, I’m aware. It’s one of my favorites.”

“And I’m currently getting a little obsessed with Loretta Lynn. She’s so angry!”

“She’s sanctimonious, that’s what she is. Always bitching about men.”

“Six kids and an alcoholic husband will do that to someone.”

Aegon winces, and then you realize what you’ve said. Loretta Lynn sounds a lot like Mimi. He finishes his Mr. Misty and then fidgets restlessly with his white cardboard cup, spinning it around by the straw. You feel bad, though you shouldn’t. You wouldn’t have a month ago.

“Aegon,” you say gently, and he reluctantly looks up at you, sunburned cheeks, blonde hair shagging over his eyes. “Why do you ignore your children? They’re interesting, they’re fun. Violeta invited me to help her make cakes with her Easy-Bake Oven last week. And Cosmo…he’s so clever. But it’s like he doesn’t know who you are. He might actually think Fosco’s his dad.”

Aegon takes one last drag off his cigarette and discards the end of it in his Mr. Misty cup. Now he’s fiddling with it again, avoiding your gaze. “I don’t have much to offer them.”

“I think you do.”

“No you don’t.”

“I do,” you insist. “You can be kind of nice sometimes.”

He frowns, staring out the window. You know he can’t see anything but darkness and streetlights. “I should have been the one to go to Vietnam. If somebody had to get shot at so Aemond could be president, I was the right choice. No one would miss me. No one would mourn me. Daeron didn’t deserve that. But I was too old, so Otto and my father got him to enlist. Now he’s in the jungle and my mother has nightmares about Western Union telegrams. If I was the son over there, I think she’d sleep easier.”

I’m glad you’re still here, you think. Instead you say: “Your children need you.”

“No they don’t. Between me and Mimi, they’re better off as orphans. Helaena and Fosco can be their parents. Maybe they’ll have a fighting chance.”

The glass door opens, and a man walks into the Dairy Queen with his two sons scampering behind him, all with sandy flip flops and carrying fishing rods. The dad is at least six feet tall and brawny, and wearing a Wallace For President baseball cap. You and Aegon both notice it, then share an amused, disparaging glance. You mouth: Imbecile bigot. The man continues to the cash register and orders two chocolate shakes and a root beer float. At their own table, Criston is mopping up melted ice cream with napkins and telling Fosco to stop being such a pig.

“Me?!” Fosco says. “You are the pig, that spot there is your ice cream, do not blame your failings on poor Fosco. I have already let you drag me to this terrible state and never once complained about the fried food or the mosquitos. And that thing out there is not a real beach. The water is still and brown, brown!”

“For once in your life, pretend you have a work ethic and help me clean up the table.”

“You are being very anti-immigrant right now, do you know that?”

Aegon begins singing, ostensibly to himself. “Here’s to the state of Mississippi, for underneath her borders, the devil draws no lines.”

“Aegon, no,” you whisper, petrified. You know this song. You know where he’s going.

He’s beaming as he continues: “If you drag her muddy rivers, nameless bodies you will find.”

Now the man in the Wallace hat is looking at Aegon. His sons are happily gulping down their chocolate shakes. Criston and Fosco, still bickering, haven’t noticed yet.

“Oh, the fat trees of the forest have hid a thousand crimes.”

“Aegon, don’t,” you plead quietly. “He’ll murder you.”

“The calendar is lyin’ when it reads the present time.”

“Hey,” calls the man in the Wallace For President hat. “You got a problem, boy?”

Aegon drums his palms on the tabletop as he sings, loudly now: “Oh, here’s to the land you’ve torn out the heart of, Mississippi find yourself another country to be part of!”

In seconds, the man has crossed the room, grabbed Aegon by the collar of his t-shirt, yanked him out of his chair and struck him across the face: closed fist, lethal intent, the sick wet sound of bones on flesh. Aegon’s nose gushes, his lip splits open, but he isn’t flinching away, he isn’t afraid. He’s yowling like a rabid animal and clawing, kicking, swinging at the giant who’s ensnared him. You are screaming as you leap to your feet, your chair falling over and clattering on the floor behind you. The man’s sons are hooting joyously. “Git him, Paw!” one of them shouts.

“Criston?!” you shriek, but he and Fosco are already here, tugging at the man’s massive arms and beating on his back, trying to untangle him from Aegon.

“Stop!” Criston roars. “You don’t want to hurt him! He’s a Targaryen!”

“A Targaryen, huh?” the man says as he steps away, wiping the blood from his knuckles on his tattered white t-shirt, stained with fish guts. “All the better. I wish that bullet they put in Aemond woulda been just another inch to the left. Directly through the aorta.”

Aegon lunges at the man again, hissing, fists swinging. Fosco yanks him back.

“Are you gonna call someone or not?!” Criston snaps at the girl behind the cash register, but she only gives him a steely glare in return. This is Wallace country. There’s a reason why it took four years after the Civil Rights Act of 1964 to finally desegregate the beaches.

“We should go,” you tell Criston softly.

“Yes, we will leave now,” Fosco says, hauling Aegon towards the front door. Then, to the cashier: “Thank you for the ice cream, but it was not very good. If you are ever in Italy, try the gelato. You will learn so much.”

“I can’t wait ‘til November,” the man gloats, ominous, threatening. His sons are standing tall and proud beside him. “When Aemond loses, you can all cart your asses back to Europe. We don’t want you here. America ain’t for people like you.”

“It literally is,” you say, unable to stop yourself. “It’s on the Statue of Liberty.”

“Yeah, where do you think your ancestors came from?!” Aegon yells at the man. “Are you a Seminole, pal? I didn’t think so—!” Fosco and Criston lug him through the doorway before more punches can be thrown.

Outside—under stars and streetlights and a full moon—Aegon burst out laughing. This is when he feels alive; this is when the blood in his veins turns to wave and riptides. You didn’t think to grab napkins from the table, so you wipe the blood off his face with your bare hand, assessing the damage. He’ll be fine; swollen and sore, but fine.

“You’re insane, you know that?” you say. “You could have been killed.”

Aegon pats your cheek twice and grins, blood on his teeth. “The world would keep spinning, little Io.” Then he starts walking back towards the White House Hotel.

~~~~~~~~~~

When the four of you arrive at your suite, Aemond, Otto, Ludwika, and Alicent are still gathered around the television. The nannies have taken the children to bed. Helaena is reading The Bell Jar in an armchair in the corner of the room. Mimi is passed out on the couch, several empty glasses on the coffee table. ABC is showing a clip they recorded earlier today of Ludwika travelling with Aemond’s retinue after he made an impassioned speech condemning the lack of recognition of the evils of slavery at Beauvoir, the historic home of former Confederate president Jefferson Davis. The reporter is asking Ludwika what she thinks makes Aemond a better presidential candidate than Eugene McCarthy, as McCarthy shares many of the same policy positions and has an additional 15 years of political experience.

“This McCarthy is not a real man,” Ludwika responds, her face stony and mistrustful. “He reminds me of the communists back in my country. Did you know he met with Che Guevara in New York City a few years ago? Why would he do such a thing?”

Now, Otto turns to her in this hotel room. “I love you.”

Ludwika takes a sip of her martini. “I want another Gucci bag.”

“Yes, yes. Tomorrow, my dear.”

“What happened to you?” Aemond asks his brother, half-exasperated and half-concerned. Criston has fetched a washcloth from the bathroom for Aegon to hold against his bleeding lip and nose. Aemond is still wearing his blue suit from a long day of campaigning, but he’s taken out his eye and put on his eyepatch. His gaze flicks from Aegon’s face to the blood still coating your left hand. On the couch, Mimi’s bare foot twitches but she doesn’t wake up.

“There was a Wallace supporter at the Dairy Queen,” you say. “Aegon felt inspired to defending you.”

Aemond chuckles. “Did you win?” he asks Aegon.

“I would have if the guy wasn’t two of me.”

On the television screen, Richard Nixon is accepting his party’s nomination for president at the Republican National Convention in Miami, Florida.

“He’s a buffoon,” Otto sneers. “So awkward and undignified. Look at him sweating! Look at those ridiculous jowls! And he comes from nothing. His family is trash.”

“Americans love a rags to riches story,” you say. And then, somewhat randomly: “He loves his wife. He proposed to Pat on their very first date, and she said no. So he drove her to dates with other men for years until she finally reconsidered. He said it was love at first sight. He’s never had a mistress. And jowls or no jowls, his family adores him.”

Aegon turns to you, still clutching the washcloth against his face. “Really?”

You nod. “That’s the sort of thing the women talk about.”

There’s a knock at the door. You all look at each other, confounded; no one has ordered room service, no one is expecting any visitors, and the nannies have keys in the event of an emergency. Fosco is closest to the door, so he opens it. A man in uniform is standing there with a golden Western Union telegram in his hands. Alicent screams and collapses. Criston bolts to her.

“It’s okay,” you say. “He’s not dead. Whatever happened, Daeron’s not dead.”

Otto crinkles his brow at you. “How do you know?”

“Because if he was killed, there would be a priest here too.” They always send a priest when the boy is dead. Aegon glances at you, eyes wet and fearful.

“Ma’am,” the soldier—a major you see now, spotting the golden oak leaves—says to Alicent as he removes his cap. “I regret to inform you that your son Daeron was missing in action for several weeks, and we’ve just received confirmation that he’s being held as a prisoner of war in Hỏa Lò Prison.”

“He’s in the Hanoi Hilton?!” Otto exclaims. “Oh, fuck those people and their swamp, how did Kennedy ever think we had something to gain from getting tangled up in that mess?”

“But he’s alive?” Aemond says. “He’s unharmed?”

“Yes sir,” the captain replies. “It is our understanding that he is in good condition. The North Vietnamese are aware that he is a very valuable prisoner, like Admiral McCain’s son John. He’ll be used in negotiations. He is of far more use to them alive than dead.”

“So we can get Daeron back,” Aegon says. “I mean, we have to be able to, right? Aemond’s running for president, he’ll probably win in November, we have millions of dollars, we can spring one man out of some third-world jail, right?”

The captain continues: “Tomorrow when your family returns to New Jersey, the Joint Chiefs of Staff will be there to discuss next steps with you. I’m afraid I’m only authorized to give you the news as it was relayed to me.” He entrusts the telegram to Otto, who rapidly opens it and stares down at the mechanical typewriter words.

“I have to pray,” Alicent says suddenly. “Helaena, will you pray with me? There’s a Greek church down the road. Holy Trinity, I think it’s called.”

Obediently, Helaena joins her mother and follows her to the doorway. Criston leaves with them. Otto gives his new wife a harsh, meaningful stare. Ludwika, an ardent yet covert atheist, sighs irritably. “Wait. I want to pray too,” she says, and vanishes with them into the hall.

As the captain departs, Mimi sits up on the couch, blinking, groggy. “What? What happened?”

“Go with Alicent,” Otto tells her. “She’s headed downstairs.”

“What? Why…?”

“Just go!” he barks.

Mimi staggers to her feet and hobbles out of the hotel room, her sundress—patterned with forget-me-nots—billowing around her. The only people left are Otto, Aemond, Fosco, Aegon, and you. The fact that you are the sole woman permitted to remain here feels intentional.

After a moment, Otto speaks. “You know, John McCain has famously refused to be released from the Hanoi Hilton until all the men imprisoned before him have been freed. He doesn’t want special treatment. And that’s a very noble thing to do, don’t you think? It has endeared him and the McCains to the public.”

Aemond and Otto are looking at each other, communicating in a silent language not of letters or accents but colors: red ambition, green hunger, grey impassionate morality. Fosco is observing them uneasily. Aemond says at last: “Daeron wants to help this family.”

“You’re not going to try to get him out.” Aegon realizes.

Aemond turns to him, businesslike, vague distant sympathy. “It’s only until November.”

“No, you know people!” Aegon explodes. “You pick up the phone, you call in every favor, you get him out of there now! You have no idea if he has another three months, you don’t know what kind of shape he’s in! They could be dislocating his arms or chopping off his fingers right now, they could be starving him, they could be beating him, you can’t just leave him there!”

“It’s not your decision. It could have been, had you accepted your role as the eldest son. But you didn’t. So it’s my job to handle these things. You don’t get to hate me for making choices you were too cowardly too take responsibility for.”

“But Daeron could die,” Aegon says, his voice going brittle.

“Any of us could die. We’re in a very dangerous line of work. Greatness killed Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, Huey Long, Medgar Evers, John F. Kennedy, Malcolm X, Vernon Dahmer, Martin Luther King Jr., does that mean we should all give up the fight? Of course not. The work isn’t finished. We have to keep going.”

“Will you stop pretending this is about America?! This is about you wanting to be president, and everything you’ve ever done has been in pursuit of that trophy, and you keep shoving new people into the line of fire and it’s not right!”

“Aegon,” Otto says calmly. “It’s unlikely we’d be able to get him out before the election anyway. Negotiations take time. But if Aemond wins in November, he’ll be in a very advantageous position. The North Vietnamese aren’t stupid. They wouldn’t kill the brother of a U.S. president. They don’t want their vile little corner of the world flattened by nukes.”

“Still, it feels so wrong to leave a brother in peril,” Fosco says. “It is unnatural. Of course Aegon will be upset. We could at least see what a deal to get Daeron released would entail, maybe his arrival home would be a good headline—”

“And who the fuck asked you?” Otto demands, and Fosco goes quiet.

“Okay, then tell Mom,” Aegon says to Aemond. “Tell her you’re going to pretend Daeron made some self-sacrificial vow not to come home until all the other POWs can too. Tell her you’re going to let him get tortured for a few months before you take this seriously.”

Aemond replies cooly: “Why would you want to upset her? She can’t change it. You’ll only make her suffering worse.”

“What do you think?” Otto asks you, and you know that he isn’t seeking counsel. He’s summoning you like a dog to perform a trick, like an actor to recite a line. He’s waiting for you to say that it’s a smart strategy, because it is. He’s waiting for you to bend to Aemond’s will as your station requires you to, as moons are bound to their planets.

“I think it’s wrong,” you murmur; and Aemond is thunderstruck by your treason.

Without another word, you walk into the bathroom, turn on the sink, and gaze down at Aegon’s blood on your palm. For some reason, it’s very difficult to bring yourself to wash it away.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s mid-August now, the world painted in goldenrod yellow and sky blue. The Democratic National Convention is in two weeks. You and Aemond are posing on the beach at Asteria, surrounded by an adoring gaggle of journalists who are snapping photographs and jotting down quotes on their notepads. You’re sitting demurely on a sand dune, you’re building sandcastles with the children you borrowed from Aegon and Helaena, you’re flying kites, you’re gazing confidently into the sunlit horizon where a glorious new age is surely dawning.

“Mr. Targaryen, what is it that makes your partnership so successful?” a journalist asks as flashbulbs pulse like lightning. “What do you think is the most crucial characteristic to have in a wife?”

Aemond doesn’t need to consider this before he answers. He always has his compliment picked out. “Loyalty,” your husband says. “Not just to me or to the Targaryen family, but to our shared cause. This year has been indescribably difficult for me and my wife. I announced my candidacy, we embarked on a strenuous national campaign that we’re currently only halfway through, I barely survived a brutal assassination attempt in May, in July we lost our first child to hyaline membrane disease after he was born six weeks prematurely, and at the beginning of this month we learned that my youngest brother Daeron was taken by the North Vietnamese as a prisoner of war. To find the strength not just to get out of bed in the morning, not just to be there for me and this family in our personal lives, but to tirelessly traverse the country with me inspiring Americans to believe in a better future…it’s absolutely remarkable. I’m in awe of her. And when she is the first lady of the United States, she will continue to amaze us all with her unwavering faith and dedication.”

There are whistles and cheers and strobing flashbulbs. You smile—elegant, soft, practiced—as Aemond rests a hand firmly on your waist. You lean into him, feeling out-of-place, bewildered that you’ve ever slept with him, full of dull panic that soon you’ll have to again.

“How about you, Mrs. Targaryen?” another reporter asks. “Same question, essentially. What is the trait that you most admire in your husband?”

And in the cascading clicks of photographs being captured, your mind goes entirely blank. You can think of so many other people—Aegon, Ari, Alicent, Daeron, Fosco, Cosmo—but not Aemond. It’s like you’ve blocked him out somehow, like he’s a sketch you erased. But you can’t hesitate. You can’t let the uncertainty read on your face. You begin speaking without knowing where you’re going, something that is rare for you. “Aemond is the most tenacious person I’ve ever met. When he has a goal in mind, nothing can stop him.” You pause, and there are a few awkward chuckles from the journalists. You swiftly recover. “He never stops learning. He always knows the right thing to do or say. And what he wants more than anything is to serve the American people. Aemond won’t disappoint you. He’s not capable of it. He will do whatever it takes to make this country more prosperous, more peaceful, and more free.”

There are applause and gracious thank yous, but Aemond gives you a look—just for a second, just long enough that you can catch it—that warns you to get it together. Fifteen minutes later, he and the flock of reporters are headed to one of the guest houses to conduct a long-form interview. This will be the bulk of the article; you will appear in one or two photos, you will supply a few quotes. The rest of the story is Aemond. You are an accessory, like a belt or a bracelet. He’s the person who picks you out of a drawer each morning and wears you until you go out of fashion.

Released from your obligations, you return to the main house and disappear into your upstairs bathroom. You are there for fifteen minutes and emerge rattled, routed. You pace aimlessly around your bedroom for a while, then try again; still no luck. You go back outside and stare blankly at the ocean, wondering what you’re going to do. Down on the beach, Fosco is teaching the kids how to yo-yo. Ludwika is sunbathing in a bikini.

“What’s wrong with you?”

You whirl to see Aegon, popping a Valium into his mouth and washing it down with a splash of straight rum from a coffee mug. “Huh? Nothing. I’m great.”

“No, something’s wrong. You look lost. You look like me.”

You gaze out over the ocean again, chewing your lower lip.

Aegon snickers, fascinated, sensing a scandal. “What did you do?”

Your eyes drift to him. “You can’t make fun of me.”

“Okay. I won’t.”

There is a long, heavy lull before you answer. When you speak, it’s all in a rush, like you can’t unburden yourself of the words fast enough. “I put a tampon in and I can’t get it out.”

Aegon immediately breaks his promise and cackles. “You did what?!” Then he tries to be serious. “Wait. Sorry. Uh, really?”

You’re on the verge of tears. “I’ve been bleeding since I had the baby, and I hate using tampons, I almost never do, but Aemond wanted me to wear this dress for the photoshoot and it’s super gauzy and from certain angles I felt like I could see the pad bulge when I checked in the mirror, so I put a tampon in for the first time in probably a year. I’m not even supposed to be using them for another few weeks because my uterus isn’t healed all the way or whatever. And now I can’t get it out and it’s been in there for like six hours and I’m scared I’m going to get an infection and die in the most pointless, humiliating way imaginable.”

“Okay, calm down, calm down,” Aegon says. “There’s no string?”

“No, I’ve checked multiple times. It must be a defective one and they forgot to put a string in it at the factory and I didn’t notice, or the string somehow got tucked under it, I don’t know, but I can’t get it out, it’s like…the angle isn’t right. I can just barely feel it with my fingertips, but I can’t grab it. I’m going to have to go to the hospital to get it taken out, but I’m scared word will spread and journalists will show up to get photos when I leave and then everyone will be asking me why I was at the emergency room to begin with and I’m going to have to make up something and…and…” You can’t talk anymore. There are other reasons why you don’t want to go to the hospital. You haven’t stepped foot in one since Ari died; the thought makes you feel like you are looking down to see blood on your thighs all over again, like you’ll never have enough air in your lungs.

“Did you bleed through it? Because that should help it slide out easier.”

“I don’t know,” you moan miserably. “I mean, I guess I did, because there was blood when I checked a few minutes ago. I had to stuff my underwear with toilet paper.”

“Why didn’t you just tell Aemond you couldn’t wear this dress?”

You give him an impatient glance. “I’m tired of having the same conversation.” When do you think you’ll be done bleeding? When do you think it’ll be time to start trying again?

Aegon sighs. “Do you want me to get it out for you?”

“Please stop. I’m really panicking here.”

“I’m not joking.”

You stare at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“I have fished many objects out of many orifices, you cannot shock me. I am unshockable.”

“I’d rather walk down to the sand right now and strangle myself with Fosco’s yo-yo.”

“Okay. So who are you gonna ask to drive you to the hospital?”

You hesitate.

“I’d offer to do it,” Aegon says, grinning, holding up his mug. “But I’m in no condition to drive.”

“But you are in the proper condition to extract a rogue tampon, huh?”

“Two minutes tops. That’s a guarantee. My personal best is fifteen seconds. And that was for a lost condom, much trickier to locate than a tampon.”

Perhaps paradoxically, the more you consider his offer, the more tempting it seems. No complicated trip and cover story? Over in just a few minutes? “If you ever tell anyone about this, I will never forgive you. I will hate you forever.”

Aegon taunts: “I thought you already hated me.”

You aren’t sure what you feel for him, but it’s certainly not hate. Not anymore. “Where would we do it?”

“In my office. And by that I mean my basement.”

“Your filthy, disease-ridden basement? On your shag carpet full of crabs?”

“You’re in luck,” he jokes. “My crab exterminator service just came by yesterday.”

You exhale in a low, despairing groan.

“Hey, would you rather do it on the dining room table? I’m game. Your choice.”

You watch the seagulls swooping in the afternoon air, the banners of sailboats on the glittering water. “Okay. The basement.”

You walk with Aegon to the house and—after ensuring that no one is around to notice—sneak with him down the creaking basement steps, the door locked behind you. Aegon is darting around; he sets a small trashcan by the carpet and tosses you two towels, then goes to wash his hands in his tiny bathroom, not nearly enough room for someone to stretch out across the linoleum floor.

You’re surveying the scene nervously. “I don’t want to get blood all over your stuff.”

“You’re the cleanest thing that’s ever been on that carpet. Lie down.”

You place one towel on the green shag carpet, then whisk off your panties, discard the bloody knot of toilet paper in the trashcan, and pull the skirt of your dress up around your waist so it’s out of the way. Then you sit down and drape the second towel over your thighs so you’re hidden from him, like you’re about to be examined by a doctor. Your heart is thumping, but you don’t exactly feel like you want to stop. It’s more exhilarating than fear, you think; it is forbidden, it is shameful, it is a microscopic betrayal of Aemond that he’ll never know about.

Aegon moseys out of the bathroom, flicking drops of water from his hands. He wears one of his usual counterculture uniforms: a frayed green army jacket with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, khaki shorts, tan moccasins. He kicks them off before he kneels on the shag carpet. He checks the clock on the wall. “2:07. I promised two minutes max. Let’s see how I do. Ready?”

You rest the back of your head on your linked hands, raise your knees, take a deep and unsteady breath. “Ready.”

But he can see that you’re shaking. “Hey,” Aegon says kindly, pressing his hand down on the towel so you’re covered. “Do you want me to go to the hospital with you? I’ll try to distract people. I’ll pretend I’m having a seizure or something.”

“No, I’m okay,” you insist. “I just want it out. I want this over with.”

“Got it.” And then he begins. He stares at the wall to his left, not looking at you, navigating by feel. You feel the pressure of two fingers, a stretching that is not entirely unpleasant. He’s warm and careful, strangely unobtrusive. Still, you suck in a breath and shift on the carpet. “Shh, shh, shh,” Aegon whispers, skimming his other hand up and down the inside of your thigh, and shiver like you’ve never felt before rolls backwards up the length of your spine. “Relax. You alright?”

“Fine. Totally fine.”

“Oh yeah, it’s definitely in there,” Aegon says. His brow is creased with comprehension. “No string…you’re right, it must either be tangled up somehow or it never had one to begin with. Maybe you accidentally inserted it upside down.”

“Now you insult my intelligence. As if I’m not embarrassed enough.”

“I should have put on a record to set the mood. What gets you going, Marvin Gaye? Elvis?”

“The seductive voice of Richard Milhous Nixon. Maybe you can get him on the phone.”

Aegon laughs hysterically. His fingertips push the tampon against your cervix and you yelp. “Sorry, sorry, my mistake,” Aegon says. There are beads of sweat on his forehead, on his temples; now his eyes are squeezed shut. “I’m gonna try to wiggle it out…”

As he works, there are sensations you can’t quite explain: a very slow-building indistinct desire, a loosening, a readying, a drop in your belly when you think about the fact that he’s the one touching you. Then he happens to press in just the right spot and there is a sudden pang of real pleasure—craving, aching, a deep red flare of previously unfathomable temptation—and you instinctively reach for him. You hand meets his forearm, and for the first time since he started Aegon looks at your face, alarmed, afraid that he’s hurt you again. But once your eyes meet you’re both trapped there, and you can’t pretend you’re not, his fingers still inside you, his pulse racing, a rivulet of sweat snaking down the side of his face, his eyes an opaque murky blue like water you’re desperate to claw your way into. You know what you want to tell him, but the words are impossible. Don’t stop. Come closer.

Aegon clears his throat, forces himself to look away, and at last dislodges the tampon. It appears dark and bloody in his grasp. “No string,” he confirms, holding it up and turning it so you can see. “Factory reject.”

“Just like you.”

He glances at the clock. “2:09. I delivered precisely what was promised.” He chucks the tampon into the trashcan and then grins as he helps pull you upright with his clean hand. “So do you like to cuddle afterwards, or…?”

You’re giggling, covering your flushed face. “Shut up.”

“Personally, I enjoy being ridden into the ground and then called a good boy.”

“Go away.” You nod to where he disposed of the tampon and say before stopping to think: “You’re not going to keep that under your ashtray too?”

Aegon freezes and blinks at you. He smiles slowly, cautiously. “No, I think that would be a little unorthodox, even for me.” He pitches you a clean washcloth from the bathroom closet. “That should get you upstairs.”

“Thanks.” You shove it between your legs and rise to your feet, smoothing the skirt of your dress. “I owe you something. I’m not sure what, but I’ll figure it out.”

“Hey,” Aegon says, and waits for you to turn to him. “Maybe I’m not that bad.”

“Maybe,” you agree thoughtfully.

Just before you hurry upstairs, you steal a glimpse of Aegon in the bathroom, the door kicked only half-closed. He has turned on the water, but he’s not using it yet. Aegon is staring down at the blood on his hand, half-dried scarlet impermanent ink.

~~~~~~~~~~

Hi, it’s me again. I’m in solitary confinement. There’s a guy in the cell next to mine; we talk to each other with a modified version of Morse code. Tap tap tap on the wall, he taps back, etcetera etcetera, you get the idea. You’re not going to believe this, but he says his name is John McCain. Well, actually, he told me his name is Jobm McCbin, but I think that’s because I translated the taps wrong. I might be in the Hanoi Hilton, but at least they have me in the VIP section! Hahaha.

Every few hours the guards show up to do a very impressive magic trick: they wave their batons like wands, I turn black and blue. Sometimes one of my teeth even disappears. Isn’t that something? Houdini would love it. There’s a rat that I’m making friends with. I give her nibbles of my stale bread, she gives me someone to talk to. She’s good company. I’ve named her Tessarion.

Allow me to make something absolutely fucking clear.

I would very much like to be rescued.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon x y/n #aegon x you #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon targaryen x you

261 notes · View notes

winterrsun · 4 months

Text

Comfort

Reader x Daryl Dixon

Warnings: Smut, 18+ only

A/n: This is smut but it’s like the fluffiest sappiest smut, it’s meant to be really emotionally gratifying. Also I’ve really kinda half heartedly set it up for a part 2 where they reunite with the group and Rick…let me know if you think I should continue this!

Summary: after the prison fell, you and Daryl start to mourn what you’ve lost and find comfort in each other, both emotional and physical.

————————————————————————

The last couple of weeks had been such a blur. After the prison fell, you were thrown back into survival mode and all sense of security was gone. You never knew where your next meal would come from, or whether you were minutes away from death. You were grateful you’d gotten out in the company of Daryl and Beth; you’d always gotten along with both of them and Daryl was one of the most experienced survivalists. It was nice having Beth to talk to and relate to the experience as well, neither of you being natural outdoorsmen. Even if he was a grumpy ass most of the time, and she was still a bit of a bratty teenager at heart, you’d fast grown extremely reliant on both of them being around you.

You’d all found a small shack to hole up in for a couple of nights, you’d also found a stash of moonshine in the cupboard. Beth had been insistent on trying her first drink. It made you both amused and sad when you compared her experience to your teenage party years, so while Daryl disapproved you thought it was only fair to have your own little party. That’s how the three of you ended up on the living room floor, laughing your heads off.

“Really Y/N, you never been camping?!” Beth questioned incredulously.

“Yer even more a princess than I thought” scoffed Daryl.

“Yeah yeah,” you laughed, “well I suppose my whole life’s a big camping trip now.”

“Alright alright, my turn!” Daryl exclaimed. “I never… bin to a wedding”.

“You what?! Daryl that’s just sad” you said before taking a large swig of the homemade booze.

“Yeah, even I’ve been to a couple. Only other time I drank any liquor, daddy let me have a glass of champagne” said Beth.

“What part of my life was a fucking shit show before all this do you two not get” he grumbled.

You rubbed his arm, “alright we know, just teasing you” you smiled.

Beth’s giggles turned to hiccups, and she eventually lay her head down on the sofa and you realised she’d gone to sleep.

You nudged Daryl and nodded at Beth. He smiled at you, and pointed to the singular bedroom in the shack- suggesting you and he should move into the other room so as not to wake her.

The room was small; a double bed took up almost all the floor space, so you plopped yourself down on it. Daryl followed, carrying the bottle of moonshine with him. He took a sip before passing it to you, who did the same.

“She’ll be right” he gestured to the door, referring to Beth in the other room.

“I know” you replied, “we’ve all been there, she just needs to sleep it off.”

He nodded and you fell into an easy silence, both taking additional sips now and then. You grew pensive, and some of the thoughts you’d been mulling around for days started to come to the surface. The tipsy haze in your brain had your lips moving before you even knew you wanted to share what was on your mind.

“I don’t think I’ve said it,” you said, looking to Daryl, “but I’m so grateful for the two of you. The amount of times I’ve wondered what kind of state I’d be in if I was on my own…”

“Can’t be thinkin like that” he replied gently.

“I know. It’s just, it makes me mad to think about how quickly our circumstances changed. Things were so good Dar, they were finally all coming together. And then…..it’s just nothing in this world can ever really work can it?” You were rambling a little, but Daryl didn’t look like he was going to challenge you or tell you to be quiet. He just looked at you sadly.

“Do you think we’ll ever see any of them again?” You whispered to him. A tear escaped your eye and started to trickle down your cheek.

“I don’t know” he replied, and to your surprise he reached towards your face and softly wiped the tear of your cheek, “but I’m glad we’re here together too”.

He didn’t remove his hand from your face, in fact he gently cupped your chin. You leaned into it, while his head dipped closer to you and he planted a soft kiss on your lips. You closed your eyes and allowed the sweet sensation to wash over you.

When he pulled back away he looked unsure of himself, and mumbled a “sorry” to you.

You shook your head, placed your hands on his chest and leaned back toward him, kissing him more deeply this time. His tongue crept into your mouth and started to dance with yours.

Your hands drew up behind his neck as the two of you continued, and he reached for your waist, pulling you into his lap. The kiss grew needier as you straddled him; it wasn’t a need driven by pure sex and physical desire. It was like all the emotions you’d been feeling since the prison poured into your movements, and Daryl lapped them up and returned them with his own. You could’ve been hugging, or crying in each others arms, but instead you were kissing and writhing against each others bodies and it had the same cathartic effect.

You clung onto him as he pulled his lips away from yours briefly, to gently and slowly peel your dirty shirt up from your body. You allowed him to manoeuvre your arms overhead so he could take it off and toss it aside. He then reached around and unclasped your bra, and took a moment to stare at and admire the sight before him.

“You’re beautiful” he almost whispered, starting to run his hands over your breasts and grope them lightly. “I’m gonna take care of you Y/N, I promise”.

You were almost overwhelmed at this moment of pure bliss. You’d never thought there’d be anything sexual between you and Daryl. He was one of your best friends, with a bond like family. Sure he was hot. You’d notice his biceps peaking out of that winged vest and your heart might’ve quickened slightly every time you saw the way he gripped his motorbike handles. But you’d always just been friends.

Let alone the fact that you actually had a thing with his best friend. You and Rick had never defined whatever it was between you, but there was denying when he snuck into your cell nearly every night who you belonged to.

But Rick was gone. You didn’t know where, or if he was even alive, or if you’d ever see him again. It played on your mind every single day. You missed him so much more than all the others, longed for him. You were sick of it eating at you, and you just wanted to feel good for the first time in weeks.

You clawed at Daryl’s shirt, and he took a break from massaging your breasts to help you remove the black tee from his body. You pressed into him as your lips found his again and you relished the feeling of his skin against yours. It felt warm and unbelievably comforting. He began to rub circles on the small of your back and you arched into his touch.

“Daryl” you breathed against his mouth.

“What do you need baby?” He asked, pulling back and grabbing your face in both of his hands, eyes searching yours.

“You…I just need you” you said pleadingly.

Daryl shifted beneath you and lifted you up to flip you onto your back on the bed.

He slowly pulled your pants down and hovered over your torso, looking at your cotton panties. He dipped down and placed a soft kiss on your abdomen, creeping along your hip line. You hummed and wriggled at the tickling sensation, enjoying it. You felt a warmth envelop you from his touches. Then his fingers hooked into the elastic around your waist and pulled the fabric down from your body.

He ran his hand back up your leg, his eyes following the movements before he flitted them up to your face. You made eye contact and he sought the non verbal confirmation that you were okay. You bit your lip in anticipation as you gazed up at him, allowing yourself to be completely vulnerable under his touch. Now fully naked on the bed.

You gasped as his fingers found their way into your fold, and began to gently stroke around. You flinched slightly as he ran over your clit for the first time, and he placed a kiss back on your lips, then trailing down your neck. He began drawing circles around your sensitive nub at a steady but not too fast pace and he lifted his head back up to study your face again.

“So beautiful” he commented. You arched your back off the bed and moan softly. He picked up the pace a little and your pleasure increased.

“Daryl” you gasped, “I need more. I want all of you”.

He nodded, stroked your hair with his free hand before withdrawing them both to unbutton and remove his pants. You lowered your eyes and watched as he freed his sizeable cock from his underpants. You sat up and leaned forward, glancing up at him with doe eyes before attaching your lips to his member.

He groaned as you took him in your warm, wet mouth. You suckled and licked around it, playing with him while lubing him up for you. His hands found their way into your hair, loosely gripping it while you bobbed your head back and forth. He threw his head back and savoured the sensation.

After a little while you pulled away and he gently pushed your shoulder so you lay back on the bed. He braced himself over you and lined himself up, gazing down into your eyes.

“I’m so glad you’re here” he whispered, hovering outside your entrance. You nudged your head up to plant a kiss on his lips.

“Me too” you said softly.

Then he slowly thrust into you. It ached just a little on the way in, but you quickly adjusted to him. For the first time in weeks you felt whole, and human, and like you were capable of something other than simply just surviving as he sank inside you.

You tensed around him and wrapped your legs around his body, which he took as a signal to start pumping his hips in and out of you. Warmth filled your body, radiating from your core to chest at the feeling of connection and intimacy. To your surprise, tears prickled your eyes as you felt emotionally stimulated as much as physically. You squeezed your eyes shut and bit onto Daryl’s shoulder, allowing his warm skin to absorb the moan that left you.

“Don’t need to keep too quiet pretty girl” he said encouragingly. You smirked and let go, noting the love bite you’d left behind before moaning out into the room this time as his hips continued to pound into you.

He pulled out briefly and you were left feeling empty and disappointed, just for him to gently grab your thigh and push your leg back towards your face, hooked behind his arm. He pushed back in and you relished the new, deeper angle.

“Fuuuck, yesss” you hissed and he smirked down at you.

“Feels good baby?” He cooed before grind his hips in a particularly deep thrust and you nodded, moaning in reply.

He picked up the pace now and you felt the heat grow in your belly, driven more by lust at this point. Your climax was building, and it was as if Daryl could tell. He drove into you faster than before, angling his hips upwards to hit just the right spot.

“Dar! I’m gonna” you began-

“I know baby, let go” he soothed.

With an almost scream you came, it rippled through you in waves and he rode it out with you. In this moment nothing else mattered, not the situation you were in, the home you’d lost, the people you’d been seperated from. It was just bliss for a perfect moment.

As your pleasure subsided Daryl snapped his hips into a few more hard times before grunting himself and moving to pull out of you.

“Don’t!” You cried without thinking, holding his hips to yours with your small hands. You felt his dick pulsate inside you as he painted your walls with his cum. It was the last, comforting gesture you wanted to take from him tonight. The feeling of him filling you up as much he possibly could.

His sweaty forehead met yours as he stopped moving, and you felt his penis jerk inside you one last time before all was still. You panted together for a few seconds, before he slowly rolled over to lay next to you.

You felt his ejaculate trickle out of you onto the bed, and groaned at the mess, grinning at him.

He looked around and grabbed a throw blanket from the end of the bed, using it to roughly wipe up you and the linen beneath you. You both chuckled, and he tossed it aside before throwing an arm around you and pulling you towards him to lay your head on his chest.

With your head on his bare skin and listening to the sound of his heart beat and the sensation of his breath rise and fall, you closed your eyes and fell asleep. He planted once last kiss to the top of your head before doing the same.

You woke with a start to the sound of birds chirping and sunlight beginning to creep in through the window, neck stiff from the angle you slept at. You felt chilly and looked down to see goosebumps over your bare body. Not just yours, you noted the extra limbs tangled with yours and remembered the situation you were in. You smiled to yourself, knowing that the amazing night was a once off for you both.

Daryl had just started to stir at your movements on the bed, before you heard movements in the other room. A female voice groaning, before stomping quick footsteps and the sound of coughing and liquid splashing the metal sink. Beth had arisen, and was experiencing her first hangover. You almost would have giggled, except you realised you had to get dressed quick and decide how to explain the two of spending the night in a small room with one double bed.

You looked back at Daryl, now fully awake and judging by the expression on his face thinking the same thing you were.

“Well, back to reality” you whispered with a shrug.

He pulled you in for one last embrace, planting a kiss firmly to your lips before whispering back “thanks for last night beautiful”.

#Daryl Dixon #Daryl Dixon smut #Daryl x reader #Daryl x reader smut #Daryl Dixon x reader #daryl twd #twd Daryl #the walking dead #Daryl Dixon fic #darly Dixon x you

359 notes · View notes

roseghoul26 · 2 months

Text

Chapter 5: Your Opal Eyes Are All I Wish To See

Arthur Morgan x fem!Reader

Synopsis: A fic based off the song “ivy” by Taylor Swift. After a startling introduction to the man, Arthur Morgan became the most important part of your life. Married at a young age to an older, wealthy man to help your family, you were trapped in a loveless marriage, your only sense of escape with the rugged cowboy. Will you be able to keep your affair hidden, or will your husband find out, and destroy the last thing that made you happy? Tags: Fluff, Angst, Smut, Strangers To Lovers, Infidelity, Fem!Reader, She/Her Pronouns Used For Reader, Period Typical Misogyny, Emotional Manipulative Relationship (not with Arthur), Mostly Follows Timeline of Game, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Not Beta Read, Slow Burn, First Kiss, Tags Updated Per Chapter Author's Note: this is a short chapter sorry! Taglist: @lokiofasgard12 @ultraporcelainpig @that-one-beannnn @morethantheycansay Chapter List

It was comical, the way the cricket chirping filled in the silence as you stared at the older man. Your mouth formed the words but nothing came out, leaving you looking like a fool. You glanced between the two men, Hosea having a sympathetic look on his face. You couldn’t see Arthur, as he was behind you, but you quite honestly didn’t want to see his reaction. A sinking feeling formed in your gut. Did he know the entire time?

“I… what?” You finally found your voice, barely. You had to admit, it did make sense. You knew so little about his work, only knowing that he did distillery work, but made a surprising amount of money from it. It wouldn’t be surprising if he was actually invested in more… illegal means of work.

“If there’s a moonshine shack in the western states, then Mr. Kerrigan is tied to it. Either he owns it, supplies it, or gets a cut from it. No matter where you look, his fingers are all over it.” Hosea spoke, he and Dutch had moved closer to you now, now that they realized you wouldn’t lash out angrily at the information.

“Alright…” you took a breath. “So how does this include me?”

The two gentlemen looked surprised at your willingness, and that predatory smile returned to Dutch’s face. “You see, Arthur told us you might be willin’ to help us… deter your husband from further illegal endeavors… while we get our own cut, of course.”

At the mention of Arthur, you turned to look at him, finding him glaring at Dutch. “I thought I told you I don’t want her involved in this.”

“I know. But we couldn’t pass up an opportunity like this.”

Another sinking feeling formed, this one stronger than he last, and the thought was dizzying. Did he only get close to you to secure a job?

You had to turn away from Arthur, no longer able to look at him. You didn’t think he’d be that cruel, right? Still, you couldn’t help the hurt and anger swirling in your mind.

Silence hung in the air now, and even the crickets seemed to realize the gravity of the situation, halting their songs. “Let’s continue this conversation inside,” you said through the lump in your throat. Climbing up the stairs of the porch, you held the door open, gesturing for the men to come inside. “Go ahead and take a seat in the living room. Just take your shoes off,” you added as they entered.

Arthur stayed put, looking at you with an indistinguishable expression. He murmured your name gently, but you just shook your head. Sighing, Arthur slowly climbed the stairs, halting in front of you in the doorway. When you still didn’t look at him, he continued on inside, glancing back at you with guilt in his eyes.

Dutch and Hosea sat on one of the couches, chatting between each other, and Arthur sat on the one beside them. They stopped their conversation when you walked in, and you shook your head, signaling for them to continue. “I’ll go get some tea,” you murmured, heading to the kitchen, and you heard them resume talking, but you couldn’t make out what they were saying.

You took a shaky breath once you were alone in the kitchen, bracing yourself against the countertop. You felt like you should’ve been more surprised about your husband's true business, but that wasn’t what was causing the negative emotion you weren’t feeling. Those two questions were playing on repeat in your head, and left you analyzing every moment you’d had with Arthur, questioning the authenticity of them.

The clinking of his gun belt moving as we walked brought you back to the present. Straightening up, you grabbed the kettle, filling it with water and setting it on the stove, and began the process of boiling it. You didn’t even look at Arthur, not even when he said your name again.

“I’ll be out in a moment,” you responded, grabbing teacups and saucers. You hated the way your hands were shaking slightly.

Arthur didn’t respond, and you thought he left, until you felt him beside you. He didn’t touch you, but you could feel the proximity of his body. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and that all but confirmed your thoughts.

“So you knew?” You stepped away from him, grabbing the tea leaves, strainer, and a few sugar cubes in a small bowl. Tears welled in your eyes, his silence speaking for him. You laughed bitterly. “You didn’t think that was important to tell me?”

“I didn’t know it was moonshine.”

“But you knew he was doin’ somethin’ illegal.”

Again, his silence spoke volumes. “I could care less if he was breakin’ the law. I don’t care that he’s sellin’ moonshine, or whatnot. But imagine if someone found out. I mean, y’all were able to. That would wreck my family. Any credibility gone, like that. And then what? I’m married to some old sack of shit with no income who can’t help my family and who doesn’t give a damn about me!” You really tried to keep your voice down, but you still found it rose in volume as the words spewed from you. “Those two years I sacrificed, worth nothing. So I apologize for my anger, but I don’t think any of you realize how ugly this could get.”

You barely felt the tears streaming down your face, panting as you caught your breath. There was still one question that burned in the back of your mind. Finally turning to face him, he stared at you wide eyes. “You know, you’re a damn good actor, Arthur Morgan. I guess I should’ve expected that from an outlaw. For a moment, I really thought you actually cared about me.”

That seemed to get him out of whatever shocked trance he was in. “Whaddya mean?” He asked, genuinely confused. Or at least you thought it was genuine. You couldn't trust your judgment anymore.

“Don’t lie. All this, gettin’ close to me, little touches, nearly kissin’ me. It was all a ruse, wasn’t it? Just to get the money, and once you get it, you’re gonna vanish, leaving me heartbroken and alone and stuck.”

“Darlin’,” he muttered, and you scoffed.

“Don’t. You don’t get to call me that like you… like you mean it.”

“But I do mean it. I know what this looks like, but please… please don’t think that the past weeks have been fake.” Arthur slowly moved toward you, and when you didn’t back up, he continued until he was right in front of you, just like he had been a bit ago.

“Then what should I think, Arthur?” You whispered.

“I can’t tell you that,” Arthur admitted. “But I can tell ya what you should know. You should know that I fought ‘em both on this job. You should know that I’ll make sure that nothin’ happens to you and your family. And you should know that I truly do care ‘bout you, darlin’. More than I can put into words.”

The kettle whistled, but it was all background noise to you. You also noticed the way Dutch and Hosea had ceased their conversation, blatantly eavesdropping on the two of you. You didn’t care. All that mattered was the man in front of you. It was hard to stay upset at him though, when he was looking at you so fondly, so softly.

“You mean it?”

Arthur smiled a bit, relieved. “I do.” You felt him bring his hands up to your face, gently brushing away the tears. “I hate seein’ you cry. And I hate that I was the reason why.” He held you for a few moments, and you felt the tears subside, your cheek only slightly damp.

The kettle’s noise finally registered in your brain, and you gestured to it with your head. “Mind takin’ that off for me?” You croaked out, voice still recovering.

Without another word, Arthur did as you asked, the annoying noise disappearing. You grabbed the teacups with their saucers and set them on a tray, along with the other components needed. You walked past him with the tray in your hands, heading to the living room. You walked with the confidence of someone that wasn’t just crying, and you prayed that your eyes weren’t puffy.

“Go ahead and bring that kettle with you,” you called over your shoulder.

Setting the tray on the coffee table, you took the kettle from Arthur. Pouring out cups for each of the men, you sat once you’d finished, leaving the kettle in reach of the men. Sitting across from them, you observed them preparing their drinks, and Arthur stood around, not quite sure where to sit. Moving over, you patted the cushion next to you with a soft smile.

With an equally soft expression, he sat next to you, and you resisted the urge to burrow yourself in his side. “Mrs. Kerrigan, thank you for inviting us into your home-”

You cut Dutch off with a light laugh. “No need to be so formal. We’re alone, ain’t we?”

“That we are,” Dutch agreed. “Should we get straight to the point, then?” You nodded. “As we said, Mr. Kerrigan runs the moonshine business in this part of the States. As you were made aware, we ain’t exactly upholders of the law, so we ain’t exactly looking to stop him. We only wish to sabotage him a bit. Attack his supplies on the road, destroy a few of his distilleries. That way, he starts looking for guns to hire. And that’s where Arthur and the rest come in. We’ll offer our services, protect his goods, and we’ll get paid.”

“Alright, that sounds like a decent enough plan, but how does this involve me?” You watched Dutch set the drink down on the tray, halfway drunk.

Hosea spoke now. “We have no idea where anything is at. We have no idea where the caravans are, where the shacks are, who he gets his supplies from. Nothing. We need you to get information for us.”

“You’ll probably have better luck doin’ it yourself, to be honest. He tells me nothin’.”

“We know that. We’re talking about physical evidence. Letters, logbooks, stuff like that.”

“That’ll probably be in his office, but I ain’t got access to that. Again, why don’t you go ahead and just break in yourself and I’ll just, I dunno, not pay attention.”

Hosea sighed. “Because the man sitting beside you would kill us if we broke into your house.”

So that’s what he meant when he said that you weren’t to be messed with.

You still didn’t think that they needed your help, but a new thought had you grinning. “Are… are y’all askin’ for my permission to rob my house and husband by havin’ me do it myself?”

“In a backwards way, yes,” Hosea conceded, and you snorted. “Arthur did also say you might be interested in… getting back at Mr. Kerrigan, in some way.” It was Hosea’s turn to set the cup down, this one completely empty. You noticed that Arthur hadn't made a move for his own cup, which sat steaming where you’d set it.

You had to admit, the thought was appealing, and you told them that. “It’s just, I’m afraid how this might end up affecting my family. What if he stops sendin’ my them money ‘cause he doesn’t want to lose more?”

Dutch and Hosea looked at you, confused. That’s when you realize you said too much; the only person beside you to know what was actually going on with your family was Arthur. It did mean that he had upheld his promise that he wouldn’t tell anyone else, though, and you were grateful for that. Still, you explained to the two men your situation, withholding details you deemed they didn’t need to know.

“I see,” Hosea shifted in his seat, giving you a sympathetic look. “We can’t promise that he won’t stop sending money, but we don’t plan on asking for a significant sum. Just enough to… help us.”

“And I want to help you, too. But you have to understand where my priorities lie. The minute he even debates ceasing his help to my family, then this is done. You stop attackin’ his supplies, his shacks, everything. If I find out you’re continuing afterwards, then I will be involvin’ the law.”

Hosea nodded, content with your response. “So you’re willing to help us?”

I want to help Arthur. You nodded, and Dutch extended out a hand. “It’s been a pleasure doin’ business with you, Mrs. Kerrigan.”

You took his hand, shaking it. “You too, Mr. Van Der Linde.”

You could feel Arthur’s eyes on you, unknowing that you knew what his last name was. You weren’t stupid. As soon as Arthur began to talk about the group that he associated with, it was pretty easy to link them to the Van Der Linde gang that's been headlining the newspapers Hans read. You didn’t mind the headlines; you knew this world was vicious, you had to do what you had to do to survive and protect your way of life. Maybe in another life, you’d be with them, escaping the confines of “civilized” life.

Dutch raised a brow. “Are there gonna be issues in the future, Mrs. Kerrigan?” You knew there was a threat under the disguise of a question, and you smiled sweetly.

“As long as you keep your end of the deal, then we won’t have an issue. I promise.”

The tension dissipated from the room instantly, and Arthur visibly relaxed in your peripherals. Hosea leaned into Dutch’s ear, speaking too quietly for you to make out, and you felt him drop your hand. “Now, I believe that it’s a good time to mention that Hans will be arriving back any day now. He had eyes on him during his travels, and last we saw he was in Valentine, heading back to Rhodes.”

You expected his trip to Tumbleweed to have taken significantly longer than that, but you realized that he was most definitely not there, probably somewhere in New Hanover instead. “I appreciate that. I’ll… I’ll try to get the information to you as soon as I can, but don’t expect it when he’s home. I can’t tell you how long that’s gonna take, so be patient.”

“We have all the time in the world,” Dutch reassured, but even you could tell that he was lying through his teeth.

“Good. Now, was there any other business we wished to discuss?”

“Not today. Thank you for the tea, ma’am.” Hosea smiled at you, and you were surprised to find how genuine it seemed. Out of Dutch and Hosea, you liked the gray haired man more. But maybe that was all a trick, you were talking to the leaders of the most silver-tongued gang in the States.

“It was my pleasure. Arthur, go ahead and wait down here. I’ll get that payment for you.” Without another word, you stood, collecting the tray and the different components. First dropping those off in the kitchen, you then made your way upstairs. You saw the three of them still in the living room, chatting amongst themselves as they got ready to leave. You failed to notice the way Arthur’s eyes trailed after you, Hosea and Dutch exchanging a look between each other.

Entering your room, your hands shook as you grabbed the money. It was ten dollars this time, payment for last time and today. You would be a liar if you said you weren’t scared to do what you were about to do. You’d never done anything that even hinted on being against the law, at least now knowingly. But you’d also be lying if the thought of it didn’t excite you, doing something to get back at Hans for the two years of hell.

The other reason your hands shook made his presence known with a light knock on your open bedroom door. Snapping your head over at him, startled, he stood in the doorway, leaning with his arms crossed. In the dim light, you could only see his silhouette, unable to make out any expression on his face. It had your heart beating, even more so when he slowly made his way into the room.

“How long have you known?”

“That you run with the Van Der Linde gang?” You shrugged. “Since you showed me the drawings.”

Arthur just hummed. “I don’t mind, you know,” you continued.

“You should,” Arthur countered.

“Why?”

“Because we ain’t good men, darlin’.”

“I dunno. From what I’ve seen, y’all are better than most.”

Arthur didn’t respond, unable to disagree with your statement. Tucking the lockbox back into its hiding spot, you met him halfway, holding out the bills for him to grab. He looked down at them, then back up at you. “You don’t gotta pay me anymore.”

Was… was he stopping his visits? Did he lie to you earlier? Dejected, you tossed the money on the bed, taking a step away from him. “So you’re not comin’ back, then?”

“I never said that. I only said you don’t gotta pay me.”

“Why?”

“You sure are askin’ that a lot tonight,” Arthur teased. “Would you believe me if I said your company is payment enough?”

“I’m sure my company is incredible,” you scoffed. “Sad married woman in the woods, nothin’ interesting’ ‘bout her besides being rich.”

“Are you callin’ me a liar, then?” Arthur challenged.

You almost wish you could. It would make things so much simpler. Instead, you found yourself shaking your head. “Why do you keep comin’ back?”

The atmosphere of the conversation shifted when you asked that question. The conversation had started out almost confrontational, but now it was shifting to something more… tender.

“I can’t get you outta my head, darlin’. Every single thought I have is of you. Even in my dreams, you’re in them. I can’t stop comin’ back to you, it’s like I’m fuckin’ addicted to you. And just when I think I’ve got it under control, you take my breath away with one of ‘em gorgeous smiles, those soft touches, those shy glances, and I’m hooked again.”

Arthur had closed the distance between your bodies sometime during his little speech, large hands grasping your hips with surprising gentleness. One of them danced up your body, caressing your side, then over your arm, causing you to shiver. You could see him smirk, loving the way you responded.

He eventually settled on your jaw, tilting your head back lightly. His eyes were dark, but you felt warm under his attentive gaze. Your lips parted, a small gasp leaving them. “Beautiful,” he murmured, almost awestruck, before his mouth was finally on yours. They were soft and overwhelming and they felt like home, and you felt yourself immediately melting against him. It was almost hard to believe that he was an outlaw with how gentle he was being.

He pulled you in closer, and you wrapped one of your arms around his shoulders, your other hand cradling his cheek. His beard prickled the delicate skin, but it just led you to think about what that would feel like elsewhere.

The way he kissed you was gentle, but the tightening grip on your hip and jaw was telling you he was quickly losing the battle with his restraint. Before you could push him further and lead to something more, he broke away, resting his head against yours. At least, as well as he could, his hat mostly got in the way.

Joy unlike anything you’d ever felt bubbled inside of you, escaping you in a small laugh. You’d just kissed Arthur Morgan, the man you thought was unobtainable. “I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” you confessed, breathless.

“Me too, darlin’.”

He moved a bit, kissing your forehead, before resting his chin atop your head. One of his hands cradles your head to his chest, the other wrapping around your waist. Neither of you said anything, simply savoring the moment, and Arthur rocked you slowly. Taking a deep breath, it was mostly the scent of him that filled your senses, making your head spin even more.

He held you like that for a few moments, until you heard the voice of Dutch break the bubble the two of you had created. “Arthur! We’re leaving!”

You felt him sigh, leaning his head back to look at you again. “I’m sorry, I-”

“It’s alright, Arthur.” You wanted nothing more than to have him stay with you, but he had responsibilities. You couldn’t fault him for that. “Just… kiss me again?”

He chuckled, holding both sides of your face now. “Don’t gotta ask me twice,” he whispered before reconnecting your lips, a pleased sigh leaving you. Fingers curled against your head as he deepened the kiss, pulling away when he heard his name getting yelled again.

You chuckled “Go. Before they come up here.”

With one final short kiss, Arthur pulled away, walking backwards to the doorway, eyes not leaving you for a second. “Have a good night, darlin’,” you heard him say before he went to turn, about to head downstairs.

“Wait.”

He did, almost immediately, turning his head to look at you with confusion on his face. You really weren’t quite sure what you were about to say, but you needed to say something to him. “Come back to me, alright?” It wasn’t what you really meant to say, but it would have to do for now.

“Always,” he responded with a smile, before vanishing from the doorway. You heard the sound of the stairs creaking as he headed downstairs, the voices of Hosea and Dutch audible soon after. Eventually, you heard them leave, leaving you in stunned silence.

Another light laugh of disbelief left you, holding your fingers to where Arthur’s lips had been. Everywhere burned where he’d touched you, and your whole body felt like it was on fire. The whole meeting with Dutch and Hosea had practically vanished from your mind, the only thing playing on repeat was the way his lips felt, the way he held you, the words he uttered.

Those memories continued to repeat themselves as you got ready for bed, your thin nightgown doing little to cool you off. They caused you to lay awake in your bed, tossing and turning for what felt like hours. The heat hadn’t subsided one bit, and you groaned frustratedly, sleep coming nowhere near you.

Getting out of bed, the cold floor felt nice against your bare feet, but it wasn’t enough. You debated grabbing a cigarette, the lighter Arthur had given you in your hands but you decided against it. For once, you didn’t want to forget the way someone’s hands were on you, and so you placed the lighter back into your nightstand.

Still, you stepped outside, the air of the night cooling your skin. Your mind still raced with thoughts of Arthur, but you were cooling down. Eventually, the air caused goosebumps to appear on your skin, and you took that as your sign to try and go back to bed.

Like you always had to, you had to pass the locked door of Hans’ office, and you finally remembered the meeting you had that night. Setting your hand on the doorknob, you debated trying to get in right then, but you realized you had no idea how. You didn’t know how to pick a lock, and breaking it down would be difficult and obvious. A problem for later, then.

Getting back under the covers, you felt better than you had the first time you went to bed. Sleep was closer now, and as you turned on your side, about to succumb to unconsciousness, you saw the empty side of the bed.

How you longed for Arthur to be there instead.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

You didn’t wake up alone.

It took a moment for your sleep-addled mind to realize that, nearly turning over and going right back to bed. But when it clicked, you nearly bolted out of bed, dread and sadness chasing away the happiness that came from your dreams of Arthur.

Hans was asleep next to you, his suitcases stacked in the corner of the room, snoring lightly as he slept. You knew he had to come back eventually, but it still wrecked you. Getting out of the bed as quietly as you could, you snuck downstairs, not ready to face reality yet.

You paced around your kitchen, running your hands through your hair. You weren’t ready to put on the act again. You weren’t ready to pretend like you were content being Mrs. Kerrigan. You weren’t ready to pretend like Arthur hadn’t just kissed you last night.

Groaning, you slumped against one of the counters, burrowing your head in your arms. That familiar feeling of guilt returned, but you fought it. You weren’t hurting anyone, being sweet on Arthur like you were. It’s not like your husband actually loved you, so you doubt he’d be too upset. He’d be more upset that something that was ‘his’ was ‘being used’ by someone else. Besides, what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.

And if you were happy, who was to tell you that that was bad?

Standing up, you rolled your shoulders, forcing a smile on your face. You could do this, you told yourself. This wasn’t any different than the last two years. Just suck it up and pretend. And then before you’d know it, Hans would be gone again.

You got to work cleaning up the kitchen from last night, washing the dishes used by the guests last night. Next, you started making breakfast, the smell of it probably being the reason Hans woke, walking downstairs blearily.

He sat in his chair at the dining table, and you served him a glass of coffee with a soft ‘good morning’. He didn’t respond, just sipping on the steaming beverage. It was hard to not look at him in a different light, now that you knew what he was really getting up to behind closed doors. But you kept your face impassive, heading back into the kitchen before the food burned.

Eventually, you served him his food, and you sat in your respective seat, much farther than you had with Arthur. He didn’t even acknowledge your presence, assumedly too tired to do so. “Sorry for wakin’ you,” you apologized, and he grunted.

“How was your trip?” You tried to engage him in a conversation, but were immediately shut down with a glare. All right, then. It took everything in you not to laugh at him. I mean you weren’t a morning person either, but at least you didn’t treat others like this. What an ass.

You turned your attention back to your plate, poking at it with your fork, appetite now gone. The two of you ate in complete silence, the only sounds being your silverware against the china and the scratch of your chair against the floor as you stood to refill his cup.

About fifteen minutes passed before Hans left the table, leaving his dishes for you to take care of. You didn’t have to look up to know where he was going, and you heard the sound of his office door shut moments later. When you confirmed that you were alone, you sighed, tired of just pushing the food around your plate.

You found that you desperately missed Arthur’s warmth, both physically and emotionally. The house seemed to agree with you; it had never felt so comforting, him being there making it so. Now it felt like a prison, your only company the memories of the last weeks.

You stared at the now empty seat across from you, forcing yourself to eat a few bites of breakfast, hating when you wasted food. You found that you were glad you agreed to Dutch and Hosea’s scheme; you were excited to make Hans hurt.

But for now, you had to push those plans out the window. You couldn’t do anything right now, at the risk of you getting caught. All you could do now was play his little housewife and wait for the moment that Arthur’s lips were back on yours.

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader

87 notes · View notes

danisbrainrot · 3 months

Note

So i have this idea about Lucy gray

One of those nights, Lucy and reader are drinking, kinda tipsy. Lucy rants about having a crush on this girl and how the girl is paying her no mind. reader would say something like "I would never do you like that," and Lucy would laugh, then say something like "yeah sure, you'll do me worse, you and your heterosexuality." reader would be surprised that Lucy thought she was straight. "What?? I'm not straight.

lucy gray x reader

gonna take this idea and run with it. also I'm so sorry for taking forever to write this, life is hectic right now. I promise I'll be more active now!

lucy gray gives her final bow, waving goodbye to the audience before running off the stage. you were waiting on the side, jumping up and down in excitement when she wrapped her arms around you and pulling you close. you could smell the alcohol oozing off her.

"wow, you got lucky tonight," you tease. she giggles loudly, snuggling her face into the crook of your neck. you felt your cheeks overheating as she did, that you pry her off you.

"mmm, peacekeepers gave me a bottle of moonshine, taste shit, but I like being drunk," she replies, trying to cling on to you again. the mix of her performing high mixing with being tipsy made her almost delirious, which made you struggle not to laugh at her.

you guide her to the shack out the back, and sit her down on a crate that was pushed up against the wall. "you're drunk," you exclaim, hands on your hips as you tower over her.

"I'm barely tipsy," she reassures, but you shake your head. "if I was drunk, would I be able to do this?" she gets up and tried to walk in a straight line.

you slowly clap, raising an eyebrow. "good job, you just walked diagonally," you tease, helping her sit back down as she brushes you off. you pull up a crate and sit next to her, holding her up right.

she began blushing a deep red and you assume it was because of the alcohol in her system—lucy gray was more than glad you didn't know the real reason. she was embarrassed that you were seeing her like this; ever since you were young she had a massive crush on you. she'd scraped her knee on a sharp rock and you immediately kissed it better—the two of you had been inseparable since. but when she got like this, she couldn't help but wonder if you'd ever see her as something other than her best friend. . .

"lucy gray? earth to lucy gray," you joke, waving your hand in front of her face. she offers you a wide smile, forgetting about her thoughts and focusing on your caring face instead. "who was that song about?"

her eyes widen, as she tries to come up with an answer that wasn't 'you.' she'd broken up with billy taupe months back, so you'd see right through that lie. taking a deep breath, she finally replies, "this girl I like."

your eyebrows raise, as cover your mouth in shock. you stare at her, mouth agape, for a moment, "I didn't know you swung that way."

"darlin', I swing both ways," she jokes, a huge weight off her chest. one confession down, just another to go. "I don't know if she likes me back though, we're friends and I don't want to ruin it by asking," she confides, resting her head against your shoulder and pouting.

you shake your head, "any girl who can refuse you and your puppy dog eyes is foolish," you reassure, pressing a finger to her nose. "who is this girl, I'll make her see the light," lucy gray laughs, shaking her head.

readjusting her position, lucy gray moves to get a better look at you. "she's probably not into me like that," she mumbles, moving to avoid your gaze and playing with the hem of her dress.

having had some alcohol yourself, the words tumbled out of your mouth before you could stop them. "I'd be into you," you freeze, covering your mouth as the fear she would make a big deal out of it began escalating—but were pleasantly shocked to see her laughing. lucy gray's laughter was contagious and you couldn't help but join along.

"yeah, right, spoken like the straightest woman I've ever met," she teases, your face scrunches up in confusion as you lean in to get a better look at her.

the face you were making scared lucy gray, as she thought she'd offended you for a moment and gasped, covering her mouth. "you know I'm not straight, right?" there's an oddly long silence as the two of you process what this means. . .

"I'm the girl, aren't i—"

"how long have you known—"

you both pause, before saying in unison, "you go first," the two of you burst into giggles again, before calming down.

"how long have you known you liked girls?" lucy gray asks calmly, fidgeting with her skirt now more than ever.

you shrug, "I've always known, I guess. how bout you?"

she bites her lip, sinking against the wall. "ever since you kissed my knee that one time," she confesses.

"that answers my other question I guess," you tease; her delighted smile warms your heart. she sits up properly, ready to kiss you when suddenly, you put you hand against her mouth. "I'm not billy taupe, I don't kiss drunk girls."

she groans, crossing her arms over her chest, "barely tipsy," she whined, her doe brown eyes never leaving your lips.

you laugh, shaking your head in disbelief, "ok, I don't kiss barely tipsy girls who can't walk in straight lines," you remind her.

"well, I can't walk in a straight line normally. . . matter of fact, I can't do much straight," she jokes, causing you to burst into laughter again.

when the two of you finally settle down, you lean in and give her a peck on the lips. "that's all you're getting from me tonight, sober up first," you demand.

lucy gray pouts, "fine. but you owe me that kiss, sugar," she winks at you.

"don't worry, after that song you wrote, I'm sure there'll be plenty of kisses in the future."

#lucy gray baird #thg series #thg #fanfic #lucy gray baird x reader #tbosas #lucy gray x reader #wlw #fluff #the hunger games #blurb #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #danisasks #friends to lovers #dani's fics <3

99 notes · View notes

roamingtigress · 5 months

Text

cute dancing cowboy ღ I hope nobody's bored of these, they're fun to put together!

#he's so babygirl #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #vandermatthews #hosea matthews #dutch van der linde #van der linde gang #rdr2 dutch #moonshine shack #rdr2 community #red dead redemption 2 community #rdr2 photography #red dead redemption two

117 notes · View notes

frangipanilove · 2 months

Text

Pharmakon; Fighting Fire With Fire

...or should I say "fighting wildfire with fire"...

(Part one, read part two here, and part three here)

...in that the virus responsible for the zombie apocalypse is called "wildfire"...

In TOWL 1x3 Bye, we hear the term "pharmakon" used in TWDU for the first time. As Major General Beale explains, "it's an ancient Greek word, meaning both poison and the cure".

In the next episode 1x4 What We, we see Rick and Michonne escape in that yellow hybrid truck, loaded up with cans of ethanol in the back, making it an electric/bio-ethanol hybrid:

We know from season 4 of FTWD that "ethanol" symbolizes "the antidote", or simply a "cure"...

I went into great detail on that here.

What is the connection between the ethanol and Major General Beale's pharmakon?

TOWL 1x4 What We had so many callbacks to TWD 4x12 Still and 4x13 Alone, we all were stunned. Quick question, where would the ethanol (which, according to Morgan Jones, is just a fancy word for alchohol) in the back of Richonne's truck have been produced?

In a still. It would have been produced in a still. Ethanol is produced through a process of fermentation and destillation.

In a still.

Hence all the references to TWD 4x12 Still and the moonshine shack, a shack where ethanol was produced and consumed.

In the series pilot, 1x1 Days Gone Bye, we are introduced to the physical laws of the TWDU.

We follow Rick, who wakes up from a three week coma in the hospital. The world has ended, and he doesn't know anything about what happend, how it happened, or why. He doesn't know what a walker is, and he doesn't know how to neutralize one. Neither do we, the audience. Morgan becomes the charachter who introduces us to the rules:

He checks Ricks temperature and finds it to be "cool enough", meaning he's willing to believe Rick on that he's not been bitten, he's simply been shot.

Pleased by this, he then goes on to explain to Rick, and us, the audience, how the virus works:

"The fever burns you out. But after a while, you come back"

He later elaborates on how relentless the fever was to his wife:

"Her skin gave off a heat like a furnace".... meaning the fever burns like fire...

It's the fever that kills. It burns you up. Then you come back.

(also, read about Sirius symbolism here)

In 5x1 No Sanctuary, we hear Eugene explain the scientific basis behind his alledged cure for the virus. Of course, Eugene wasn't a scientist, and he was never going to find a cure for the virus. However, he was knowledgeable, well read, and able to put together a plausible lie:

Fighting fire with fire. A poison and a cure. Pharmakon.

In TD, we were many who at one point believed in the bite/cure theory, that Beth got bit right before she was taken by the Grady car in 4x13 Alone, and that the treatment she was subjected to involved experimental medical testing, somehow resulting in her surviving the bite without developing an infection/fever. The jury is still out on that one, but in FTWD season 7 we did see a representation of the bite/cure theory that was suspiciously close to our old theories:

Alicia at one point got bit, and proceeded to amputate her arm. As we know, this has so far been the only way a person can survive the bite; by cutting off the affected limb immediately, before the infection has the chance to spread. This is how Hershel survived getting bit in season 3, this is how Lydia survived after her walker bite in season 11.

Alicia, by her own account, wasn't quick enough. The infection spread, and she developed the fever. Of course that's not something anyone can verify, theoretically she could have cut off her arm quick enough, and the following infection could have been a reaction to the amputation itself rather than the virus. However, the assumption given by TPTB is that she wasn't quick enough, and that's also her own belief.

According to Morgan's rules from 1x1, that should have been the end for her. There's no surviving that. She developed the fever...

...and fought it for months...

...way longer than anyone else we've seen in TWDU so far. In 1x6 TS-19, Dr. Jenner explained that the longest time between bite and reanimation at that point was 8 hours. Alicia went months without reanimating...

In 7x15 Amina, we watch her struggle with the fever. She's closer to dying than ever before. She has dreams of herself as a walker, she has hallucinations, she thinks she's talking to a little girl, who in reality is a representation of herself. Alicia is preparing to die in this episode, but the girl, who is Alicia herself, explains that she was once bit, and she survived just fine.

The girl brings up an excellent point:

This is a fair question. This is the role fever normally plays in infections. Fever raises the body's temperature in an attempt to burn the infection out. Fighting fire with fire. But as we know from Morgan's commentary in TWD 1x1, this fever is different:

"Bites kill you. The fever burns you out. Then after a while, you come back".

And Alicia is well aware:

...but the girl, who is a hallucination of herself as a young girl, insists that's she's going to survive.

Throughout the episode we watch Alicia's struggle to avoid giving up. The episode is packed with symbolism we already know and love, such as bird symbolism and stairwells as representations of metaphorical passages between the realms. At one point she's in a stairwell, trying to reach the top of Strand's Tower. She says she's not going to make it, then the girl replies over radio that she will. She then sees a bird, which guides her through the burning tower.

By following the bird, we see Alicia reach the top of the tower. We later see her wake up, her fewer gone, the bird by her side.

She's the first person in TWDU to get bit, develop fever... and then subsequently recover from the fever.

She's the first person to survive a bite and the following infection! That is, if she really was too late with amputating her arm, as she believes herself. If she really was infected, she represents something completely new in TWDU, a complete shift, a paradigm shift, away from the old rules that Morgan laid out in 1x1. The end of the beginning, and the beinning of the end?

A cure?

Last but not least, Alicia's confirms that the bite/cure theory that TD were discussing after Slabtown, could be real. Hypothetically, it could still be what happened to Beth in season 4-5.

What set Alicia's case apart from others we've seen bitten in TWDU, that potentially allowed her to survive the bite, infection and fever, was that she had been exposed to high doses of radiation around the time of her getting the bite. This is where the potential "cure" part of the bite/cure theory comes into play. And this is where "radiation" ties into the pharmakon/"fighting fire with fire" framework.

And this is also where things get interesting for TD, because Beth would have had access to radiation therapy at Grady, in fact, there was a whole storyline about an oncologist, Dr. Trevitt, who Dawn desperately wanted to have saved. Oncologists deal with radiation therapy. And to make matters even more interesting, he had previously worked at St. Ignatius Hospital, and as I explained here, the name "Ignatius" is derived from the latin word for "ignite", which refers to "ignite/spark a fire"...

...fighting fire with fire...

Radiation goes under the "fire" symbolism, because electromagnetic radiation, in the form of everything from UV rays from the sun, to X-rays as well as other types of radiation used in radiation therapy, has the potential to burn your skin. When you get a sun burn, that's the UV rays from the sun burning your skin.

In fact, we saw this theme revisited in the last season of FTWD:

(Thanks @wdway for these screenshots)

We learn that June, inspired by watching Alicia survive for as long as she did after her bite, started experimenting with treating walker bites with radiation therapy. She didn't have massive success, and the patients experienced burns from their treatment and eventually died, but we did see her treat Dwight and Sherry's son Finch after he was bitten. And while he ultimately didn't survive, they were able to extend his life with one week, likely due to the radiation therapy. So while a full cure might be a way ahead, Finch's response to the radiation therapy could be concidered legitimate medical progress.

And as a fun fact, I will mention that after we saw Rick survive his little death fake-out back in 7x12 Say Yes, when he survived by hiding in the yellow carnival ride car which I discussed here, we did see this:

No, I'm not talking about the infamously bad CGI deer, I'm talking about the ER sign behind it. ER for Electromagnetic Radiation? As in radiation therapy? In a death fake-out scene?

If it turns out that radiation therapy in some way, shape or form could help treat walker bites, or potentially create some kind of cure/vaccine/immunity, that would be fighting fire with fire, or should I say fighting wildfire with fire. It's a poison and a cure. It's pharmakon.

Ok, so back to the ethanol. How does it tie in with the radiation, how could it represent a cure, and what does it have to do with Beth and TD?

Well, one clue came in TWD 10x16 A Certain Doom. The Whisperers war was at its height, and Whisperers had surrounded Team Family, who were sheltering in a place called the Tower (interestingly the same location as the one used for Grady Memorial back in season 5) with thousands of walkers.

In order to escape and survive, Team Family mounted loudspeakers on to a wagon, and blasted music to draw the walkers away. The song they went for was an interesting choice; Talking Heads with Burning Down The House:

...whose lyrics include this line: "fighting fire with fire"...

Keep in mind, the walkers in TWDU are what they are because of a virus specifically called "wildfire", they're a threath to humanity because of the wildfire virus...

If that's not a representation of "fighting fire with fire", I don't know what is...

And how do we tie ethanol to the symbolism around "fighting fire with fire" and "burning down the house"?

Because of TWD 4x12 Still, in which houses were definitely, decidedly burned down...

Burning down the house. Fighting fire with fire... And how did they set the house on fire again?

Ethanol. They used ethanol. Moonshine.

Which is why it's so darned interesting that TOWL 1x4, with all the references to TWD 4x12 Still, ended with Richonne escaping in a yellow electric/bio-ethanol hybrid truck, supplied with cans of ethanol in the back. Ethanol, which would have had to have been produced in a still, and is famous for burning really well, even well enough to burn down houses.

And let's again appreciate Daryl's immediate response after learning the truth about the wildfire virus back in TWD 1x6 TS-19:

It's like he knew... He couldn't have known that ethanol/alcohol would be involved in a cure all the way back then, but I have a sneaking suspicion TPTB knew a thing or two about it...

I recently wrote about the resurrection symbolism from the sorghum barn from TWD 6x10 The Next World. In that episode, we saw Eugene endorse sorghum as though it was a miracle grain, and maybe it is, because sorghum can be used to manufactor ethanol.

In TOWL 1x1 Days, we saw a similar type of entusiasm over a different grain, millet, when we learned that Okafor was growing millet in his study/appartment, and was constantly on the look-out for the perfect strain of millet. Millet can also be used to produce ethanol.

In TWD season 9, we saw Daryl oversee an ethanol production plant at the Sanctuary. They made it from corn, which they grew on the premises. As the Sanctuary was a factory rather than fertile agricultural land, the crops weren't exactly thriving, and the ethanol production was at the center of many of the conflicts in 9A.

Nevertheless, we saw Daryl convert bikes and cars to run on bio-ethanol. His current bike, which we saw Carol drive in the sneak peak for DDTBOC (which apparantly needs work on its transmission), runs on bio-ethanol. We saw Maggie, chief of food production at Hilltop, trade produce for bio-ethanol.

It was used as fuel, and now we've come full circle with that, in that we saw the yellow electric/bio-ethanol hybrid truck in TOWL 1x4 What We.

This is already a massive post, so I'm saving the rest for part two.

#team delusional #bethyl #daryl dixon #beth greene #team defiance #the walking dead #twd #twd towl #daryl x beth #beth x daryl #ftwd

41 notes · View notes

lazyneonrabbitt · 7 months

Text

Daryl being all alone and finding a girl in the woods after the prison fell, holing up with her in the ratty moonshine shack as the full moon shone through the barely patched up window hole.

Panic setting in as she had to get away from the man, not wanting to hurt him she excused herself 'to go pee' but never made it further than the front steps before collapsinf as the change took over, tearing through her as she cried and howled while Daryl stared from the door opening.

As she sat in front of him fully changed she looked scared. Daryl stepped closer to her then, not believing she would harm him as he took in her appearance.

At his smile she carefully got up, eyes locked on his as she rose to her full height and now easily towering over him.

Daryl had never felt so small in his life.

And never so unbelievably turned on, either.

#sometimes i write #rabbitt rambles #daryl dixon x reader

39 notes · View notes

arumeene · 1 year

Text

I was finally able to run red dead again, so the first thing I did was taking more Javier pictures!!!

I swear the moonshine shack from rdo has such a lovely mood/light....

#rdr2 #red dead redemption community #rdr #red dead redemption screenshots #red dead redemption 2 #javier escuella #definitivamente el amor de mi vida #rdo #red dead online #games

129 notes · View notes

daryldixonfanfiction · 8 months

Text

What you fight for! Pt.2- Home sweet home

Masterlist

Summary: Julia convinces Daryl to play the famous college drinking game never-have-I-ever, which always ends with feelings getting hurt.

Warnings: age gape, adult language, alcohol, underage drinking, angst, irresponsible use of fire.

WC: 6.6k

Daryl continues their way from the golf club further in the forest, comfortably, enjoying the presence of one another.

“A motorcycle mechanic,” Julia breaks the silence, taking up Zach’s guessing game of Daryl’s occupation.

“Huh?”

“That’s my guess. For what you were doing before the turn…Did Zack ever guess that one?”

Julia glances upon Daryl beside her. Letting out a breath he answers simply,

“It doesn't matter. Hasn’t mattered for a long time.”

Not a motorcycle mechanic, got it.

“Just what people talk about you know, to feel normal.”

Always alert Daryl keeps a close eye on their surroundings making him look ahead, as he casually responds,

“Yeah, well that never felt normal to me.”

…

They stand before a large shack, run-down like most places sins the turn.

“Found this place with Michonne,” Daryl revealed.

“I was expecting a liquor store”, Julia declared confused.

“No, this is better”, he said confidently. According to Daryl, a much better option for Julia’s first drink.

Daryl leads her onwards

Daryl fills a box filled with Mason jars from the small shed with a clear liquid inside, making her curious.

"What's that?”

“Moonshine”, he hands her the box filled to the brim with clanking Mason jars. Daryl knows peach schnapps is gross unless there’s about a pound of sugar with it making this a much better option.

“Come on”, he urged, as a hint of a smile plaid on her lips.

The door creaks as Daryl steps into the main room of the shack, scanning every corner of Its run-down interior. Glancing behind the door in the kitchen area Julia approaches close behind as Daryl mosions with his head it’s clear. She puts down the heavy box of booze on the dining table. Blowing out dust from a glass Daryl pores a small portion of moonshine, placing it in front of her on the table, making her put her attempt down to the side, gazing up at him.

“All right” -Daryl breathes. “That’s a real first drink right there”, -he stated confidently, -Standing, fidgeting with the jar lid before placing it on the table. But Julia got quiet, as if nervous.

“What’s the matter?” He asks.

“Nothing”, she rushed. She continues, shaking her head as if contemplating, “It’s just…” Julia gazed up at Daryl. “My grandaddy said bad moonshine can make you go blind”. But that was just a bad excuse of course.

“Ain’t nothing worth seeing out there anymore anyway,” he encouraged.

Julia couldn't argue with that, so she didn't contemplate too long, going against her grandaddy's warning nor that she was still too young to be drinkin.

The world had ended, no one would care anyway.

Letting out a sigh, she takes a small sip, frowning with a gross out face, and does what most do during their very first drink.

“That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Daryl shrugs, it’s moonshine after all.

Bottoms up, downing the last sip, placing the glass down, “Second rounds better,” she chuckles gazing up at Daryl with a girlish smile.

“Slow down," he warns. Julia didn't look like someone who could take so much, and drinking on an empty stomach he knows all too well is a bad idea.

Reaching the Mason jar filling the glass once more Julia looks up at Daryl,

“This one’s for you,” she insists.

“No, I’m good,” he declines.

"Why?" She looks at him with disappointment.

“someone’s gotta keep watch,” he reminds her.

Right, what a bummer.

Julia was really looking forward to her drink making her feel a bit annoyed she couldn't have this moment, just this once, making her comment bak.

“So, what, you're like my chaperone now?” She said sarcastically.

Daryl immediately became awkward, “Just drink lots of water,” he answered unamused, stepping past her as she sighs ,

“Yes, Mr. Dixon.”

…

Taking shelter in the main room in the ransacked shack, for the rest of the day, Daryl busy himself with nailing up the windows, mumbling incoherently with nails in his mouth. Julia on the other hand sits on her knees investigating the reaments until she finds a bra-shaped planter/ashtray. Astonished by such a ridiculous item she breaks the silence and places it before her.

She chuckles, “Who’d go into a store and walk out with this?”

Daryl paus his hammering, turning towards her with the hammer in his right.

“My dad, that’s who”.

Julias hands paus, eyes starring in response.

Daryl continues, “Oh, he’s a dumbass,” and that he was. “He’d set those up on the TV set, use them as target practice,” Daryl said, making motions with his free hand towards where the TV would have been.

Her eyes go wide, raising her eyebrows as if taken back by the calmness in his tone.

“He shot things inside your house?” She said worriedly. Julia never really had a dad growing up, but she understood Daryl’s mustn't have been a good one.

Daryl went on, “It was just a bunch of junk anyway.” He continues and admits, “That’s how I knew what this place was. That shed out there, my dad had a place just like this.” Daryl starts pointing things out with the hammer in his hand. “You got your dumpster chair. “That’s for sitting in…and your drawers all summer drinking. Got your fancy buckets. That’s for spitting chaw in after your old lady tells you to stop smoking.” He picks up some nearby newspaper, “You got your …Internet.” He lets it fall to the floor.

Julia realized this was the milieu that bore Daryl, the man he came to be. How he immediately found the hideout stash of moonshine or at least Daryl before the turn, she thought before a walker outside interrupted. Making her rise still on her knees as Daryl held out a finger, motioning her to keep putt, and she did as he looked through the now covered window.

“It’s just one of ‘em,” Daryl conferms, turning back towards her.

“Should we get it?” She asks anxiously.

“If he keeps making too much noise, yeah”, he spoke softly, keeping his voice down.

“Well,” she turned her head towards the mason jars beside her, grabbing one “..if we’re gonna be trapped again, we might as well make the best of it.” She looks up at Daryl with a kind smile and a mason jar in her outstretched arm towards him. Eyes big and round as she lightly heartly jokes, “Unless you’re too busy chaperoning, Mr. Dixon."

Daryl couldn't argue, she was right, “Hell, might as well make the best of it”, he grabbed the moonshine from her hand lounging himself in the armchair beside her. He puts his one foot resting on his knee, leaning back, lifting his drink in a toast glancing down to Julia, “Home sweet home." Swallowing down a big sip of moonshine, she follows suit taking a smaller sip of the remnants in her glass.

…

Julia has convinced Daryl to take part in the popular college drinking game never have I ever. Sitting in the middle of the main room with an upside down box as their table, each has a drink placed, sitting on the floor across from each other. Julia sits on her knees, hands on the table fidgeting with her glass meanwhile Daryl sits in a more lendback manner, with one arm, hand flat on the floor holding his weight while his other elbow rests on one knee in a sluggish manner biting his nails, gazing shyly for instructions.

How this girl made him participate in all these things he would never know, but here he was in a moonshine shack, a couple of miles out from the prison, drinking with a girl half his age.

Daryl listens intently as Julia explains the game.

“So first I say something I’ve never done and if you have done it, you drink, and if you haven’t, I drink…Then we switch.”

Daryl stairs, quiet as ever. Making her question. “You really don’t know this game?”

“I never needed a game to get lit before,” he answers, chewing on his nail.

“Wait, are we starting?” Julia asked, confused.

Daryl questions, pointing a finger, not accusing, but questioning.

“How do you know this game?” His deep blue eyes narrowed.

Nothing could get past Daryl, with his perceptive sense, easily reading people like the back of his hand, he would put one and one together recognising any dishonesty.

“My friends played.” Julia shakes her head. “I watched,” How she replied a little too quickly and tensed just the slightest he got his answer, it was way too obvious, almost amusing, but he went no further.

Julia down plays Daryl’s questioning, starting the game with the first question.

“Okay, I’ll start.” She likes her lips as she thinks before speaking. “I’ve never shot a crossbow,” She starts off innocently. “So now you drink.”

“Ain’t much of a game,” Daryl downs the first sip of moonshine.

“That was a warm-up.” "Now you go.” Julia insisted, eager to keep playing.

"Mm mh", he grunts, averting his gaze. “I don’t know,” he bites on his fingernail again.

“Just say the first thing that pops into your head”, Julia encouraged.

But the thing was with Daryl, when he would get shy his mind went blank, unable to think clearly. She seemed so excited about this game, so he did his best.

“I’ve never been out of Georgia,” he says, looking at Julia.

“Really?” She didn't expect that. “Okay, good one,” smiling in a satisfied manner as he plays along she takes a sip, taking her turn as Daryl keeps his gaze on her.

“I’ve never…been drunk and did something I regretted,” she dares to ask, with a sly smile.

Scratching his stubble before reaching for his drink dawning his second sip, he clarifies, “I’ve done a lot of things,” he insinuates, lifting his brows.

Daryl becomes quiet again, gazing downwards as if unsure what to say.

“Your turn”, she reminds him.

He lifts his gaze, giving in again as he takes his turn. “I’ve never been on vacation.”

“What about camping?,” She was quick to question.

“No,” he shakes his head. “That was just something I had to learn…To hunt,” he scratches his stubble again in a more soothing manner as he remembers his old man.

“Your dad teach you?”

“Mm hmm.” he hums, voice deep, rumbling in his chest.

“Okay,” she downs her second sip, feeling a little bit tipsy, she dares to ask, without much thought behind the words.

“I've never… been in jail.”

Daryl became silent, sitting there glaring with a cold gaze as his chest rises and falls, in a heavy rhythm. His blue-eyed gaze becomes almost black as bitterness burns his chest. Meanwhile, Julia was too fuzzy from the alcohol to recognise this.

“I mean, as a prisoner,” she clarifies fidgeting with her empty glass.

Daryl glares, unblinking for a moment before questioning. “Is that what you think of me?” He breathed a sigh of disappointment.

“I didn’t mean anything serious. I thought, you know, like the drunk thing,” she shakes her head looking down as she defends her question. “Even my granddaddy got locked up for that back in the day.” Julia blinks as her gaze is back on him.

“Drink up,” Daryl reminds shortly, but Julia keeps on pushing it, smiling that girlish smile.

His past was nothing to joke about and certainly no game.

The once innocent drinking game had turned into something personal and ugly. But Julia doesn't realize she's stepping over the line.

"Wait." Prison guard. Were you a prison guard before?”

For a moment Daryl onely glares… Blue eyes unamused, disappointed in something he should have known. His voice had gone low, like gravel and stones, “No.” He denies.

Fidgeting with the glass she tries to keep on with their drinking game. “It’s your turn again,” her smile turned awkward, sensing something was wrong.

Daryl was fed up, grunting as he stands to full height, excusing himself,

“I’m gonna take a piss,” he walked to the corner of the kitchen area, drunk and despondent he dropped his jar of moonshine, shattering it all over the floor.

“You have to be quiet,” Julia reminds, in a hushed tone.

“Can’t hear you! I’m taking a piss!

“Daryl, don’t talk so loud!” Julia whispered with a harsh tone.

“What are you my chaperone now?” He snaps, glaring. Julia averts her gaze, fidgeting with the glass in her hands.

Buckling his belt, turning back towards her, he starts his never-have-I-evers in an especially mean spirited tone.

“It’s my turn right? I’ve never, uh… Never eaten frozen yogurt. Never had a pet pony,” he spat, becoming more angry by every sentence. “Never got nothing from Santa Claus,” he exclaims, hitting the kitchen chair with the box filled with mason jars clinks as the chair almost tipped over. “Never relied on anyone for protection before.” He steps closer. “Hell, I don’t think I’ve ever relied on anyone for anything!"

“Daryl,” she shook her head-worriedly, as he was greatly scaring her. Making Julia regret her every word. But she felt she was not meant to be frightened of someone she had begun to trust.

Daryl takes a breath as he keeps on talking harshly. "Never sing out in public playing house wife, like everything was fun, like everything was a big game!"

Julia inhales an anxious breath as he turns from her for just a moment. Daryl exhaled sharply before speaking towards her again.

"Never have I seduced every man in the prison, like a whore looking for attention." He engages towards her, pointing an accusing finger, making her fidgeting hands pause and spine tense. Her heart thumps hard in her chest staring with wide-eyes upon him.

Julia was hurt and confused. She always kept to herself, even avoided the men at the prison. The only one was Zack, as he was a friend. But he died on a run, weeks before the prison fell. She was no whore, the whole reason she wore the ankle-length skirt was to cover herself from any unwanted attention. She didn't like when people looked at her and certainly not men for that matter.

Thuds and growls from the nearby walker averts Daryl's attention.

"Oh, sounds like our friend out there is trying to call all of his buddies!” He says loudly, kicking an empty can on the floor, making more unnecessary noise and Julia more anxious off the railed up walker.

“Daryl, just shut up!” She warns him urgently in a hushed voice. He was going to get them killed.

Grabbing his crossbow ponting an outstretched arm towards her, ignoring her warning, he engages with strong strides, “Hey, you never shot a crossbow before?!” He doesn't give her a chance to answer. “I’m gonna teach you right now!” Daryl grabs Julia by the wrist firmly, making her gasp.

“Come on. It's gonna be fun!” He kicks the door open with such force it slams into the wall making the shack shake. Julia struggles in his grip, dragged along like nothing as she tries desperately to get sense in him.

“We should stay inside!” She said as Daryl continued dragging her down the porsche. “Daryl, cut it out! Daryl!" She begs him only to be ignored and dragged further along towards the walker Daryl’s unsober state seems unsettlingly interested in.

The walker growles, dragging its rotten feet towards them. Slightly panicked, she stays behind him, anxiously.

“Dumbass,” he taunts the walker, as he aims, “Come here, dumbass,” he fires a bolt, pinning it to the tree but not killing it.

“Daryl-,” she begins.

“You want to shoot?” He says, reloading the crossbow.

She turns quickly towards him as he engages, making her stutter. “I…I don’t know how.”

“Oh, it’s easy. Come here.” Daryl pants. “Right corner.” Warm breath hits her neck, she gasps as he spun her around by the touch of his hand on her shoulder, pulling her in, pressing her back against his chest, manhandling her with one arm holding just above the clouds of her breasts, making her grab his forearm for leverage as his broad frame diminishes hers. While his other hand single handedly welds the crossbow aiming upon the walker pinned against the tree, easley trapping her he moves his free hand, shooting the walker's leg.

Daryl releases her only to bend down and reload.

"Let's practice later," Julia pleads, facing him.

“Come on, it's fun,” he says, pulling the bowstring back and hocking it.

Fun!? Is he out of his mind!?

“Just stop it! Daryl!” Julia begs, but of course gets ignored again.

“Come here,” he breaths, spinning her around, pulling her bak as he yanks her against his chest closer this time, with his arm holding her firmly over her shoulder as his hand is back above the clouds of her breasts, with the crossbow resting on her opposite shoulder giving her no other choice then giving in to his rough touche a strangled breath leaves her lips.

He takes a breath steding her -Then exhales. “Eight ball,” he releases the third bolt.

“Just kill it!” She exclaims facing him, with eyes desperately pleading for him to stop. But Daryl walk’s right past her.

“Come here, girly.” He waves for her to follow. “ Let’s pull these out. Get a little more target practice.”

But Julia had enuff, unwilling to take Daryl’s bullshit any longer, she does what she has never dared, but with moonshine in her blood she stomps past him and stabs the walker in its head.

Of course Daryl wasn't happy about his little practice game coming to an abrupt end. Making him become at once firm and angry as irrational rage overcome him. She could tell by the look in his face with those piercing blue eyes and how the tone of his voice became lowered.

He scolds her, face to face -standing inches apart.

“What the hell you do that for?” “I was having fun.”

“No, you were being a jackass.” She calls him out, blinking with her brows furrowing. “If anyone found one of those kids…” she pointed towards the dead walker.

“Don’t.” He cut her off sharply, pointing a daring finger in her face, shaking his head -warningly. “That ain’t remotely the same.”

“Killing them is not supposed to be fun,” she scolds back.

Daryl narrows his gaze, advancing loomingly like a shadow swallowing her up, “What do you want from me, girl, huh?!” He growled in her face, making her take a step back.

“I want you to stop acting like you don’t give a crap about anything” She gazed up at Daryl. “Like nothing we went through matters, like none of the people we lost meant anything to you,” her gaze lowered then back at him again, Inhaling a needed breath she finally speaks up from the top of her lungs. “It’s bullshit!”

His imposing stance dissipates, taken back by every word spoken wish such heart, as if every cell from her body begged him to understand. But he didn't know how to take it nor what to do with it, only listened, with his mouth agape panting heavily before questioning.

“Is that what you think?” He advanced aging.

“That’s what I know,” she tells him as a fact. Her eyes begin to water, eyebrows furrowing as her lower lip begins to quiver.

“You don’t know nothing,” Daryl hissed, glaring, causing Julia to step back, uneasily on her feet. But it didn't stop her from rambling on, not caring if a tear would fall or if she would break down before him as her voice became unsteady -quivering as she spoke with the utmost honesty -unafraid as her eyes looked intensely into his blue ones.

She shakes her head, “I know you look at me and you just see another dead girl”. She brushes her hair out of her face, “I’m not Beth, and I’m not Carol.”

He stands finding it difficult holding their gaze -Taken back as she speaks.

“I’ve survived and you don’t get it ‘cause I’m not like you or them’.” She takes a breath pushing through the tightness in her throat. “But I made it, and you don’t get to treat me like crap just because you’re afraid.” She makes motions with her hands in the air.

Daryl steppes closer as his heart pounds, blood boils, rushing through his veins.

“I ain’t afraid of nothing.” Daryl hissed, able to kill flesh with his tongue, leaning slightly forward, becoming eye level with her.

Julia's heart smacks in her ribs, unable to describe the look in his eyes. The way he glares. It was like nothing she had ever seen before as his towering figure once more made her feel ever so small. Like a hunter stalking its prey, imposing and terrifying, growling in her face with such a low and primal tone, makes her mouth become dry. Her eyes were burning…Staring into his, because she could clearly see he was simply hiding behind his outwards strength, like armor masking guilt, a brokenness, something she couldn't pinpoint but she could certainly sense it. She could even see it in his eyes, deep as the ocean, stormy as the sea itself.

“I remember." She begins. A hesitant breath..then. “Back at the prison. When I came running with Marline and you were alone…You were like me.” He turned away, avoiding her teary gaze as his face contorted in pain because her assumptions are true, he was afraid even scared.

As Daryl was quiet Julia continued, engaging, not as imposing nor as threatening due to her height difference, but she was firmer now when she knew she was getting to him, not to make him angry but to show he had a heart.

“And now God forbid you ever believe with evidence in your hand, not even after Marlene gave you that map, you don’t dare to let anybody, anything get too close.”

“Too close, huh?" Daryl faces her again as she nods heavily in ‘that it is exactly what she believes’.

Daryl glares back, “You know all about that,” he argues back, pointing an accusing finger in her face. He takes a breath. “You lost your boyfriend, you didn't even shed a tear!” He points to his eye." The whole prison is gone, all you can do is just go out looking for hooch like some dumb college bitch!” He shouts in her face, swinging his arm enhancing every word.

Julia got quiet for a moment, thinking back to her friend Zack, how she didn't cry when the news came, and she didn't know why she never did cry nor the fact she never mourned him. But that was a nun of his business.

“Screw you. You don’t get it.” She defends with eyebrows scrunched together as lips tightens in irritation.

Daryl’s jaw clicks. Awakening a burning rage he didn't know how to counteract as if she had flipped a switch, igniting an animalistic response, replaced by the little fondness he began to grow towards her. Daryl tried to calm himself, but he had to make her understand because she acted as if everything was fine when he assumed otherwise. It didn't matter if he had to shake her into reality. And in the heat of the moment Daryl didn't care as he shouts the loudest he has done this far, without even hearing himself..

“No, you don’t get it! Everyone we know is dead!”

“You don’t know that!” She shouts back within inches from his face. Digging nails into her palms.

“Might as well be, ‘cause you ain’t never gonna see ‘em again!”

Julia was taken back, he was being cruel. Her gaze lowered as tears trickled down her face.

Daryl went on, “Marlene…”

He starts to shout, pointing a finger in her face. “you ain’t never going to see Judithe again!”

“Daryl, just stop”, Julia pleaded. She reached for his arm only for him to yank it away, turning his back facing her.

But then Daryl finally got to the heart of his pain, “The Governor rolled right up to our gates,” his voice wavered, panting as his anger dissipated. Julia stands close behind listening carefully.

“Maybe if I wouldn't have stopped looking. Maybe ‘cause I gave up. That’s on me,” he blames himself pointing a finger towards his chest, still turned from her.

“Daryl,” Julia reached out again to comfort him in any way. “No,” he cranked out, feeling how his vision became blurry with the last confession left on his heart.

“And them kids…. Maybe… Maybe I could have done something.”

Her heart broke hearing his voice wever in pain and despair. Every cell in her body screamed for her to hold him. And that was what she did, raping her arms around his torso and her head rests against his back and he aloud her, finding it impossible keeping his guard up any longer.

Julia wondered how long it had been since someone had shown Daryl simple, caring like this. He seemed so touch-deprived as she held him, weeping like a man that had carid the world upon his shoulders even tho knowone asked him to. As his stiff body relaxed leaning into her, she tightened her grip.

Maybe the reason he taped her arm or her back before, was because he was uncertain how much he was allowed to touch her, because knowone had ever shown him?

Julia hoped he was going to be okay. She inhaled deeply as her chest breathed in sync with his, feeling how his beating heart began to settle, and how his warmth radiated off his skin, it felt pleasing against hers -even on a late summer day like this.

Perhaps she needed his touch as much as he seemed to need hers?

In that moment, in her embrace, holding him like the night hugs the moon. For a moment Daryl forgot his anger and the pain glazing his eyes. The pins and needles in his heart shrink and shrivel in size. The feeling of her soft body pressed against his felt like the most gentle of touches.

Julia is the first girl who has ever been nice to Daryl. So he lets his guard down. Allowing her light to penetrate him. Even her arms radiate safety and hope and everything Daryl always thought was just out of reach within the walls he’s built around himself. Making the future feel a bit warmer, brighter, not as engulfed in shadows as he had felt for a long time.

For every tear he weeped Daryl didn't feel less of a man even though this was the most vulnerable he's ever been before. But in her embrace his soul breathes.

Daryl would never tell her but he would like to be held in her arms forever.

…

The night air is cool and light, soothing against skin as they relax on the porch. Calm and composed after their intense outburst they lean against a post across from one another, sitting with their knees bent in front of their chest, each with a mason jar placed. They were quiet for a while.

Daryl pickies on a wooden plank with his knife while Julia gazed tiredly. Her whole body felt warm and buzzed, as if she was one giant vibrating being. She watches Daryl continuously pick and pick again with his gaze concentrated as his head hangs low.

Julia breaks their silence -softly.

“I get why my grandparents stopped drinking.”

Daryl lifts his gaze

“You feel sick?” He asked, with a soft expression, as if he was sorry.

"Nope." I wish I could feel like this all the time…That’s bad.” She spoke calmly with a small smile.

“Hmm,” he hums -Lifting his gaze again. “You’re lucky you’re a happy drunk.”

Julia lowers her gaze slightly

“Yeah, I’m lucky.” Their eyes met, but Daryl lowered his gaze. “Some people can be real jerks when they drink.” She said sarcastically.

“Yeah, I’m a dick when I’m drunk.” He grunts, smiling shyly, fidgeting with the knife on the post pole in front of him before lowering it with his gaze back on the planks as he falls silent.

Dayl diden’t understood himself half the time and -He felt like a fucking asshole -A dick. He didn't mean to be cruel nor hurt her. He never fucking ment to and yet he always ended up saying things -That even jolted himself sometimes. Daryl was sorry for his words to her, she had looked so pained from his harshness -Even scared, but in that moment he didn't know how else to approach her words when he was so angry, afraid and so broken, he didn't know how to deal with it when she saw right through him. And yet she sat there speaking calmly with that soft voice, as if she had forgiven him. He didn't deserve such kindness.

“My brother had this dealer…” Daryl begins. Telling her about the story of getting drunk with Merle and his tweaker friend.

Gazing softly as she listens. Her hands rest’s in her lap with her head relaxed against the post. It was nice hearing him talk about his brother. Julia didn't know he had one. But the way his eyes grew distant she could tell Daryl loved his brother very much. Every time he’d recalled a memory he would look up then to the left as if he was picturing it so vividly, like it was playing before him. He even gave a little smile, even though the story was a bit sad. And between the words he would look up, making sure she was listening. And she was. She felt as if she could listen for hours. She didn't know his voice could sound so gentle, softly rumbling from his chest. It felt so soothing that if she closed her eyes she would fall asleep. He looked handsome, she liked his eyes and the lines in his face. And he was quiet. Different from most men she had encountered as he was often shy and awkward about his feelings. Not able to hold their gaze for more than a couple of seconds, but she didn't mind, she was similar to him in those ways.

“I thought I was dead…Over a dumb cartoon about a talking dog.” Daryl ends his story with a deep sight as his gaze falls again.

Daryl could remember it all, how Merle always got riled up over nothing, and he would have his back, always. Because there was blood, like Merle often told him. He could recall how the three of them shouted as Merle pulled his gun defending him, how his hand throbbed, punching the guy over and over again and that deth cold feeling in his gut, believing he really would die right there in the living room.

Julia listened attentively as the story progressed from some bad choice of words of his brother to a gun pointed to his head. She imagined he must have been terrified, believing his life would end with a bullet. It was painful, imagining Daryl dying that day. Making her browser furrow. She needed to know more about what unfollowed and what happened after Merle pulled his gun?

“How’d you get out of it?” She asked with genuine curiosity.

Daryl lifts his gaz

“The tweaker punched me in the gut. I puked. They both started laughing and forgot all about it.” He said as he became quiet towards the end lowering his head.

He takes a breath liking his lips. “You want to know what I was before all this?” He asked her.

Julia gazed attentively.

“I was just drifting around with Merle, doing whatever he said we were gonna be doing that day,” Daryl leans his head back against the post. Feeling how the sudden melancholy seatels, like the sudden change in the weather. The kind of sadness that is intangible. He could feel the ache, but he couldn't pinpoint exactly where it hurt.

“I was nobody…Nothing…Some redneck asshole with an even bigger asshole for a brother.” Daryl croaked, unable to meet her eyes.

The words were so strangled by the tightness in his throat Julia could hardly hear him. It pains her hearing him talk so lowly blaming himself when he had shown her kindness. Protecting her, keeping her safe.

As Daryl became quiet again she was too for a moment, letting his words sink to her heart.

“You miss him, don’t you?” She spoke softly.

Of course he did, Merle was his big brother, it was them against the world. Even though he knew he was bad for him Daryl couldn't help but love him. No questions asked, they were always there for one another. Despite the bad stories and Merles crooked ways he was all he had. Even if he was an asshole, even if he was constantly put down he felt almost obligated, because there was blood and without Merle Daryl feared he’d end up alone. Daryl had lost his brother twice. He was the first person he had ever cried over. So yes, Daryl missed his brother terribly, even though he would never admit it, he did.

Julia knew she could see it in his eyes, how he shook his head ever so slightly, as if the words were difficult to say outlawed. She understands it must be hard dealing with pain like that, not knowing where to put it. From his story she understood their relationship wasn't one filled with brotherly love but that didn't mean Daryl never felt love towards his brother.

“I miss the kids.” A mournful smile played on her lips, Daryl lifted his gaze. “I miss making these silly little bracelets, " she chuckled sadly, remembering she could never say no, making her keep them all on her wrist. And she never took them off, as if she would hurt their feelings if she did.

“I miss Marlene.” Her eyes become glassy, gazing towards the moon. “She was so strict and overprotective. She was… my only friend after Zack and I know she didn't see me as one, but I didn't mind.” She chuckles again as her smile dissipates. “And my grandaddy,” she tilts her head, fighting back the tears.

“I thought…I hoped he’d just live the rest of his life in peace, you know?” Julia inhaled -Smiling, imagining what could have been. -she exhales. “I thought after a couple of years working on his farm, I would eventually take over. I thought would know how to drive a tractor, grow vegetables, and plant all the flowers he loved so much. And he could finally rest after all these years. He’d get to see my children, if I ever were to get any of course…Just a simple life.” She swallowed thickly, gazing down to her hands. “And he’d get really old. And it’d happen, but it’d be quiet.” She shrugged, lifting her gaze, “It be okay,” Her smile fades again. “He’d be where he belonged in his paradise, as he called it.”

Daryl could see her pain. How she flexed her jaw tilting her chin as pools of tears filled her eyes. Looking up she chuckles again. Distracting herself from breaking down. But she couldn't manipulate her heart.

“That’s how unbelievably stupid I am.” Her voice brackets making her exclaim that sad chuckle again, rolling her eyes as the pools in her eyes spill. She downs a sip from her mason jar, then places it down, resting her elbows on her knees with one hand against the cheek, looking up -Her eyes deep in thought.

“That’s how it was supposed to be,” Daryl said thoughtfully.

Julia exhales, swallowing the tightness in her throat, “ I wish I could just....Change.” She sighed.

“You did,” he said sincerely. Because Daryl had seen it. Even though she was scared, she never let it face her. And even though she was young she was strong, she didn't know it yet, but she was.

“Not enough." Not like you. It’s like, you were made for how things are now.” She insisted.

“I’m just used to it, things being ugly. Growing up in a place like this.” Daryl said, motioning to the shack.

“Well, you got away from it,” she encouraged.

Daryl shakes his head in denial, “I didn't.”

“You did.” Julia insists.

"Maybe you got to keep on reminding me sometimes.” He said softly.

“No. You can’t depend on anybody for anything, right?” She reminds him. She was silent…then. “I’ll be gone someday,” she tells him with a smile.

“Stop”, Daryl croaked.

“I will,” she insists, shaking her head as of fact. But then her mood shifts, becoming serious with that sadness back in her voice. “You're gonna be the last man standing.”

He was so afraid and it hit him now, harder than ever, making him drop his gaze. Daryl could speak, but he feared he'd just cry, and what kind of a man would weep again before a girl like her?

“You are,” she insisted again, searching his gaze.

Julia rests her head back against the post -Her tone was soft, but her face betrayed her. “You're gonna miss me so bad when I’m gone, Daryl Dixon.

Julia knew how much he would miss her, she knew. But Daryl could only stare.

“You ain’t a happy drunk at all,” he said.

“Yeah, I’m happy. I’m just not blind.”

“You got to stay who you are, not who you were. Places like this..” -She looks down, searching for the right words, “..you have to put it away.”

“What if you can’t?” Daryl stares off into the night, then back at her.

“You have to.” -Her eyebrows furrow. “Or it kills you.”

Daryl was taken back again, resting his hands on his knee chewing on his lip, digesting her words.

“Here”, she smiles, placing a hand over her heart.

Daryl didn't have the words to respond, making him change the subject.

“We should go Inside,” he reminds her only to be met with a wide, genuine smile, making Daryl's heart swell in his chest.

“We should burn it down,” Julia suggests, chuckling drunkenly.

Daryl stands to full height -slowly. Heading towards the door to leave, but he stopped in his tracks, turning to look down at her, and said. “We're gonna need more booze.”

Julia smiles in return.

…

They head to the kitchen, grabbing jars of moonshine, pouring the fluid all over. Emptying every mason jar throughout the shack. Out on the porch they throw their last jars, now empty, the glass shatters on the wooden floor.

Daryl offers Julia a match. “You wanna?" He looks at her.

“Hell, yeah”, she obliged gladly, setting the stack of cash aflame.

Daryl throws it onto the boozed-soaked porch. The fire instantly engulfs the structure. Standing further away upon the dirt road gazing upon the flames Julia flips the middle finger towards the burning building, with a smile she nudges Daryl beside her and Daryls does the same. They say goodbye to their past, their pain and sorrows. As the fire attracts incoming walkers, Daryl urges her away with a hand on her back and together they walk away, heading into the woods as a hint of a smile is now on both their faces.

And just like that Julia is now his support system, his reminder to “stay who you are, not who you were.” Before the turn, it was Merle. Afterwards, it was Rick and Carol. Now, it has to be her. And Julia in return takes up the mantle as voice of reason and the beacon of hope, their moral compass along the way.

Pt.3

#apocalypse #daryl dixion imagine #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon x reader #daryl x y/n #daryl x reader #fanfics #daryl dixon smut #daryl dixon #beth x daryl

33 notes · View notes