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theteasetwrites · 26 days

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Merciless Beauty

Chapter 11: You Are My Queen

❧ Pairing: Knight Daryl Dixon x Princess Reader ❧ Era: Medieval fantasy AU ❧ Pronouns: she/her ❧ Warnings: SMUT (18+ MDNI)—missionary, unprotected PiV (do not endorse, wrap it up), "fucked dumb" (more like "fucked tired") if you squint, food stuff (... idk it gets messy. Honey is involved.) ❧ Word Count: 10.2k

❧ Before You Read...

❧ Glossary

❧ In This Chapter: After the defeat of Negan and his Saviors, you are confronted with the pain of what you've experienced, and you must confide in Daryl. Of course, the bittersweet moment becomes a reunion fit for lovers.

❧ A/N: Um so hi! You guys didn't think I was never gonna finish this did you? I mean I wouldn't blame you if you did, but I did it! I mean, I tried. I had a few different ideas for how to end the series, and then I realized that this isn't quite the end. I am going to write an "Epilogue" chapter that will just be wrapping up everything with Ezekiel and basically the princess telling her dad about Daryl. But for now, this is the end! Now I gotta focus on Begin Again now that I finally have this done(ish). Hope you guys like it, and thank you for waiting <3

Far from the carnage and warfare, miles away in a secluded wood, the hearth burned brightly, illuminating the small cottage in a warm glow that seemed so distinct from the deep, dark night that surrounded outside.

The scarlet wound on his thigh bubbling with vinegar and wine, you held a wooden spoonful of warmed honey, letting it drip slowly over the clean injury. After the bath you’d given him, he wore nothing, save for the loose drawstring braies of linen that reached just above his knee.

Your delicate fingers spread the translucent liquid gold over the surrounding skin. Out of the corner of your eye, you kept note of his visage. Though his face was relaxed, and softened by the warm glow of the fire, he was stoic. No matter how you treated his wound, he did not flinch, or so much as show any signs of discomfort or pain.

As you wrapped his leg with a clean gauze, you spoke to him, cutting through the silence that had settled between you for the last several minutes.

“Does it not hurt?” you asked softly, barely above a whisper.

“No,” he replied simply, though that was not entirely true. The blade had been the worst hurt of it, but now, it was only a dull sting. Perhaps so much pain in his life had heightened his tolerance, or dulled his sense.

In fact, the sensation was pleasant. All he could really feel was the soft pads of your fingers gently spreading the liquid over his skin, the honey acting as a soothing agent after the cleansing properties of the wine and vinegar had settled into the open wound.

Wrapping the last bit of gauze around his thigh, you gently folded the linen of his braises back over, a soft puff of air escaping your lips all the while.

“You are brave,” you said, your eyes lifting with a gentle flutter of your lashes.

With a shift of your legs from underneath you, you carefully replaced the spoon of honey into its jar, setting it aside upon the floor next to you. It felt good to no longer be upon your feet, now bandaged and clean after Daryl had so adamantly insisted that you let him do so. Now, though, you’d tend to him, after everything he’d done for you that night.

But with the fortitude of a true knight, he did not show pain nor pride. He did not bask in any glory or relish in his victory. He did not shed a tear, his limp as he walked not slowing him down or keeping him from getting you to the safety of the cottage. Not only was he brave, but he was humble. The man you’d once called a sorry excuse for a knight had turned out to be a paragon of gallantry, though he never had to prove that to you. You’d known the error of your words since he returned to you that night so many moons ago, promising to take you beyond the walls without payment or worldly reward.

That seemed worlds away now. The way you’d looked at him then was a far cry from now, when before you was the embodiment of the greatest warmth and sweetness you’d ever felt. The swell in your chest had cut your breath short for a moment, while the knight shifted on the floor cushion upon which he sat, leaning forward to pull you closer by your hands, until you were cradled in his arms, your body curled up upon his lap and your head resting against his bare chest.

That was when your breath came back, the soothing motions of his hands caressing your sides reminding you of the safety he gave you now. Negan was no more, the Saviors were no more, and soon, your father and the surviving militia would meet you here, but now, there was nothing in this world except him, and you.

When time just began to crumble away, your eyes heavy with the promise of sleep, you were brought back to the surface of consciousness by his voice, steady and low.

“You are brave.”

A puff of amused air escaped your lips, though you did not contradict him, only listened as he spoke, that voice of his more soothing than the honey on his wound.

“You killed Negan.”

Though you could not regret your actions, you shivered at the thought of that moment, the knife driving into his back, the feeling of the blade tunneling through tissue and finally puncturing his frozen heart. It made you cling tighter to his chest, as if to cower from the memory that haunted you in the back of your mind.

“If you hadn’t, I would not be here now, holding you.”

Indeed, that was what he was made for―holding you, serving you. Just as you clung tighter to him, he held you with more strength, not out of fear that you’d be taken from him again, but out of sheer devotion.

“And I owe you my life.”

“No,” you replied, almost startling him as you lifted your head. As if by instinct, he held your chin softly, the calloused pad of his thumb stroking its soft skin in short, but slow, back and forth motions. “There is nothing that you owe to me. Certainly not your life.”

Though you remained stern in your expression of earnestness, his lips curled into a gentle smile.

“I owe you everything. My life’s devoted to serving you, you know that.”

But as you looked at him, his eyes so full of love and hope for the future he had with you, there was still a hesitation inside you. It was like a parasite, worming its way inside your heart to keep you from fully embracing the comfort he brought you. It had not held such an effect on you, until now. Now that you could comprehend it, the hideous guilt that troubled you so.

He could see it in your eyes now, too, as evidenced by his smile fading and his eyes, still filled with that same love, growing dim with concern.

“What is it?”

To keep it from him would only cause more abject pain, but to hurt him, to tell him of the betrayal that you believed you had committed against him. How could you go on, now that the thought of that man’s cold, slimy hands all over you would not let you rest in the arms of the man who truly loved you?

And if you told him, would he rebuff you, disavow his love for you and never even hold you again?

“Nothing,” you said, but the quiver in your slowly faltering voice betrayed you, and the feeling of a cold, dead hand strangled around your heart made you shiver. He brought you closer to his chest, where warmth briefly tore you from the icy snare of guilt and shame. It was only a temporary respite, though. The only way to rid yourself of this regret was to tell him.

Another man’s mouth had been on yours, the salty, bitter taste of which you swore still lingered and made a mockery of your once pure lips. You’d truly never felt that Daryl had ever taken any purity from you. In fact, he made you more pure, but the bitterness of Negan’s filthy tongue had sullied you, you believed, and now you were nothing more than a broken woman, despite how whole you felt when he held you in his arms.

“Tell me,” he said, with that eerie whisper of knowing on his breath. Even the soothing circular movements of his splayed out hand on the small of your back were made with careful concern. Indeed, he knew that whatever troubled you must have been to do with what had transpired within the last week.

Afterall, the blot of watercolor black and blue around your eye gave him an inkling, one which made anger well up in him like molten lava bubbling to the surface, igniting him with a kind of rage that was strong enough to bring that scum of a man back to life just to slice his head clean off a second time. And, oh, would he do it again if he had the chance, just to know, again and again and again, that the man who tormented his princess could never bring more harm to her, or anyone else.

“Daryl, I…”

Your words having fizzled out into thin air, you shook your head and loosened yourself from his arms, as though you were unworthy of their embrace. The more you thought of that night, the more you believed that to be true.

“What happened?” he asked, his body beginning to stiffen as he mirrored you—both of you frozen in fear of whatever you would say, if you would say anything at all.

For a moment, he felt both weightless and heavy, in some kind of strange limbo wherein worry overtook his physicality before any words could confirm the worst of his fears. It washed the color from his face, where once a warm pink had blossomed from the feeling of the nearby hearth and your body so close to his, once again, after everything that had happened.

Now, he could only begin to think of the heinous things that could’ve been done to you… Knowing how Negan had looked at you, how he touched you that night of the joust. There was something sinister in his eyes then, and now, there was a similar dread in your expression as you looked away from him, eyelids heavy and head downturned.

With a gentle hand on your shoulder, his instinct to hold you too strong to completely ignore without at least a single touch, he began to speak again—voice quiet yet raspy.

“Did he… did he touch you?”

Of course, he had, but what Daryl meant by his words seemed deeper than their surface level definition. The vitriol in his voice, the sting of the word touch, which once might have been so much more beautiful on his lips, was palpable, lacerating your heart further. If it wasn’t for the pain of the guilt, you would still feel the hurt of the sadness in his voice.

You raised your eyes to meet his, though his face was blurred in the haze of your tears. A kind of shocked concern shaped his expression as he held your cheek with so much delicateness, as though you were but an assemblage of rose petals sewn together with gossamer twine.

He spoke your name now, low and almost a whisper. There was something so earnest about that, the way he called you only by your name and nothing else. No title, no epithet. Just you, just a woman, but not just a woman at all—a woman for whom he’d give the skin off his back to keep warm.

With his fingers laced delicately through your hair, he begged you with his eyes, glassy and clear, almost translucent to the point you swore you could see his soul bared before you. Even just in his stare, he made himself vulnerable to you, and soon, whatever fear you had of him turning on you melted under that comforting, warm gaze. Just for a moment, you gave in, and used your tongue to forcibly tear out the words that were stuck in your throat.

But still, you could not look at him as you spoke.

“Yes, he…” Your voice trailed off, followed by a deep breath of air you’d hoped would give you the strength to continue, but it only brought forth the tears that threatened to give way.

Two big arms encircled you hesitantly, slowly enough to allow you to break free had you not craved his touch, but his touch was all that could give you peace now. No further questions were needed, he surmised. He wasn’t sure he could even bear to know more of what was done to you, so he kept you in his grasp, which you did not fight.

With a shaky voice, he spoke against your cheek as he held onto you. Your head found a cradle in his shoulder, where tears wetted his bare skin. On his breath was a gentle shhh sound, like a light breeze rustling the leaves of an ancient oak in cool night air. It comforted you, along with the steady motion of his hands on your back, moving in slow, languid circles.

But no longer could you only contain your emotions to your sobs. Now, you raised your head and faced him, looking him sharply in the eye despite the pain that singed your heart with each syllable:

“I had a plan,” you began. “I… I only wanted to get close to him. He called me to his chambers… I had a knife. I let him touch me…” Once again, you could no longer hold his gaze. You continued on, now tripping over your own words as you scrambled to explain, through a tear-soaked voice that trembled in fear of whatever reaction you’d receive. “Only just with his lips… His filthy lips. Then as soon as I could, I tried to stab him. I swear, all I wanted was to get close to him, long enough to kill him.”

The knight only looked at you with a steady gaze, one that only softened with each passing moment. You felt his arms tighten around you, and you weren’t sure if it was an attempt to comfort you, or to suffocate you. Either way, you would’ve died a thousand times to feel that touch.

But you longed most of all, now, to know exactly what he was thinking. To hear those words you knew must’ve been brewing inside that head of his—those words that would crush you under the weight of their rebuke. Though those words never came, no shame or disappointment, only another kind of pain in his eyes. A pain that was born of your sadness as each tear you shed sent a new wave of agony through his aching body.

Shakily, you whispered to him, pleading in all but words for him to tell you how much he hated you for betraying him, for letting another man touch you. “My love… Won’t you end my suffering and speak to me?”

At times, Daryl’s movements carried more meaning that any service his vocal cords could provide. All he could do in that moment was hold you by your cheeks, his thumbs meandering in circles to gently rub the tears into your skin.

And, finally, he did speak, but his words caught you off guard far more than you thought possible.

“What are you afraid of, princess?”

Afraid of?

“I… I do not understand.”

“The look in your eyes, the fear. You look afraid of me. Why?”

You swallowed back the lump in your throat as you shook your head, both in denial and in confusion. “I do not fear you.”

Quite the contrary, you wanted nothing more for him to hold you until your heart gave out.

“I—I fear that you will detest me,” you continued, now trying desperately to let your tears drown out your words. “I fear I’ve betrayed you.”

In your mind, you had, and Daryl would have had every right to leave you now: alone and pitiful. Though he didn’t. He only kept his eyes on yours, and though you had a shameful urge to look away, you could not tear your gaze from his. There was no spite in his eyes, no bitterness or loathing. Not even anger.

All you could see in his eyes was the same gentleness, the same kindness and utter servitude that he devoted to you with each passing moment his eyes took you in. That sentiment had always been there, nothing had changed, no matter what you could say. It would never change. There was no enmity there, only the strength of his love for you.

His hands held your cheeks still, pulling you gently closer until his forehead softly touched yours. The feeling made you shudder, as though still you could never fully comprehend the sensation his touch gave to you. You were sure that you would never get quite used to that feeling, though you never wanted to. That sense of novelty was a pleasant sensation all on its own.

“My princess,” he said, his grainy voice barely above a whisper as his nose touched yours. His lips began to upturn ever so slightly into the softest smile, natural and sweet. “There’s nothin’ you could do to make me think that.”

As you shuddered a shaky breath, he held you closer still. You let out a heavy sigh, one that felt like it had been lingering deep inside you ever since you escaped the Sanctuary.

“You’re trembling,” he said, running his coarse fingertips along the exposed skin of your neck, until his hand met the loose neckline of his chemise that you borrowed, draped over you more like a dress than a shirt as the oversized garment reached just below your thighs. He leaned back to look at you, still sniffling back tears. With a strong hand, he swept back your hair to nestle it in the warm crevice behind your ear.

“You cold?” he asked, already beginning to tug a blanket from under a nearby cushion. “Here—”

“No.” Your suddenness nearly startled him. It reminded you just how fragile he was, no matter how reluctant he was to show it. “I’m all right.”

Daryl knew, though, that you still could not shake the guilt, like a vulture’s ravenous gnawing at your heart. He knew you too well, so well that it almost frightened him. There was no one else with whom he could see through, whose transparency reflected a deep, intrinsic understanding beyond conscious comprehension. The depths of you were overwhelming, but he could never fight the profound urge to navigate them, despite the sadness that his love’s empathy could bring.

With a deep breath of his own, he brought you back to his lap. The ease with which he could manipulate your body with the most gentle yet sudden caress would never fail to momentarily paralyze you. You melted into his arms once again. It was only a matter of time before you became completely at his mercy, though there was absolutely no part of you that protested, except maybe that last shred of guilt.

“You know I love you,” he said. “You know I serve you.” You must have broken out into a smile, because he, too, smiled. “And you know that you’re here now. You’re alive. Whatever you did to get here, whatever I did to get here… They’re sacrifices—risks.”

You found your hands returning to his body, their place on his broad, firm shoulders solidified like indentations in concrete. Swallowing hard, you felt a chill run through you, but it was not from the fear of losing him now—it was the effect of his touch, his hands having found their way beneath the shirt he lent you, sprawled out over your back, stroking in gentle rhythms.

“Daryl.” Your voice seemed to crumble under the pressure of the air that you spoke shakily into, the utterance of his name so delicate upon your trembling lips. “What I did, it haunts me. Perhaps you can forgive me, but how will I forgive myself, when I let that man—”

He did not let you utter another word before he interrupted, his own voice soft with sympathy. How he could remain so patient with you in this state, you would never know.

“I know your heart, I know you.” Now he all but forced your weary head to rest upon his chest, where the gentle beating of his heart warmed your cheek. “The only anger I have is for the man who touched you, not you.”

But still, it was hard for you to forget. The only cure to that ailment seemed to be Daryl’s touch, his assurance that he loved you beyond what words could convey. You needed his touch, but not just skin to skin. There was more, a lingering desire that floated between you perpetually, yet was stronger now than ever before.

It was a desire that penetrates, that longs to be penetrated. The kind that only lovers of the truest caliber could satisfy in the company of one another, the company which you had been deprived of for far too long.

The pestilence Sir Negan left for you to wallow in would only be destroyed by the greatest expression of love—that which made all pain and sorrow and suffering pale in comparison to the feeling of knowing that your heart was in the safe hands of no one else but him, your lover.

Your knight.

When silence overcame you, he uttered your name softly against one cheek, while his hand delicately brushed over the other. If he touched you anywhere else, you might crumble into a million pieces, like an ancient Grecian statue carved from the most fragile marble.

Only the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth could be heard against your soft breaths caressing the shell of his ear, while your hands crept carefully up his chest, brushing over the creases of his underarms to grasp at his shoulders. They felt so hard, so firm and unbreakable. You held them tighter now, and in response, he tightened his arms around your waist to bring you ever closer, until your lips found his.

The kiss was tender, light, each of your lips dancing softly over the other’s. With a tilt of his head and a brief respite, he caught your lips again, this time more firmly, yet still somehow cautious.

Perhaps he’d never grow completely forthcoming in his lust for you, which seemed almost sacrilegious, yet somehow sacred. He knew that he’d be killed for this, but how on God’s green earth was he going to keep his hands off you? How could any star up above in those vast, empyreal heavens compare to the gleam in your eyes when he uttered your name, each syllable dripping with honeyed cadence? How could the rich, melodic refrain of any skilled bard’s lute come close to the dulcet sighs that tickled his ears so delectably, almost tauntingly? How could there be anything more soft, more supple, than your body—that which occupied his thoughts far more often than he could ever truly admit?

Even your scent roused his most lustful thoughts, that sweet citrusy musk entangled with heady notes of the most intoxicating rose, the petals of which could not compare to the plump, velvety lips he traced his work-worn thumb over now, parting them gently until a sliver of darkness formed, with just a flash of white where your teeth could be seen.

Finally, those lips opened just a bit more to speak again. “I want to forget that night,” you said. “I want to forget everything that’s happened… besides you.”

Truly, nothing was of consequence to you now, but him. You wanted to be enveloped in him. To be absorbed in him. To be one with him.

If he hadn’t been so lost in the vibrant hue of your glittering eyes, speckled with sparks alight from the nearby hearth, he might’ve noticed the feeling of your hands exploring his bare chest, your palms melting against the buttery surface of those defined muscles. When the sparkle in your eye lost his attention, he did feel it—that soft touch with just a hint of something more… indecent.

With a slow, meandering movement, never taking those silvery blue eyes from yours, he took both of your hands in his, where they rested so delicately in the strong cradle of his warm palms. He brought them to his lips, the touch of which was so featherlight that you could barely even hear the sound of them pressing an ever so sweetly suggestive kiss to your hands.

It was then that the chemise you wore slid slowly off your shoulder, its size much too big for your frame. With even just your collarbone and the slope of your neck now exposed, much to the delight of his increasingly wandering eyes, he knew there was no escape from the desperation you awakened in him. Only it was not just desperation, but the insatiable urge to provide for you the comfort you so needed. It was written clear as day in your eyes.

Even so, you could not let the heavy air between you go without another plea, though it seemed to him almost like a command—from a princess to a knight.

“Make me forget.”

And so he obliged, not with another kiss, but with a tight grip on your waist, lifting you until you sat upon his lap, where the heat of his center warmed the bare underside of your thighs. After he took a moment to gather his thoughts in the midst of his sudden haste, he did not keep you in that position for long. The feeling of your weight upon his lap was too divine, nearly too much. If he took you now with too much urgency, that which was so strong he could hardly hide it, he might reach the peak of his pleasure much too soon.

So you were caught in a slight whirlwind for just a moment, in one last burst of quickness punctuated by a low, raspy rumble in his voice. Now you were laid out rather ungracefully, resting on piles of weaved woolen blankets and furs strewn loosely upon the floor.

There was not as much hesitation now, having already seen your body in its most bare form. He lifted the chemise over your head with ease, and when the fabric no longer obscured your vision, you met his face—a gentle, almost unnoticeable curl of his lip.

Above you, his eyes took their time roaming your chest, but not just your breasts. There was a delicateness to you everywhere—the slope of your collarbones, the way your shoulders rolled as you started to grow aroused, the pulsing of the strained tendons in your neck.

But before he could bring his lips to kiss your neck as he so deliberately planned on doing, he noticed the now tipped over jar of amber-colored honey slowly dripping from the lip of the vessel onto the floor, not far from where your hair had been strewn about amidst the sudden movements of passion. Those same movements must’ve caused the nearby jar to lose its balance.

Now brought to his attention, the silken honey seemed to shimmer with a warm, enticing glow. His heavy, blown-out eyes returned to your body, now with a sparkle of mischief, perhaps. You weren’t entirely sure, as you’d rarely seen such a quality in his gaze before.

In a trance of combined anticipation and confusion as the man held his half-naked body over yours, you looked up at him with innocent questioning.

“My knight?” you asked quietly, your voice only a faint, fragile whisper, delicate as a butterfly’s wing. “You seem confounded.” A soft tickle of laughter trailed off from your voice. “Does something trouble you? You moved with such vigor only a moment ago.”

He was unsure of how to explain in words the idea that came to him then, though you seemed to have grown accustomed to his sometimes reticent nature. That would prove to work in his favor now, as he all but remained silent in response to your questioning, opting instead only to scoop a bit of honey onto his index and middle fingers, slowly removing them from the jar with a hefty glob of the sticky substance.

You turned your head to watch in confusion, which quickly became concern.

“Does your wound need more honey? Does it hurt?”

“No,” he replied simply, with a more serious tone of lust to his deep, gravelly voice, the vibrations of which sent a fresh shiver down your spine.

For several moments, you were held hostage by his gaze, which roamed down the expanse of your neck. Your heavy breathing told him what he needed to know—the way your chest heaved with each passing second. You craved him, more than ever before, perhaps. With each new breath, he swore he could hear a slight pleaing whimper just trailing behind.

Without another moment’s hesitation, he brought his honey-drenched fingers to your lips, already slightly agape.

But he did not want to force the liquid into your mouth, only to coat your lips in its sweetness.

So he traced the shape of your lips, leaving behind a trail of gold sheen to glaze the soft, plump skin. Despite your slight disorientation, you allowed him to do as he pleased. After all, there was no other way to forget the pain of all that you’d experienced. No other way to be completely enveloped in the pleasure of love.

Soon you could taste the honey seeping into your mouth, dripping slowly onto your tongue. It tasted sweet, of course, but as his lips gently pressed to yours, the taste seemed even sweeter.

Between your lips was a sticky mess of warm sighs and saccharine wetness, with his tongue invading your mouth impatiently, swirling feverishly as your hands reached up to grasp at his shoulders.

Your touch ignited a fire in him, deep in the pit of his stomach, from which a guttural moan melted into your mouth.

And he knew there was more of your body that he needed, more skin he could drench in the warm nectar of the honey, more skin he could lick clean.

A fragile sigh escaped your trembling lips as he separated himself from you abruptly, though the disappointment in your voice compelled him to return to your honeyed lips for just a moment to kiss them in an offer of apology for his momentary departure.

He separated once more, leaning to the side to find the jar of honey, and immediately collecting another hefty, dripping glob of golden syrup.

There was a shaky whimper in your voice when he trailed his honey-drenched fingers over your breast, circling slowly around the nipple.

The more he applied to the soft tissue of your nipple, the more the substance globbed and began to drip slowly, like molasses, down the slope of your breast, making your back arch at the tickling sensation.

The knight could only watch your breast become drenched in translucent golden liquid, the subtle scent tempting him to come closer, until you could feel his warm breath against your heaving chest.

An absent-minded sigh escaped your quivering lips, with his name: “Daryl…”

Just as he heard it, his own name spoken on the wings of a swan’s breath, his flattened tongue caught a plump drip of gold slowly making its way down your breast.

He licked upwards then, reaching the hardened bud of your nipple, where his tongue circled eagerly now, yet with a slowness just enough to delay your pleasure, to properly torment you with his toying attention.

But his own temptation prompted him to take the whole sweetened nipple into his mouth, which craved above all else to taste every inch of you—the delicate, virtuous princess writhing naked underneath him as he made use of your body to the fullest extent of his desire.

With his mouth upon your aroused nipple, he suctioned his lips, now himself becoming too impatient to merely kiss the engorged flesh.

The feeling sent your head reeling backwards against the pillow, with a low, breathy moan. Each kiss made you cry out louder, more impatiently as your body craved more of his kisses.

But what he wanted was more honey.

So he took the jar again, this time tilting it so that the golden liquid began to drizzle in zigzag patterns over your chest, then your stomach.

Now you felt drenched in honey, sticky with it. Not to the point of discomfort, but amusement at his fascination with it, his tongue now licking up the trail.

You let out a quiet laugh, your voice low and sultry as you began to speak. “You’re making a mess of me.”

He did not stop lapping up at the drizzled honey, except to look up at you with a subtle mischief gleaming in his eyes of quicksilver blue for a few moments, long enough to say, “A very sweet mess.”

Soon his lips returned to yours, while his chest pressed against yours in a sticky embrace. You couldn’t help but laugh softly against my mouth, while your hands reached up to loosely tangle in the soft umber colored tresses upon his head.

And it felt like heaven to him then—your softness underneath him, your own sweet taste overpowering the saccharine honey, the tickle of your laugh fluttering against his lips, the slight scratch of your fingernails upon his scalp, the intoxicating warmth between your legs opening up to take him in as your legs wrapped around his waist.

That eagerness of yours made him snicker. Unable to resist the urge to chide you a bit, he pulled his lips away for a moment.

“Your highness seems restless,” he said, nodding his nose against yours with a small but wicked smile curling to one side of his face. “I thought princesses were supposed to be patient and proper.”

With a tilt of your head, you glared up at him, only with a very slight sense of playful annoyance.

“You know nothing of patience or propriety, depraved knight. It is you who so wantonly tempts my resolve… Who compels me to crave your devilish touch, which causes my weary mind such carnal turmoil.”

The knight’s quiet laugh seeped out from the charmingly crooked crack in his lips. With a low hum, somewhere between amusement and lust, he leaned down to kiss his increasingly restless princess once more.

When the kiss broke, he brushed the back of his hand against your heated cheek in soothing motions as he spoke softly against your slightly pouty agape lips.

“Those are big words,” he said, with a low rumble of laughter underscoring his scratchy voice. “They sure sound pretty on your lips.”

As your hands absentmindedly roamed the broad expanse of his heaving chest, the muscles underneath the hair-speckled flesh flexing under your soft touch, you met his gaze from above you with a mischievous glimmer in your eye.

“My love,” you hummed softly, your eyelashes fluttering slowly against his cheek as his mouth roamed aimlessly over yours. “You torment me with your caresses… Your sweet touch.”

“You said it was devilish,” he replied between kisses, using your dramatized words against you.

“It is,” you laughed softly. “Devilish and sweet. But it’s your touch. I wish to feel it every moment of every day and every night for all eternity, and the eternity after that, and before that, and every eternity in between.”

Daryl’s hand lifted to the side of your face, gently placing a strand of unruly hair behind your ear, to continue his increasingly feverish onslaught of kisses on your other cheek.

“Yes, your highness,” he replied, much to your amusement. “Whatever you want, it’s yours.”

“Mm, you’re mine.”

After a momentary pause, he seemed to turn more serious—almost frightening—as he grabbed you with more impatient vigor, your arms having no choice but to cling around his neck. With your face surrounded by soft tresses of brown hair, you let out an instinctive cry, as though he was a predator and you were prey, about to be devoured. Though there was nothing in your biology that compelled you to fight him off. You’d accepted your fate, and you welcomed it.

Your weight was suddenly cradled by the softness of the bed beneath you, though your legs were still wrapped tightly around Daryl’s waist. That did not keep him restrained for long, for he soon unraveled himself from your entanglement and began to strip himself of his worn linen braies.

There was hardly any time to marvel at his anatomy—he soon climbed back over you, catching your breath with his mouth once again. You could at least feel his now unhindered length, though. You could feel it harden between your legs, where the warmth of your soft thighs made his cock begin to twitch from the pressure.

As though your body wasn’t close enough for his liking, he looped his arm under the arch of your back, lifting you up just enough to feel your belly pressed against his. If he concentrated enough, he swore he could feel the delicate fluttering of your excitement inside you.

The tingling became stronger now, his body moving above you with enough rhythm to force his cock against the fleshy folds between your legs. The feeling was still so foreign, having only felt it in its fullest form once before, but you knew that tingle just from the sight of him, the smell of him, the taste of him. He did not even need to touch you there to make your body react in such a way, you were certain.

Taking notice of your soft moans against his lips, and the slight gyration of your body, he used his free hand to find the warmth that so enticed him. His fingers settled in that crevice, staying still for a moment, until by some impulse they began to move. Up and down, up and down… A rhythmic motion not unlike the way the rest of his body moved, too. For your part, you broke the kiss to let out a moan that could not be contained by the velvet cage of his adoring mouth any longer.

“Oh!”

Your head had tilted back so far that your neck was now exposed, completely subject to his will. As his hand moved not faster, but with more pressure, more insistence, he trailed his lips down your jawline, leaving messy, imprecise kisses along your perfumed skin.

Applying increasing pressure, he sank his fingertips into you, that warm, sodden opening between your legs. The sensation was still so new, though the slight burning pain was less than before. You only clenched your teeth slightly, feeling his fingers extend deeper within you, curling upwards toward your belly.

For a moment, he could not pay attention to anything but the way you felt—the way your body reacted to his invasion. Your passageway seemed to pulse around his fingers ever so slightly, as if it was some innate reaction, coercing his fingers further.

He only noticed your slight discomfort when he looked at you, your eyes shut tight. He pressed his lips to your cheek, his hair falling in your face. It was soft, yet ticklish, like a curtain of brown feathers draped over you.

“You all right?” he asked, his voice a soft, soothing whisper. If his touch wasn’t pleasing you enough, his voice so gentle and yet gruff was sure to push you over the edge of pleasure and into the realm of extraordinary bliss. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

“It doesn’t hurt. It’s only slight… You’re quite gentle.”

Against your cheek, you could feel his lips curl into a smile. All the while, his fingers moved slowly, back and forth, migrating between the shallow part of you, and the deepest part.

“Do you like it this way, your highness? Slow… gentle? I could go faster, but I don’t wanna hurt you.”

With a laugh, you shook your head, amused. “You could hurt me and it would still feel like heaven.”

He smiled down at you, then pressed another kiss to those plump, agape lips, sparkling with wetness and trembling with desire. Daryl was never a particularly confident man, but something about the way you wanted him, craved him beyond anything he’d ever known, he felt like he had the whole world in his hands.

And now, he felt the world quake and shiver round his curled fingers, an accumulation of warm wetness pooling where his knuckles breached the entrance of your body in repetitive motions. Coupled with the aching softness of your uncontrollable moans were the sounds of his fingers moving inside you, the rhythmic, involuntary squeezing of the canal creating drenched and airy sighs of its own.

As his fingers pulsed inside of you, you clung tightly to his shoulders, the tan, sun-freckled skin stretched thinly over defined muscles. A strained sigh escaped your lips as your fingers dug into his skin. Daryl’s pace slowed steadily to keep you from coming too soon, but he knew you were so very close.

It amused him a little, the way your body was so sensitive to his touch. He found arousal in the way he could so easily bring you the ultimate pleasure, and the way he could withhold it at will. Despite how subservient he was to you, he could not help but revel in the dominance that came over him when so much control of your perfect body was given willingly over to him.

But you sighed and pouted as his fingers paused inside of you. Opening your eyes, you tilted your head and looked up at him—he traced your jawbone with his finger, while the fingers he had inside you playfully wiggled upwards to make you shiver.

“Daryl,” you sighed, not quite sure what else to say but his name.

In response, he smiled as hazy silvery blue eyes roamed your face, taking in each and every flawless feature. “You’re so beautiful… My sweet angel. I’d like to have you like this forever.”

Though your heart fluttered at his sweet words, you could only muster a few words, as your body anticipated its release: “Do not stop.”

But he did the opposite, removing his fingers altogether and leaving you throbbing, writhing desperately as you groaned softly.

Panting, he sat up, lifting himself up from the bed to look at you, taking you in for a moment as he decided on what to do next. After all, he was leading the way.

Before you could say another word, or even lift up your head to see what he was up to, you felt his hands wrap around your ankles, pulling you towards him as he stood at the end of the bed.

You managed a surprised exclamation at the sudden jolt, your legs now spread just wide enough to fit his body as he climbed over you, his weight holding you against the bed. Now he kissed you again, with lips and tongue moving wildly over yours. Lost in this passion, you found your hands exploring the wide, muscular surface of his back, moving in erratic circles. With each flex of his muscles underneath your soft palms, you let out a breathy sigh, swallowed by his mouth on yours.

As much as you craved his kiss, you knew you craved the hardness between his legs that was pulsing against your sodden entrance more. It was so close to being inside you, so close to that feeling you had only known once before, that you coveted ever since he first made love to you. There was an overwhelming emptiness there always now, where you hadn’t quite felt one before. You had known the carnal pleasures of sex, and now it was like a curse of desire had overtaken you. Not a desire just for the feeling, but for him, and the feeling only he could give to you.

He felt your desire, too. It only heightened his own as his lower body moved against yours, assuaging his hunger for the embrace of your body just enough to keep him from spoiling this moment of closeness with his impatience. You deserved more than a quick burst of passion that ended in an underwhelming sensation of relief. That was what he’d only known before, after all―mindless, loveless moments with nameless, faceless women who could satisfy his purely biological need in the most practical exchange of goods. These occasions were few and far between, but never satiating beyond that primal desire. This was unlike anything he’d felt before, and to make love to someone, real love, was a change of pace he had to orient himself with. A most welcome change, of course.

But he could not hold out much longer, he knew this of his body well enough. So at last he pulled his lips away from yours, his focus turning to the space where your bodies were so close to connecting. He reached down, with a series of gruff pants escaping between his lips, to bring the tip of his cock to your entrance.

There was just a tickle of his flesh brushing against yours, but it was enough to elicit a shiver and a sigh against his sweat-dripping cheek. There, you pressed your lips to his face, with the salt of his clammy skin on your tongue. As he slowly entered you, you felt your body loosen, no longer tense with need, but now just beginning to feel full and warm.

And with a deep, guttural moan, he buried himself further. Despite how slow he tried to move, he could not waste another moment―he did not want for anything in this moment but to be completely inside of you.

The feeling lingered for a while as both of your bodies rested in place. He did not move, neither did you. There was only the erratic beating of your hearts and the heavy breaths escaping your lips. Daryl’s head found its place in the space between your head and your shoulder, where he found refuge in the warmth of your hair, scented with galgant and cloves.

Though you could bask forever in the feeling of him inside you, still and deep, your desire was to feel him move again.

As if on their own accord, your hands moved swiftly down his back to squeeze the flesh of his buttocks, as you’d call it. Ass, as he would call it, you were sure. The feeling elicited a laugh which tickled your cheek.

“Where did you learn to do that, princess?”

“Nowhere,” you replied, just as he lifted himself up to look down upon you. There was a look of playfulness in his eyes, with a considerable amount of increasingly impatient lust. It excited you more, so you moved yourself as much as you could in an attempt to feel the friction of his cock inside you.

Amused at your clumsy wiggling, he relented with a subtle swirl of his hips and a movement of his body which pulled him further out of you, until he slowly buried himself deeper again.

His arms propped up the bulk of his weight as he moved in and out of you at increasing pace, his breath becoming more and more ragged all the while. Nothing could hold him back as he began to lose control of himself. Every cell in his body screamed for release, and he couldn’t slow down now. His lower body moved faster with each thrust that shook you to your core, where the tingly feeling of pleasure was building up inside once again.

Wide-eyed and breathless, your hands moved to his shoulders in an attempt to keep yourself steady, but it was no use. His sheer physical strength and size was enough to make your body practically seize from the force of his thrusts. In these desperate, hungry movements, there was a deep reverence—a kind of devotion you’d never known before, not even as a princess. He made love to you like it was an act of worship, in every conceivable way.

From the way he focused on you, as though the sun and stars revolved around you, to the feeling of his body making every frantic, passionate movement not only to sate his need, but to please you, he wanted nothing more than to serve you, as was his sworn oath.

And as you came closer to losing control of your loins, your body squeezed and writhed around him. In a fit of pleasure, so close to the precipice of bliss, your back arched and your head was thrown backwards with an involuntary spasm, as your legs clenched tight around his waist to draw him further into you.

He was so deep, and you felt so full. The pain was there, lingering, as you were stretched open again and again. In all your ignorance, a part of you feared he’d tear you open, but you trusted him—your gallant, noble knight.

Now your hands held for dear life to his upper arms, where well-worn and well-defined muscles gleamed with sweat and ached with each part of him that needed release, which was soon to come. Your heavy, quickened breaths formed a pattern that seemed to match his, with occasional moans, groans, and even a slight curse or two escaping his tightened lips.

And soon, a sudden wave of vibrations overtook you—that sensation you’d been dreaming of since the first night he bedded you. It was like a hurricane sweeping through your body, each new pulse of tingling pleasure surging through you like a strong gust of wind that left you squirming and crying out underneath him.

It was a feast for his eyes to see you like this, and to know just how much power his love held over you. With each gasp, each breathy moan, each soft convulsion that contorted your body, he lost himself in your bliss.

He couldn’t help but kiss your trembling lips as your legs wrapped tighter around his waist, pulling his body further against you and into your pulsing center. This feeling, along with the soft dance of his tongue across and around yours, drew him closer to his own release.

It had been buried deep in the back of his mind from the moment he realized you were taken—that terrible longing, tainted by the fear that never again would he feel this again. Of course he knew the most important thing was rescuing you and returning you home safe, but there was that selfish part of him that desired you carnally, because once was not enough.

Now that you were safe, he feared he’d never be able to go another second without you again.

So, with a final deep thrust and a hearty groan, he let his body go. He was quick enough to free himself from you, releasing the buildup of his arousal onto the soft inside of your thigh.

The warmth tickled you slightly as it trickled down. You watched through hazy, lidded eyes as Daryl’s hand stroked his pulsing cock until it was rendered limp as if with exhaustion. His body drooped over yours, his head cradled against your shoulder. Fast, heavy breaths warmed your neck. In a matter of seconds, he caught his breath enough to catch your lips with his once more.

Heady air thick with the scent of honey and sex swirled between your bodies, moving languidly beneath the fur blanket Daryl had draped over the two of you somewhere between lazy, sweaty kisses and tangled arms.

Tonight was different than the first night you made love. That night, the passionate fire he stoked inside of you kept your mind alert enough to stay awake with him into the wee hours of the morning, murmurs of dreams and worries slipping between your lips. Tonight, you could hardly keep your eyes open once you’d felt your body sink into the straw-filled cot beneath you.

Daryl, in his lust, hadn’t noticed you’d begun to drift off as he showered you in kisses. When your hands began to slowly lose their tight, needful grip on his shoulders, he let his lips separate from yours with a smile. Your head sank like an anchor onto the pillow beneath you. With your last sensation the feeling of your knight’s lips pressed gently to your temple, you entered a deep, much-needed sleep.

The night was still when you awoke in a slight daze, colored a deep brownish orange from the flicker of the dying hearth. Your newborn senses clung to the feeling of the soft fur beneath your outstretched hand, where once Daryl lay.

You stirred awake at the realization of his absence. Sitting up, the fur blanket fell from your body to expose your naked breasts. A sudden shock dispelled any last remnants of sleep. You weren’t at all accustomed to sleeping in the nude, after all.

Moreover, you feared something, though you weren’t quite sure what, had happened to your knight.

As you raised yourself from the modest cot to dress yourself in the once discarded chemise, you could not help the fearful thought of whatever remained of the Saviors taking Daryl from you, leaving you alive in some cruel, twisted act of revenge for the death of their leader.

But as you stepped outside, into the darkness of the early morning, Daryl’s voice, grainy and soft, came to you through the crisp air. In your slight daze from waking just moments ago, it took you a moment or two to recognize his voice speaking your name.

Your eyes caught up faster than your ears when you turned to see him, illuminated only by the light of a small lantern placed on the pebbled ground near his feet. He was dressed already, a simple tunic of linen white, with a wool cloak of deep indigo on his back. The closer you stepped towards him, the more the almost crimson glow of the majestic Friesian’s coat shimmered to distinguish the creature from the black of night.

“Phantom?” you spoke softly, rubbing your sleep-heavy eyes as if to wake yourself from a dream. You’d almost forgotten about the loyal steed, and it was hard to imagine him surviving the chaos of the battle just hours ago, but then again, you survived.

Phantom seemed to perk up at the sound of your voice. He lifted his head to meet your eyes, and left the side of his master to slowly come towards you. The gentle creature’s muzzle seemed to slide perfectly between your delicate hands as he huffed a breath of air. After a few moments of accepting your pets, he raised his head to nuzzle your shoulder, nearly putting you off balance with the sheer force of the large animal’s affections.

Daryl flinched for a moment, about ready to lunge forward to catch you if you fell, but you caught yourself with your back foot, laughing despite the slight pain of the raw blisters that began to form there from last night’s escapades.

“Oh, I am so glad to see you.” The horse lowered his head as if in reverence, some kind of formal acknowledgement of your voice. You ran your fingers through Phantom’s silky forelock, which you knew to be quite pleasing to the destrier. “I thought I might never do so again.”

“He found his way home.” Daryl’s voice came closer, until you felt the warmth of his chest against your back. His chin rested upon your shoulder, a comforting weight. “Like he always does.”

Daryl’s arms squeezed tight around your waist, pulling you flush against him. While still lavishing attention upon the rather needy horse before you, you closed your eyes and took in his scent of pine and honey. But you did not stay still long, turning to see his face you’d dreamed of, just to remember that he was real. Phantom, though, huffed in slight disappointment.

“When will my father come?” you asked quietly. Something about the stillness and the darkness of the early morning, just a matter of time before the sun would begin to rise, made you whisper.

Daryl’s chin lifted towards the distant horizon, where the first sliver of dawn slowly parted the darkness of night to give in to the pale light of morning.

“He said we’d meet here at first light. Should be any moment now.”

Daryl’s mind drifted elsewhere. Last night’s events had left him with a whirlwind of emotions and revelations. Negan’s death brought with it the triumph of war, the splendor of victory that he knew well from practically a lifetime of battle. And with war came the inevitable grief of countless lives lost. Daryl’s thoughts lingered on the duke, the prince, and the rogue Savior who’d helped them. He wondered if they’d made it out of the dungeon alive.

And when those thoughts gave way to the realization that, within only a matter of time, you would return to the arms of your father, and no longer would you be his. The king would never understand your love for each other. Why should he, anyway? Daryl was of lowly birth, even if he was a knight. As much as he wanted to believe King Ezekiel would allow him to marry you, he knew he was more likely to end up headless at the mere suggestion.

As he held you now, and as he knew you in the most sacred passions of love that you had shared, you were not just a princess, but his princess. When you were away from him, the world around you blissfully unaware of the truth, you were just a princess. Not his, at least as far as the world was concerned. Despite all logic, he knew there would need to be a time when the love between you was not hidden in the shadows of the forest.

Daryl’s pensiveness was not lost on you now. You felt him cling tighter to you as he looked off into the distance, a heaviness in his face. Your hand caressed his cheek with enough pressure to bring his attention back to you. His expression became lighter by just a tad, but whatever plagued his thoughts was still lingering.

“What is it, my love?”

“Nothing, I just…” He trailed off, shaking his head as if to rid himself of these worries. “I wish we had more time.”

Where there was once a look of concern blossomed a sweet smile that was almost potent enough to make him forget your father altogether.

“We always have time. We will make time, like we always have.”

But in your heart, you knew what he meant, and you felt the same. How long could you go on like this, hiding your love from your father? Escaping into the woods to consummate your love in secret? For as much as you loved him, and as sure as you were that your heart belonged to no one else, you were not sure how you could keep your love a secret much longer.

Still, the time would come when you could tell your father. You were sure of that.

“You told me that you’d marry me,” you whispered, lips fluttering against the soft hairs of his cheek. “You said someday, you’d marry me. And a knight always keeps his promise, especially to his lady.”

The knight let out a huff, then soon found himself nuzzled into the warmth of your hair, where memories of every moment spent in your company curled around his face in a deep, honey-scented embrace.

“Someday,” he murmured. “I promise you, my princess.”

When his lips touched yours, he felt your tremble against the cold. He pulled the cloak from his back to swing it around you and wrap you in a woolen cocoon. Pulling you ever closer, your chest was heated by the fire that seemed to perpetually burn in his. Another longer, deeper kiss, then a smile shared between the two of you.

“Perhaps one day, I will be your queen.”

His warm hands rubbed your back in steady motions as his eyes traced dreamily over your face, each curve and crevice and color another feature he would keep to memory for in those moments when he could not hold you. He wanted for nothing in this moment—everything he could’ve dreamt of wanting was here, in the shape of you.

“You are my queen.”

A new heat rouged your cheeks and ignited your heart. To be his queen seemed to be the greatest height you could ever reach, if only it meant you were the queen of his heart.

Dawn stained the sky with rich hues of rosy orange and dusty violet as you fell into another kiss, though your lips would be torn away by the distant sound of clopping hooves coming closer beyond the horizon. Not just a handful, but nearly hundreds.

But the fearful flutter in your heart soon subsided as the blue flag of Alexandria raised above the militia, their silhouettes coming into view. They were led in triumph by the king, flanked on either side by Duke Richard, and one man you did not recognize—Prince Jesus of Hilltop. In your father’s hand was the chain that leashed his mighty companion, Shiva. They were victorious, and no more would you fear Negan, nor walkers, nor death itself. Not when your knight was near.

Not even death could tear you from him, and as you held his gaze, you felt a calmness overcome you—a relief, as though you knew that everything, somehow, would be all right.

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

Series Masterlist

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ficnation · 10 months

Text

Lying in Blood - EZ Reyes x Reader

Summary: When your husband dies you're left to mourn the life you were supposed to have. But when guilt consumes the killer, a chance at redemption opens as he steps forward to raise the child as his own.

Word count: 2,6k+

Pairing: Ezekiel ‘EZ’ Reyes x Female! Reader; Past!Neron ‘Creeper’ Vargas x Reader

Warnings: SPOILERS for Mayans MC season 5, mayans mc typical warnings, pregnancy, pure angst

A/n: EZ might be a little OOC but who cares. Enjoy the heartbreak and please reblog if you liked it!

Main Masterlist

Mayans MC Masterlist

The moment you walk into the clubhouse, the smell of smoke and leather assaults your senses. The atmosphere is smoky, the air heavy with the cigarette fog swallowing the entire room. In the background, the clicking of pool balls and the murmur of conversations can be heard, the smell and environment already making you feel a little dizzy as the door opens and shuts behind you.

You force yourself to move forward as the members of the MC raise their glasses and nod in welcome to your arrival. You greet them with a warm smile like always, then look around the room in search of your beloved’s face. You can almost see him talking with his friends in the crowd, an unopened beer bottle in his tattooed hand.

But he’s not there. It’s just your imagination playing tricks on you.

Bishop must’ve noticed the way your eyes wander around the room in search of a ghost. He stands up from his sitting place, grabs your arm, and pulls you toward one of the couches. You slump down against it, sighing heavily.

“Querida,” he starts, sitting down beside you, his arm outstretched, beckoning you closer.

You shake your head to will the dark thoughts away, then relax against his side, your cheek finding rest on his shoulder.

“Bishop,” you greet him back with a smile.

“You’ve popped,” the man notices with a chuckle, looking down at the roundness of your protruding stomach.

“Oh, definitely. I woke up one day, looked in the mirror, and thought she doubled in there,” you mumble with a huff, but there’s a lightness to your voice.

Bishop admires your strength—how you can still see the world in colors even when your life is falling apart. It baffles him. He wishes he had that kind of strength himself.

He smiles at you, pulling you just a little bit closer. “She?” he repeats, raising his brow.

You smile brightly at him, caressing the bump with gentle, loving strokes. “Yeah, it’s a little girl.”

But your smile falters ever so lightly when you think about the fact that Neron still doesn’t know that the doctors were wrong and you were going to have a little daughter instead of a son. He won’t even be there when you give birth. He’ll still be behind bars, far away from your baby girl.

Bishop notices the change in your expression and grasps your hand in his, squeezing delicately. “He’s proud of you, you know that. We’re all proud of you.”

You can only nod in response, blinking away the tears that started forming in your eyes. You weren’t as strong as they all wanted you to be. You were just about to become a mom—a single mom because your husband won’t be there for most of the baby’s early years. You’ll be lucky if he gets out when she’s a teenager.

“Yeah, just wish his child was more important than the club,” you whisper under your breath, quickly regretting your words. But Bishop looks at you with understanding, no ounce of anger on his face. “Well, I actually came here looking for EZ. Is he around?”

“He’s not around. But he should be back soon. Do you wanna wait for him?” he asks, kissing the side of your forehead. “I can get you some water and keep you company.”

You stay with him, conversing to kill time as you wait for the club’s president to turn up. The older man keeps you occupied, talking a little bit about everything—how long until the baby comes, if you need help setting up the nursery, is your money situation looking okay—Bishop asks about everything in hopes the MC can make your life a little bit easier.

An hour or two passes before Ezekiel walks into the clubhouse. He looks around the room and doesn’t expect to see you there. Your presence startles him.

His eyes stare intently as you talk with Bishop, one of your hands mindlessly caressing your protruding stomach, waiting for the baby to kick. The other man hovers his hand close, ready for you to guide it so he can feel the little kick.

EZ feels the guilt—it comes up his throat and makes him nauseous. You’ve been friends for so long, and you don’t even know just how bad of a friend he was.

He ordered the murder of your husband. He took away the father of your baby—the man you loved with your whole being. He took his life and didn’t even give a second thought to how it would affect you—how much it would ruin your life.

The baby in your stomach starts kicking, so you take Bishop’s hand and press it against it. Ezekiel still stares, but he’s too far gone in his thoughts to register what’s happening.

“She’s kicking.” Your smile is bright, and it gives him a tiny bit of hope that Neron’s death won’t make you miserable for the rest of your life.

He forces his legs to move forward, swallowing the want to throw up all over the wooden floor. With a forced nervous smile, he reaches the couch.

“Is she?” the words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them.

You sit up straighter, surprised by his sudden appearance. The smile you give him is innocent—unknowing.

“Hi, EZ.”

He returns it, but it’s weak and awkward, and he’s sure you can feel just how out of place he felt in his own clubhouse.

“Hi.”

Bishop senses the sudden shift in the air. He gets up and presses a kiss to your cheek, his beard ticklish on your skin. He regards the younger man with suspicious eyes. “I’ll leave you to it,” he says finally as he leaves you with the club’s president, heading towards the exit of the building.

“I haven’t seen you in a while,” you notice, patting the couch where Bishop once sat to beckon Ezekiel to take his place.

The man scratches the back of his head awkwardly. “Yeah… I was busy with the—” he’s lost in his own words as he gestures vaguely to the clubhouse, “the thing.”

You raise your eyebrow at him, crossing your arms over your chest. “Oh, definitely,” you joke, “the thing always requires attention.”

He laughs at your words, but it has a forced quality to it. The joke isn’t that funny. You know it, and he knows it too, but you wave it off, thinking he didn’t want to make the conversation more uncomfortable than it already was by giving you the details.

“Yeah.” He sighs deeply. “We’ve got it under control, though,” he continues, and you respond with a nod, your eyes not quite meeting his.

“Have you heard anything from Neron?”

So that’s what you came here to ask—EZ thinks. It was logical. You barely needed the MC’s help, preferring to get stuff done on your own, mainly because you didn’t want to add to their problems. You always held your head high.

“He’s been quiet for a while now,” Ezekiel tenses in his seat as the words leave your mouth.

He can almost feel the crickets playing a symphony in his head. He doesn’t know what to say or do, so he opts for a simple lie—he is getting better at them with every passing day. “No, I haven’t heard anything.”

“Damn it.” Your sigh clenches his heart painfully. “Those cops are probably harassing him again.”

“Probably,” he agrees with you, scratching his chin for a second as he glances at your face. “You’ve heard nothing at all?”

“Nothing. He doesn’t call anymore.” The tone of your voice changes, and he can feel the heartbreak—the agony that those words render.

EZ takes a deep breath and forces a smile. “He’ll call. I’m sure he will.” A fucking liar; that’s what he is.

“I hope so. We’re so close to the birth date. I wanted him to know that.”

He doesn’t know how to reply, so he gives your hand a gentle squeeze. He was always good at lying, but why was it so hard to lie to you?

He tries to smile more warmly—look more warmly at you, but all you can see in his eyes is pity. It drives you insane.

“EZ, is there something you’re not telling me?” your voice screams suspicion. He starts to get nervous.

“No, of course not.” He looks at you hard, hoping you’ll believe his lie. It takes a moment for you to process what you see and hear before the suspicious glint falters and falls.

“Oh, okay.” you sigh in sadness. You have a feeling he knows something, but you’re not willing to push it. “He was supposed to choose the name.”

Another gentle squeeze of your hand. “He will come through. Don’t worry.”

You believe him. “You’re right. I’m probably just overthinking.”

EZ nods his head in agreement. “You’re just stressing yourself out; it’s not worth it.” There’s a pause as he kisses your temple, then speaks again, changing the topic slightly, “How have you been doing? Everything going alright with the pregnancy?”

“Yeah, we’re doing good. The nausea went away.” His still didn’t. “Now I’m just running to the bathroom every three minutes. Girl makes me wanna piss so bad.” You let out a chuckle—such a beautiful and peaceful sound. EZ feels like he could record it and play it over and over again before he falls asleep.

“That’s good… and exhausting.” He’s starting to feel more at ease again. You seem to be distracted and not noticing how oddly nervous he’s been acting, or even if you did see, you let him have the upper hand.

“It is exhausting. But we’re gonna get through it. For Neron.”

He nods in agreement. “For Neron.”

Such a beautiful betrayal.

The next time you see EZ, a few days have passed. The whole MC knows about Neron’s death, but not you—not yet. He lets you live in a state of not knowing just for a few more minutes before he knocks on your door and gives you the information that will ruin your life. Oh, wait, he did that—he ruined it by choosing to protect himself, get rid of the snitch. Snitches end up in ditches—they were right.

He raises his fist, presses the buzzer, and he can almost hear the heavy pats of your feet as you rush toward the door. You open it and greet him with a smile. You’ve looked through the Judas beforehand—smart girl.

“EZ?” That carefree smile falters as you notice the seriousness decorating his face. Your hand grips the doorknob tighter, knuckles turning pale.

EZ sighs and hangs his head. “You need to sit down.”

“What the fuck happened?” you ask, but EZ doesn’t respond.

He turns you around, closing the door before gently pushing you towards the living room and the couch in the middle. You listen to him and sit down, waiting for him to speak. Your leg bounces up and down in worry. The dark thoughts swirling in your head make you want to crawl out of your skin.

EZ cuts straight to the point. He knows you’d only get furious if he tried to tread around the issue.

“Neron’s dead,” he says simply—as if to just get the words out of his mouth. They leave a foul taste on his tongue. He’s not even looking at you because he knows already how badly he fucked up. He can hear your heart breaking into a million pieces as your brain struggles to register that information.

When it finally hits you, you gasp trembly.

“No. No, he’s not,” you try to deny his words, shaking your head furiously. Tears are already building up in your eyes, and they’re falling down in waterfalls down your cheeks before EZ can reach to wipe them away.

“I’m so fucking sorry. It’s my fault.” He sits beside you and takes your hand, raising it to his lips. He leaves a kiss on every single tip of your fingers. “I killed him. It’s all my fucking fault.”

The sobs wreck through your body like a tsunami, and you drown beneath their intensity as you cradle your bump. You don’t even hear him. You refuse to hear him.

EZ wraps his arms around your shoulders and pulls you into his embrace, his hand cradling the back of your head as he pushes it to rest on his chest. He can’t look at you so broken—so destroyed.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

His other palm rubs your back up and down in a motion that is supposed to be soothing, but it doesn’t do shit to make it hurt less. You let him comfort you, giving into his embrace as you weep and clutch the back of his kutte in tight fists.

EZ sits that way with you for a while, rubbing your back and keeping you close. He doesn’t speak, only offers his presence and affection as comfort. He knows if he opens his mouth again, he’ll admit to what he’s done—this time for real.

“How am I supposed to go on?” You sob into his chest, your whole body trembling.

EZ just holds you tighter, his lips pressed to the crown of your head. “One day at a time.”

“I’m supposed to raise our daughter on my own? That’s so fucking cruel. Why did the world take him away from me?” your words are almost muffled as you get them out through the tears and sobs.

He looks down at you, his face etched with guilt. He’s glad your head is pressed to his chest and you can’t see it. You’d put the puzzle pieces together faster than he could mutter a single word.

He rubs his thumb back and forth between your shoulder blades. “I don’t know. But you’re strong. I know you’re strong enough to get through this.”

He puts on a facade before placing a hand under your chin and lifting it so you can look him in the eye. “I know you are.”

“No, Ezekiel, I’m not. I can’t do this,” you argue, shaking your head furiously. “I want him back,” you cry out, and it breaks his heart even more. It was his fault. He did this to you.

“I know. I know.” EZ says this over and over again, rubbing circles on your back.

He stays the night, cradling you in his arms as you sob and scream. And then he stays another night and another day keeping you company and helping with daily tasks. You don’t even realize that weeks have passed, and he’s still there when you wake up and when you go to sleep.

He’s there holding your hand when your little girl is born and when she says her first word. He never left, taking on the role of being a dad figure for your child. It felt wrong, but you never stopped him, either.

You didn’t stop him when one night his lips found peace pressed against yours and when he rolled on top of you, giving you pleasure you haven’t felt for a long while. You didn’t stop him when he moved in and became a constant presence in your baby’s life. Before you even knew it, she was calling him ‘papa.’ It made your heart clench painfully.

EZ took the opportunity and treated it as his only chance at redemption. He wanted to give you the life you wanted to have with the man he took away from you.

Sometimes the guilt was too much, and he had to leave for a few days to get it back under control. But he always came back.

He was good at lying, after all—lying with his hands covered in blood. Such a beautiful betrayal.

#ezekiel ez reyes x reader #ezekiel reyes x reader #ez reyes x reader #mayans m.c.#mayansmc #mayans #mayans mc #ez reyes #neron creeper vargas x reader #creeper x reader #neron vargas x reader #ez reyes x you #ez reyes x female reader

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bullet-prooflove · 11 months

Text

Promise Me - EZ Reyes x Reader (NSFW)

Tagging: @annetje @infinity-mars @danzer8705 @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @est1887 @the-wandering-lunatic @alwaysachorusgirl @anime-weeb-4-life @vannabanana1995 @multifandomloversworld @camelia35 @queeniesdiary @lilvampirina @princessghost-24 @genius2050 @mortal--soul @buddinglinguist @spookyboogyuniverse @spaghettificationandpretzels @oureternalbond @sclitvdes @appreciatelove @weiwei0210

It’s slow the way EZ loves you, gentle and methodical. He chases the shape of your body with large palms and heated fingertips that trail over the scars that ended your career as a dancer. His lips follow suit, brushing over the indented skin as he parts your thighs. There isn’t a part of you he doesn’t find beautiful, every mark tells a story, every blemish another chapter. He learns to read them as if they’re his favourite novel, memorising your hitched breathing and needy whimpers.

You’re a work of art, the finest poetry and the sweetest fucking thing he’s ever feasted on.

When he enters you, he feels fucking alive for the first time in almost a decade. His senses are ablaze, his synapses erupting with a thousand tiny sparks as he draws you closer. His hands are everywhere, touching, stroking, kneading, anything to keep the skin to skin contact as he makes love to you in freshly laundered sheets. He kisses you like the world is about to end, as if his life depends on it and he needs the sensation of you just to survive. He swallows down your moans and drinks in your pleasure, chasing that ecstasy until he has you on the cusp.

Desperate, wanton, for him, only for him, you tell him.

It drives him over the edge, he spills his release into you, looking into your eyes as you fall with him. It’s like tumbling over a cliff face, reckless and exhilarating all at the same time. In the moment he clutches you close, his forehead coming to rest upon yours as he tries to catch his breath. He’s overwhelmed and overwrought, there’s an ache in his chest because he knows there’s no going back after tonight. He’s so fucking in love with you, it hurts.

“Hey, hey.” You whisper against the corner of his mouth. “I’m right here with you, ok?”

He can’t speak, can’t bring himself to voice the emotions that are resonating through him. He looks at you helplessly and he knows that you see it, knows that you understand that he’s struggling, that it’s all too much and not enough at the same time.

“Hey, I love you EZ.” You tell him earnestly. “That’s not going to go away anytime soon.”

“Promise me.” He murmurs against your lips, his thumb trailing over the apple of your cheek. “Promise me that you mean it when you say it.”

“I mean it darling boy,” You say, your lips ghosting over the base of his palm. “I love you Ezekiel Reyes.”

Love EZ? Get added to his tag list!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

#ez reyes x reader #ezekiel reyes #ez reyes #ez reyes x you #ezekiel reyes x reader #ezekiel reyes x you #mayans fx #mayans mc #mayans

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justreckin · 5 months

Note

🤎 multiple kisses / kisses all over / kiss after kiss

for fleve, or for platonic Eve and Ezekiel if that floats your boat

no hurry and no pressure!!

Genuinely shocked that I actually have something for this. And it’s only been a few days 🤪 Now here's hoping you like it.

Waking up the morning after vanquishing Apep was... not fun.

Eve groaned, head already pounding, her whole back on large ache, her throat so sore that even just the action of groaning had her wanting to go back to sleep and not wake up for another century.

“How’re you feeling?” Flynn stood in the doorway, already fully dressed.

Eve glared at him.

“Okay, yeah, that’s fair.” Flynn crossed the room, coming round to her side of the bed and settling several jars on her nightstand, “Can you sit up?”

Eve gave it a valiant effort. When that went about as nowhere as she expected it to go, Flynn reached down to help her. His arm was gentle wrapping around her shoulders, but the pressure on the bruising and the intolerable stretch of abused muscles made Eve whimper. Flynn froze, and Eve spared half a moment to be grateful he hadn’t dropped her. “Just,” she gasped, “go slow. Hurts.”

Flynn nodded, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I’m sorry.”

Eve hummed, “What’ve you got?”

“Bruise balm. The stuff Judson used to make always smelt vile. But this,” Flynn opened the jar, giving it an experimental sniff, “Seems like Jenkins cracked the code.”

Eve was more than a little familiar with the Jenkins’ miraculous bruise balm, “Anything too strong messes with Cassandra’s head. And it gave Jake a headache.”

Flynn began applying the cream to her back, mumbling something about medicine and scent. Eve was mostly just glad she hadn’t bothered to get dressed last night after their we-made-it-out-alive celebrations. Putting anything on this morning was something she’d only be willing to try after the miracle cream soothed away enough of the ache for her to feel half human again.

Coming back around to her front, Flynn frowned at the bruising on her throat. “What happened here?”

“Apep,” Eve said, shifting her shoulders experimentally.

“When did he get close enough to you to grab you?”

“When he-as-General-Rockwell flung me into those boxes.”

“She picked you up by the throat?” Flynn yelped. Eve arched an unimpressed eyebrow and Flynn hurried to begin applying the balm to the bruises on her neck. “It’s lucky she was possessed,” he muttered, “and Apep’s vanquished. Either of them try coming after my wife again and they’ll be sorry. I’m very good with a sword, trained by Excalibur and everything. Y’know, I’ll bet Cal would be happy to help--”

“Wife?”

Flynn froze. “I, uh, well, I mean. Significant other. Girlfriend. Partner, really. Guardian. Definitely Guardian.”

Taking pity on him, Eve slipped a hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulling out the ring there.

“Wife, huh?” she smirked at him, taking the time to examine the ring she now held.

“It, uh, it was my mother’s... How, how long did you know about...?”

“A while.”

“I, I wanted to, but with Apep, and the end of the world...”

Eve slipped the ring onto the fourth finger of her left hand, “I think I like the sound of wife.”

Flynn practically lunged for her. Landing a quick peck to her lips, he pulled away before she could respond. Moments later his lips were on her left cheek, then her right, her forehead. Eve didn’t even realize she’d closed her eyes until two gentle kisses landed on each of the lids. As her eyes fluttered open, Flynn landed a playful kiss on her nose, before drawing back to kiss first her left, then right hand, then the ring now on her finger.

Standing tall once more, he smirked at her as if he knew exactly what her reaction would be. And, well - Eve grabbed hold of the lapels of his jacket, yanking him into one more, proper, kiss - he probably did.

#the librarians #eve baird #flynn carsen

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ezekiel-krishna · 1 year

Text

Zodiac Signs Observations 💫

💎 Cute things about the signs! 💎

✴ Aries: The blush that runs through their cheeks whenever they get shy yet excited while explaining something..

✴ Leo: Them always being ready to help others at unexpected moments! They are often more considerate than any other sign..

✴ Sagittarius: Their encouragement and acceptance towards others! They rarely judge people and always see the best in people regardless of labels..

✴ Taurus: They are able to make any hug feel so full of love and warm, their gentleness..

✴ Virgo: The way they like think of the comfort of others when they make big plans..

✴ Capricorn: Their laugh always sounds soft regardless of their usual tone of voice, its always nice to listen to them just have fun..

✴ Gemini: Their ability to immerse themselves in the things they enjoy, shutting the outside world completely out..

✴ Libra: Them always talking with a lot of passion about their interests, excited to share every single thing they know about it..

✴ Aquarius: Their love for animals! They are usually very good with animals and take great care of them..

✴ Cancer: Their habit of making sure they pay attention to people they are talking to! They don't like to be ignored, so because of this they don't ignore or interrupt other people either..

✴ Scorpio: Them playing with their fingers when thinking back on things that happened that they, things they are grateful for..

✴ Pisces: Their hand gestures when talking about something really important, more than not they try to make themselves as clear as possible while not loosing track of the mood of the situation..

Please Reblog if you enjoy reading my Obervations .. 💫

For Consultations, Refer to My Pinned Post ✅

Or Chat me on Reddit ✅

https://www.reddit.com/user/Seer-Ezekiel/

#astro community #astrology #vedic astrology #astro observations #astro notes #astroworld #astroblr #advertising #tarot reading #astroloji

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altheneum-writings · 6 months

Text

VOLUME TROPICAL: CAMP IN, CAMP OUT

EXTRA NOTE: ALL CHARACTERS HAVE AGED UP TO BE AT LEAST 18 - 19 YEARS OF AGE (cause as a kid, I always thought they were 18 - 19 with how they looked)

ISLAND

[Courtney]

= busy making plans for her team to win

[Duncan]

= carving wood, hm

[Gwen]

= writing in her diary

[Trent]

= making a song on his guitar

[Bridgette]

= surfing on her surfboard

[Geoff]

= partying out

[Noah]

= reading a book

[Cody]

= seems to be doing...something at least

WORLD TOUR:

[Alejandro]

= scheming something..

[Sierra]

= typing on her phone somehow

ISLAND OF THE SLAUGHTERED

extra notes:

Chris did not go back on the island until about 3 years later, so everyone as spirits were forced to age in their spiritual bodies. they are all 18 - 19 years old, if not 20. you are of the same age. here are three scenarios you guys can see here

Scenario 1: You as reader, are not really a helper of Chris, in which the spirits sensed and try to warn you before ending up befriending you and getting attached to you

Scenario 2: You as reader ARE helping Chris, unknowing of the horrors seeking out for you; you manage to find ways of befriending the spirits and they found out you were here to find their bodies and give them proper funerals

Scenario 3: REVENGE OF THE ISLAND where you take the place of Dawn, you are a sweet and gentle person, which is how the spirits got attached to you without you even interacting with them much.

Rule 1; Find him quickly [Ezekiel]

= seeking

Rule 2; Backstabbers get what they deserve. [Lindsay]

= silenced

Rule 3; Be aware of the differences [Sadie]

= Were there flowers there before?

Rule 4; Don't look at his face [Justin]

= reflecting

Rule 5; Once you see her, don't turn around [Beth]

= staring

Rule 6; Everything is okay [Tyler]

= stalking, hearing

Rule 7; Mind your business [Noah]

= was that a hum you hear?

Rule 8; Don’t start a fight you can’t finish. [Bridgette]

= hiding

Rule 9/10; Give him what he wishes, Give it to him now. [Geoff/Owen]

= just inside the tent, don't wake them up

Rule 11; Don't ever harm nature [DJ]

= guiding the animals

Rule 12; Never interrupt him [Trent]

= a guitar is strumming

Rule 13; Don’t mess with things that aren’t yours. [Harold]

= the tv is just static

Rule 14; Never deny your wrongdoings [Courtney]

= ''SHOW YOUR HONESTY, NO VOICE IS NEEDED TO BE HEARD'' (IOTS!Courtney x mute!reader scenario)

= ...

Rule 15; L̴҉̴͙͖̞̳̜̖ͣͧ̑̑͜͞͠͞͠e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞A҉҉̦̣̤͔̟̩̋̿̏ͦ̈́̍͟͠V̶̝̐̀͟͟͝E҉̰̰͎̆͞T҉̘͙͖̠̓ͦ͑̄͜͜͟͞H̴̶̵҉̨̡̛̼͎̫͓̒́̔ͩ͜͟͠͞͞e̵̡̫̫͍͕̎ͭ̐͟͟͝͞i҉̧̯̤̙͔̑ͧ̅̔ͦ́͜͟͢͝͠s҉̝̭̦͚̑ͯ̌͡l̶҉̰͚͖͕̍̈́̅͗̏̇͢͜͜͝A҉҉̦̣̤͔̟̩̋̿̏ͦ̈́̍͟͠n̸͐̈́͟͟͝d҉̴̷̧̢̛̖͔̤ͯ̔̑̄͢͟͡͠n̸͐̈́͟͟͝o҉̢̡̲͇̌͗̀͢͝W̵̶̸̻̼͉̱̄͗ͭ͟͢͢͠ [Heather]

= stuck in the fridge

#total drama island x reader #island of the slaughtered x reader #total drama world tour x reader #total drama #total drama island #island of the slaughtered #total drama world tour

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miniscule-meow · 10 months

Text

Isabell and the Lads CH2: The Healing Process (2.2)

Word Count: ~5.7k (I should have made this two parts, oops. Enjoy this huge chapter)

Warnings: Blood/Injury

First Part| Last Part | Next Part

Ezekiel brings her over to the kitchen and sets her down on the section of the counter that is near the sink, a safe distance away from where he will be cooking. He looks around for a moment before grabbing a clean plush washcloth and putting it beside her.

“That might be more comfortable than just sitting on the counter,” he says. His voice is so gentle. For how stern his face makes him seem, he is proving to be a very soft-spoken individual.

He nods once as she settles onto the cloth, watching him as he begins bustling around the kitchen. He pulls things from cabinets and from the fridge, and he starts cooking. His movements are confident so he must know what he’s doing. Soon, he sets a small plate in front of her. Well, it’s small for him. It’s certainly not small compared to her.

“Sorry I don’t have a plate your size, or any utensils you can use. So, I hope you don’t mind eating with your hands until we can figure something out,” he presses his mouth flat, his brow knitting closer. A look she’s assuming is apologetic, or perhaps contemplative of future solutions, or just generally displeased at the situation. He probably has better things to do than babysit her. “If you just dip the pancakes in the syrup, it’ll be less messy.” He offers, taking her away from her ‘what did that face mean’ guessing game.

She looks at the plate. There’s a short stack of flat, round ‘pancakes’ he had called them. Cake made in a pan; it makes sense. He has a plate of his own, though his are much larger. The ones he made for her must only be about the size of a quarter to him.

It’s nice that he’s trying so hard to accommodate her. He’s not just giving her a pinch of his own food as an afterthought. Zeke has made her a plate, and he’s tried to make it manageable for her size. That alone is more kindness than she has ever experienced from a human.

“Thank you,” she says looking at the food before her.

She rips a strip off the warm pancake and dips it in the syrup as Zeke had instructed. It’s heavenly. It’s much nicer than any of the food she’s made for herself since living on her own.

“Do you like it?” Zeke asks, stealing a glance her way.

“Oh my gosh, yes,” she says, nodding enthusiastically and tearing herself another bite. A faint smile pulls at Zeke’s lips as he turns back to his own plate.

“So, if you don’t mind me asking, are you able to cook much usually?” He asks her before taking a bite himself.

“Um, not really. I mean, my supplies are kind of limited. I don’t have a store that I can go to for stuff, I have to borrow everything. If I want something warm, I can usually find rice? Otherwise, I guess I eat a lot of cereal, granola, chips, and breadcrumbs. You know, things that are easy to find and that wouldn’t be missed.”

He nods slowly, glancing at her with another look she can’t read. Whatever he’s thinking, he doesn’t say it out loud. They continue to eat in a comfortable quiet. Isabell just tries to not focus on the monolithic bites that Zeke is able to consume at a time. The very idea sends a chill down her spine, but he remains on the other side of the counter enjoying his own pancakes and leaves her be to enjoy hers. So, she’s able to mostly ignore him. She feels worlds better now that she has had a proper warm meal. Her own anxieties were only being exacerbated by her empty stomach.

After they eat, Zeke gives her the corner of a wet paper towel for her to clean up with, and he gives her a tiny spoon of medicine.

“I don’t know what an equivalent of a pill would be, so… this is a cold and flu medicine, but the main ingredient is acetaminophen,” he says, then adds, “a pain reliever.” She takes it, and it is disgusting. After that, Zeke helps her get clean bandages on her leg. The old bandage sticks uncomfortably to her wound, coming unstuck with a sound not dissimilar to Velcro. He wets a q-tip in that same burning liquid as before and she grimaces as he cleans the blood away from her stitches. He puts a thin layer of that anti-bacterial goo on, and she lets him gently wrap her leg with a fresh bandage. It amazes her all over again how gentle he can be as she watches. She stays as still as possible as his gigantic fingers gingerly manipulate her tiny limb. Seeing his massive fingers against her leg, it makes her feel so… small.

When he’s done, he pulls his hands away slightly, and takes her in. She still doesn’t like the feeling of being seen, the weight of his gaze resting solely on her as his eyes flick across her face. It’s like he’s trying to figure out what’s going on in her mind, just as much as she’s trying to figure out what’s going on in his.

“I was doing a bit of research, tomorrow you should be able to get your stitches wet if you wanted to take a shower or something. I’m sure we can figure out a way to make that happen for you.” He stands before her, propped up on his elbows, with his forearms against the counter and his hands still surrounding her on either side. He’s not close enough to touch her, but he could be if that’s what he decides to do. She can see his fingers shifting out of the corner of her eye. She nods, not trusting herself to say anything right now.

Satisfied with that, he slowly pushes himself off the counter and begins cleaning the dishes. Her shoulders relax a bit as he gives her space.

“So, I don’t have anything on the agenda today really. Is there anything that you want to do?” he asks, glancing her way.

“Anything that I want to do?” She repeats.

“Sure. Something you like to do for fun, or to pass the time. What do you enjoy?”

“Oh. Um…” she trails off thinking about this. “I’m not really sure. I don’t really…” Most of her time is spent traversing the walls and borrowing, when she does have free time she checks her gear, takes inventory of her stock, works on her maps of the apartments, or she upgrades something. There’s always something to do. She wouldn’t really call any of that fun.

When she was younger, she would race with her brother, they would make up extra rules or their own obstacles. Looking back now, it seems like it was mostly just fun borrower training. She couldn’t possibly do an obstacle course with the state her leg is in, and certainly not against a human. She doesn’t even want to imagine what that would look like. What else? She used to play games with her family. That’s something.

“I used to like to play card games with my family, but that was a long time ago and… I don’t really remember the rules. And, I don’t have any cards… I guess even if I did have cards, you would be too big to…” He glances at her again and she trails off. Maybe it wasn’t something after all. “Um… What do you like to do?” She asks, turning the question to him.

“I like to read, mostly. But I also like playing games or watching movies with Marcus. Usually we play video games, but I bet we have cards around here somewhere. Of course, they would be pretty big for you,” he says.

“I’ve never played any video games. I’ve seen a few movies, but not all the way through. They were just on sometimes when I would go out borrowing. Um. I like to read, but I don’t ever really get the chance to.”

“Oh, you can read?” He looks at her curiously. “Sorry, that was rude of me, I just thought—” he trails off. Giving up on recovering his thought, he turns back to the dishes.

“No, it’s okay. My parents taught me how to read so I could tell if things were poisonous,” she shrugs nonchalantly.

“Oh,” his mouth presses flat again.

“My brother used to make fun of me when we would go out, I would always try to read the magazines in the house. I never really had time to read more than the cover though. Pages can be hard to turn when they’re longer than you are tall,” she laughs.

“That makes sense,” he says slowly, apparently not finding her observational humor to be funny. “Forgive me, but… your family they—”

“They’re not around anymore,” she cuts him off. “That’s why I had to move. It was um… really bad, and I miss them a lot. I… I don’t really want to talk about it anymore than that, if that’s alright,” she says, hugging herself and shifting uncomfortably.

“Right, that’s fine. I’m sorry. Um, well, hey. I might have something that you will like. Give me a minute.” He turns the water off and dries his hands with a towel. He walks off into the house, returning shortly after with some kind of device. It looks like a phone but it’s bigger. “This is an eReader.” He says, setting it in front of her. “Basically, you can put whatever book you want in here, and you just press these buttons to navigate it. You can also highlight and make notes. You can make your own library of books in there,” he rests his hands against the edge of the counter, leaning forward slightly.

“Woah,” she breathes, too enamored with the device in front of her to be worried about his looming form.

“I have a couple books in there already, but I don’t use it all that often anymore. You’re more than welcome to use it if that interests you.”

“Yeah, yeah that’s- this is really cool. Thank you.” She glances up at him and is surprised by how far she has to tilt her head up to see his face. He’s so effortlessly intimidating. She would bet that he doesn’t even know what he’s doing right now. Then again, he does seem to be awfully methodical. Maybe he knows exactly what he’s doing. She knows that she hasn’t known him for long at all, but he doesn’t seem to be the type that would intentionally want to loom over her and intimidate her. She interrupts her own internal tug-of-war to look back down at the eReader in front of her. Can this thing really hold a library? That would make reading so much easier for her! She would be able to turn pages without having to keep the book balanced or worrying about tearing a page. She would just have to push a button!

“So, we can just hang out and read for a while if that’s something you’d like? Otherwise, we could think of something else to do?” He looks at her, tilting his head slightly, prompting her to decide.

She musters the courage to look all the way up to his face once more and she nods, and despite how it makes her heart squeeze itself up into her throat she gives him her best attempt at a smile. Isabell really is grateful; he’s giving her the opportunity to do something she has always wanted and has never been able to achieve until now. It’s just that he’s so massive it’s hard to not be nervous when he’s this close. She tries to give herself grace. She spent her whole life being trained to avoid humans, to hide from them at all costs. Unfortunately, one pleasant afternoon isn’t going to make her unlearn all of that. Doubts still claw at the back of her mind, whispering darkly that all of this is somehow just an elaborate act to get her to drop her guard enough for the two humans to swoop in and break her.

She shakes off those thoughts as Ezekiel offers her a finger to help her to her feet. She takes it, having to lean on him more than she would like, her leg not pleased with the movement she’s been putting it through today. Once she’s standing, he brings his other palm forward for her to climb into. He picks her up and takes her, along with the eReader, back into the living room. He sets her up on the corner of the couch, draping a blanket over a throw pillow, so she won’t fall into any cracks. He helps prop up her reader as well. Once she’s all settled in, he plays some instrumental music quietly in the background, grabs a book of his own, and takes a place on the other end of the couch. She loses track of time as they read together quietly.

~*~

“Look at all the cool stuff I got!” Marcus announces loudly, jolting both her and Zeke from their books as he bustles in, full of energy and carrying several large shopping bags full of who knows what. He sits himself on the floor and starts pulling out packages. Zeke gently moves her over to the coffee table, setting their books aside, he takes a seat on the floor as well.

Marcus pulls doll accessories out of the bags, sets of plates and silverware. He brings out several craft supplies, explaining that they could “D.I.Y” some furniture for her. She doesn’t have time to ask what that means before he’s on to the next thing.

“Oh, check this out,” he pulls out a few packages of doll clothes. “Since what you’re wearing, um, it kinda… has… blood all over it. Um. Yeah,” he pales looking her over. She looks down at her tattered outfit. He’s right. Her pants are missing one leg from when she had to cut herself out of them. Her shirt is ripped, everything is blood splattered. She is a right mess. “I think these have Velcro on the back which might not be super comfortable, and I’m not sure about the sizes, but Zeke sews! I figured this would be a good start, and he would know how to fix them up for you.” Marcus beams, setting the packages down for her to inspect. Zeke says nothing but he quirks an eyebrow as he leans over to see what project Marcus just volunteered him for.

Her blood chills at the sight of all of the doll clothes, but it feels like her heart freezes solid when he presents a pink, plastic dollhouse.

“I got this! Once again, not sure if it’ll be exactly the right size for you. But I figured this would be easier than one of those that you completely build yourself. I mean, if you would prefer that we can totally make that happen, I’m sure. Those things are crazy though, and they take a really long time to set up. People have like, made some that have working lights and running water and everything. It’s wild. But for now, like a temporary thing, I thought this would be a good way to give you a place that’s your size. Or at least… closer to your size than our apartment. And eventually we can probably modify it to have a lot of cool stuff too,” He continues chattering about dollhouses while fiddling with the little door.

Seeing his fingers interact with the object only magnifies the scale between them. He’s massive. It was easy to ignore when they were behind a screen, or when Zeke was quietly reading, just outside of her peripherals. But now, watching his gigantic digits manipulate the plastic door in front of her, it brings his size into a new light.

Isabell can feel her pulse hammering in her ears. She looks up to Zeke, who is predictably staring down at her, trying to gauge her reaction. He locks eyes with her for a moment, his mouth pressing flat, he begins to fidget with one of his lip piercings with his teeth. His eyes drag across the dollhouse then they flick over to his roommate.

“Marcus,” he says simply, cutting off the blonde’s rambling. Once he has his attention, he tilts his head over to Isabell.

“Oh,” Marcus responds, noticing her wavering expression, “you don’t like it.” He deflates a bit as he says this. “Is it because it’s all pink and stuff? We can fix that. We’ll totally remodel it, and you won’t even recognize it when we’re done,” He smiles down at her, trying to get her approval.

She just shakes her head. It’s too much. It’s all too much. The two giants sitting before her, the mountain of doll clothes and accessories, the toy house. She feels panic bubbling up inside her chest, making it hard for her to breathe. She has to get out of here. But she can’t. There is no escape for her. She’s on top of a coffee table, her leg is completely shot, and the two giants are forming massive walls around her. She’s trapped. History seems to be repeating itself.

“What? Sorry, what did I do?” Marcus says to Zeke, who is glaring daggers at him. They were having such a nice time; he must be upset with Marcus for barging in and seemingly setting them back to square one.

“Hey,” Zeke’s attention turns down to her, his hand slides between her and the dollhouse. He’s not trying to grab her, though she does flinch as he approaches. It’s enough to pause the torrent of panic and bad memories flooding her mind and draw her attention to him. She is grateful to see that his eyes are much softer than when he was looking at Marcus. She thinks she would dissolve if he looked at her with such harsh intensity. “Just tell us what’s wrong.” His voice is gentle as he coaxes her to speak.

“I-I’m not- I’m not staying- I’m not staying here,” She clumsily stumbles through the sentence, her anxiety closing its wicked fingers around her throat and making it hard for her to speak. “I-I’m not- I can’t- I-I-I won’t- I won’t be your-your- your little doll. I- It’s- I- You! You said! You said you won’t- you wouldn’t keep me here. You said, you said just, just until my-my-my leg. Until my leg was- until it was better. And you- you- you wouldn’t—” she’s losing it, and fast. Her words fumble into one another, and her sentences lose what little cohesion they had. Her breathing is quickly becoming shallow and sporadic.

Zeke blinks down at her, his expression measured as always. The weight of his gaze is suffocating. She can’t tell what he’s thinking, just that he’s observing her, analyzing her. Her skin burns with the sensation of being seen. Everything is all wrong. Her heart is pounding so strongly, it feels like it wants to explode out of her chest. Zeke remains still, aside from continuing to fidget with his lip piercing, a nervous habit perhaps? It’s too soon to know with him.

“Okay,” he says after a moment of consideration, “you’re alright. Just—”

“No, I’m not!” She raises her voice at the human towering over her. Her tone has such a ferocity to it, that it surprises her. “None of this is alright! I’m stuck here. My-my leg… My leg is- is- it’s—” she can’t even think of a word to describe this. All she can manage is a strained whine as she looks at the wound seeping through the bandages. “I don’t- I- I can’t—” she shakes her head, feeling hysterical considering the danger this wound puts her in. Glancing up, she sees Zeke still looming over her, watching her. “A-and you!” She throws a hand up towards him, his eyebrows twitch up, and his eyes widen as he flinches back. “You just keep staring at me!” As soon as the words leave her mouth his eyes divert away from her. His hand slinks back, withdrawing towards himself, giving her space. “Everything- Everything hurts,” her voice breaks pathetically. “I don’t belong here I- I just want to go home. I don’t fit in this world a-and I- I don’t want to- to be your- your little doll. I—”

“Isabell,” Marcus speaks up. He rests his forearms on the coffee table, leaning in a little closer. She tenses visibly, her shoulders drawing up towards her ears. She completely expects his gargantuan fingers to wrap around her and snatch her tightly into his palm. “Cool it. You’re freaking out,” his voice is firm, but not unkind. He doesn’t move any closer to her. She looks up at him incredulously. Cool it. Like she’s being irrational for having this reaction. “Let’s just all take a breath, alright?” He takes a deep inhale and breathes it out slowly. “Do it with me,” he instructs when she doesn’t follow his lead. He repeats his slow breath, watching her to make sure she’s breathing with him.

She does her best, but it’s all wrong. Her inhale is shallow, and her exhale is shaky at best. Her heart skips, waiting for the human to scold her for not completing the task correctly.

“Good,” Marcus says, surprising her by giving her an encouraging nod. “You keep going just like that, alright?” She tries to even her breathing as Marcus continues to speak.

“Listen. Here’s the deal. You’re stuck with us.” Marcus states matter-of-factly, and Zeke makes a small sound like he’s about to protest, or advocate for her. Marcus just shrugs, cutting him off before he can voice his opinion. “I’m sorry, it is what it is. We just need to face the facts here. You’re really hurt. There’s no way you’ll be able to… I don’t know what it is you do, but if it’s something that involves, uh, walking? Then I think you’re out of luck.”

“Marcus,” Zeke begins, warning in his tone. He steals a quick glance down to her.

“Well! Tell me I’m wrong.” Marcus fires back at Zeke.

“You’re…” Zeke pauses, finding he is unable to refute his roommate’s claim. His attention drifts back down to Isabell, “would it really be all that bad?” He asks her.

“Just thrusting my life into the hands of two giant humans that won’t let me go home and want me to live in a dollhouse? Sure, I guess it could be worse. You could have brought home a birdcage.” She scowls up at him, his unchanging expression only sparks more frustration in her.

“Stop being so stubborn,” Zeke says, looking away with a frustrated sigh, her first indication that she’s breaking through his neutral façade. She takes it as a victory, not letting herself fear what might happen if she actually manages to annoy this stoic human to the point of breaking through his calculated resolve. “Just let us take care of you,” he says, looking down at her again. These words send a new wave of icy fear through her veins.

“I don’t- I don’t want to be something that needs to be taken care of.” She looks between the two humans, her eyes wide as if she’s waiting for one of them to lash out.

“It’s not like that. If Marcus got sick, or hurt, then I would want to take care of him. He would do the same for me. It’s just something that friends do for one another,” He explains, she can tell she’s wearing his patience thin.

“We can’t be friends. You’re human, you’re not even supposed to know I exist. How are we supposed to be friends,” she says.

“Okay fine, it’s just human decency to want to help someone that needs it, how about that?” He raises his brows pointedly, challenging her to respond. She doesn’t have a retort, so she lets the conversation fall silent.

“Just let us take care of you,” he says again. His voice is almost a whisper, and his tone is almost pleading. When she meets his gaze, she finds that he is looking at her so sincerely, so tenderly that it causes her breath to hitch in her throat. The look they share tugs on her heart, and she wants to believe him. It’s just a brief moment they share before his mask of indifference returns so smoothly, she could question whether or not she just imagined that he ever looked at her any differently. “Look,” the familiar air of aloof distance returns to his tone, the icy calculation returns to the way he observes her. “I don’t own you, and I don’t want to. You’re just someone I want to help. If you don’t want my help, I’m not going to force you to take it.” He casts a glance over to Marcus before he stands, his massive figure rising high above her. She doesn’t dare try looking up after him, even firmly seated on the coffee table the thought of witnessing him towering his full height over her makes her dizzy. He returns to sitting on the far end of the couch, and he picks up his book, letting Marcus handle this.

“Alright. You know what? Yeah, how about this,” the look in Marcus’s eye concerns her, as he decides how to articulate whatever plan he has brewing in his head. “If you can get yourself off the coffee table, we’ll just let you leave right now,” This is enough to snag the attention of Zeke as well, who just distanced himself from the situation. He glances up from his book warily, immediately regretting letting Marcus handle this. “Zeke and I won’t need to keep an eye on you if you’re perfectly capable of getting around. Everything can just go back to normal, no strings attached. Alright?”

Marcus scoots back, gesturing to her that the floor is hers. Get off the coffee table and go home.

He’s letting her leave.

No, it’s a trick. It has to be. He knows as well as she does that her leg isn’t going to let her perform that task right now. Even just standing feels impossible. Never mind jumping or climbing.

She shouldn’t have pushed it earlier today. If she hadn’t spent most of her energy climbing down the kitchen counter and running across the hall, she might have a chance at this. It didn’t get her any closer to going home and it certainly didn’t help her wound, that’s for sure.

Part of her supposes he’s right. If she can’t even get down off the coffee table, how does she expect herself to be able to go borrowing. She knows her supplies aren’t nearly stocked enough for her to be able to wait this one out. But part of her is left wondering, what if she can do it. Sure, it feels impossible, but he’s letting her try. Even if it’s just to prove to her that she’s small and weak, she might be able to prove him wrong here.

She scowls, gritting her teeth, and with shaking limbs she pushes herself onto her hands and knees. She doesn’t typically do this sort of thing with an audience. With more effort than it should have taken, she gets herself on her feet. Isabell struggles to gain her balance, trying to avoid putting too much weight on her leg. She limps her way to the edge of the table.

She pulls her hook off the side of her pack, and slings it over her shoulder, glancing between the two humans. Zeke’s eyes are glued on her now, his book set neatly aside. When she returns his gaze, he looks away from her quickly, seemingly having taken her comment about him staring at her to heart. Marcus looks unamused, he watches her, his arms crossed, and eyebrows raised.

She kneels down at the corner of the table, trying not to wince as the movement pulls at her stitches. She peers over the edge and tosses her hook. It loops around the table leg, and she pulls, securing it to itself.

Her hands tremble with nerves. She dangles her legs over the edge of the table. This should be the hardest part. She scoots herself off the edge, and swings down to the table leg. She clips against the furniture with her bad leg, of course she does. She bites back any sound of pain. She manages to steady herself, bracing her legs against the table leg, and leaning back against her rope so that it’s taut. She holds her core and tries to pull a little extra with her arms, but she can’t hide how severely her legs are shaking under the strain.

Zeke begins to shift forward.

“Back off dude,” Marcus says quickly, stopping him in his tracks. “Let her try.”

“This is ridiculous, and incredibly unsafe,” Zeke says, his tone crisp and short.

“Just let her try,” Marcus repeats, recrossing his arms with a shake of his head. Zeke sighs, obviously displeased, but he relents, sitting back and watching her attentively.

She’s moving far slower than she would like to be as she inches her way down towards the floor. Her whole body is protesting. Not to mention, she’s considering for the first time that her ribs might have been more seriously damaged than she originally thought from when she was kicked across that other apartment. At the very least, she knows she’s badly bruised. At worst, something might be broken. Either way, the rope she’s looped around her midsection digs uncomfortably into her sides. It’s an added safety in case she falls. Of course, that would be incredibly unpleasant, the rope snapping against her already bruised, possibly broken ribs. Though, she does get the impression that if she were to fall, both humans would lurch forward to grab her. She’s not sure if she’s comforted or horrified by that.

The goal is obviously, don’t fall.

Though she tries to use her arms and her core as much as possible, she can’t deny that this is a job for her legs. She doesn’t even make it halfway down before the pain in her leg becomes unbearable. It’s pulsing and throbbing with each beat of her heart. She is certain she messed it up during her botched escape plan this morning, she curses herself silently. The skin feels like it’s straining against the stitches, and she feels she’s at danger of either ripping through her skin or breaking a stitch.

Once again, she finds her instincts are split in the middle. In the matter of self-preservation, she needs to prove herself and escape. But she also needs to make sure that her escape doesn’t lead to her being unable to care for herself.

She takes a pause, placing a hand against her injured leg, as if somehow holding it would make it feel any better. Her stomach turns as her hand squishes into the wet bandage, and her hand pulls back, slick with blood. She swallows thickly and wipes her trembling hand off on her shirt.

She needs to stop.

Resigned, she looks up at Marcus and shakes her head. He wins. She can’t even get herself off of a table. How would she possibly survive like this. If she left right now she would either collapse on the way to her home or starve when she runs out of supplies.

“No?” He asks. She shakes her head again, clenching her jaw to keep her lip from quivering as a deep shame from her failure floods her senses. “Alright,” he nods solemnly. He isn’t smug about it, he doesn’t gloat. He gave her an honest try at it, and she couldn’t do it.

Like he said, she’s stuck with them.

It isn’t because the humans are keeping her trapped here, it’s because she physically can’t leave. Even if she could, after that display it has become painfully obvious to her that she would be useless on a borrowing mission. When it comes down to it, she would rather be with these two than with someone like the guy who kicked her halfway across his apartment.

“Zeke, why don’t you go get the first aid stuff,” Marcus says, clearly still in charge of this situation. Zeke follows his instruction without protest as Marcus positions his hand underneath her. She finds purchase on his massive digits and sits her trembling form down in the center of his palm. “You might want to grab some sewing stuff and some craft stuff while you’re up,” Marcus calls across the apartment, as he carefully helps untangle her from her safety rope. Once he gets her free, he pulls her in to his chest, holding her against him. his voice vibrates right through her as he speaks, “I’m sorry this is happening to you,” She supposes this is his attempt at a really big hug. “We can just try to make the most of it though. Yeah?” He gently places her back on the coffee table where she started.

#g/t #giant tiny #gt community #giant #tiny #g/t writing #g/t stories #my writing #isabell and the lads #fluff and angst

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weministertomonsters · 2 years

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Masterlist

(Not sorted in order of date.)

The ones marked with a chili 🌶 are nsfw. 🌶? means it's mildly spicy.

──────────────────

🌶 Werecat (Max) - Part 1 / Part 2

Shadow Creature (Rukha) - Part 1 / Part 2

🌶 Demon (Xavarran) - Part 1 / Part 2

Witch (Ezekiel) - Part 1

Lizardman (Kaelus) - Part 1

Mershark (Seth) - Part 1

🌶 Lycan (Henry) & Half Vampire (Jared) - Part 1

🌶 Dear Princess - Part 1

🌶 Werewolf (Camden) - Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3

Whale-Mer (Kaei) - Part 1

🌶 The Wedded Knight - Part 1

Orc (Oak) - Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4

Demon Z - Part 1

Vampires (Daenyel & Renaya) - Part 1 / Part 2

The Abominable Drider (Ceyli) - Part 1

Before He Was Ruined - Part 1

🌶 Count On Their Claws - Part 1

Spore - Part 1

🌶 The Corinthian - Part 1

Santos: Fallen Saints - Part 1

🌶? Half-Cyborg (Alexandrian) - Part 1

Darlings; There's Something In My Teeth - Part 1

🌶 The Unlovables - Part 1

This Was Once Home: The Gentle Giant - Part 1

🌶 Movie Night - Part 1

🌶 Minotaur-Demon Hybrid - Part 1

🌶 Werewolf Boyfriend - Part 1

Siren Girlfriend (Isa) - Part 1

🌶 Sunshine & The Beast - Part 1

To Break A King - Part 1

🌶 A Shift In Character - Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 /Part 4

🌶 Incubus - Part 1

Point Hope Wolf Farm - Part 1, Part 2

Vampire Teeth - Part 1

Wolfboy - Part 1 / (Excerpt)

Naga Father (Araza) - Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3

Miscellaneous

Une Amourette - Part 1

The Dove Cage - Part 1

Piper And The Vampire - Part 1

(Can be read as stand-alone stories, but there may be connections between stories! 😏)

🌶 Tariq: The Desert Clan - Part 1 / Part 2

🌶 Deathsinger - Part 1 / Part 2

Gone Rogue - Part 1 / Part 2

🌶 Seafood - Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Short concepts/ideas will be tagged as #imagine this (There are 13 of those as of April 2024)

#masterlist #exophilia #monster lover #monster fucker #terato #teratophillia

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helpfromheaven · 2 months

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A Fresh Anointing of the Spirit: Thursday Devotional

Courbevoie, France, May 2023 Ezekiel 36: 26-27 And I will give you a new heart, and I will put a new spirit in you. I will take out your stony, stubborn heart and give you a tender, responsive heart. And I will put my Spirit in you so that you will follow my decrees and be careful to obey my regulations. No matter how long one has been worshiping the Lord, the trials and struggles of life tend…

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#Love #Ezekiel 36 #fruit of the Spirit #gentleness #God&039;s faithfulness #God&039;s Goodness #joy #kindness #Patience #peace #self-control #The Holy Spirit

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cloveroctobers · 1 year

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DECEMBER DRABBLES — 3. Ez Reyes 🌨️

A|N: Although it’s looking like a rough start for my winter prompts this year…I’m still at it and I have to be if I’m inspired to before the energy runs out! Anyways…this may count as a drabble? I love writing fluff for EZ although that man is clearly on a dark path in this point in time. Regardless I instantly saw this one on the prompt list that I’m following and thought, “Ezekiel MFKIN Reyes!”

S/N: + GIF belongs to its rightful owner, I couldn’t exactly pinpoint who created it on google 💚 + touching on the problem of hair in the black community.

PROMPT: #17. “Have you seen my gloves? Seriously? Take them off the dog.”

◢✥◣ ◢✥◣ ◢✥◣ ◢✥◣ ◢✥◣ ◢✥◣ ◢✥◣

You were not off to a good start this morning.

This could be blamed on many aspects that occurred last night…the main one being binge-watching Abbott Elementary (and Sweet Life) was part of it but if anybody asked you, you’d deny it.

It was easy for you to sleep through your ten alarms but having a husband like Ezekiel Lorenzo Reyes, who enjoyed being up at the crack of ass! wouldn’t let you sleep through the fifth alarm.

He was the morning person in the marriage and you were the late-morning person, which is why you slightly thought about changing your hours. You had a successful hair salon business that you shared with your god-brother about half a hour outside of Santo Padre. The work was time-consuming but you enjoyed the idea of perfecting people’s crowns.

You happened to be one of the few accommodating hair stylists out there, having a gentle approach to the tender headed, coming in early and staying late for certain clients if needed. Being pretty fair you did not over-charge for hairstyles like these new hair stylists on the scene often did and took the time to perfect your craft. Doing hair started young for you; the love for hair and tending to your own was the beginning of a eye-opening journey once many salons made you feel demeaned about your texture.

From begging your mom to not drag you to the salons at the age of six to learning what best works for your texture at ten was a whole new awakening for you. Your mother couldn’t do a thing with your hair and wanted it to be relaxed (just like her own) since she wouldn’t take the time or knew how to best manage it. The moment she relaxed your hair, your grandfather let her have it, shockingly. Normally most men stayed out of women’s business (if they knew what was good for them) especially when it came to hair. Your grandfather became a single father having to raise your mother all on his own, after your grandmother passed with kidney disease when your mother was fifteen.

You learned that your grandfather knew how to tend to your mother’s hair—this was something your mother did not want to share. He told you that he tried his best to encourage your mother to love what grew from her scalp just like his wife did. You’ve seen many pictures of your grandmother who always sported a gorgeous fro in every photo.

The photo you adored the most was a picture of her in her wedding dress, looking over her shoulder, light in her eyes, and a forget me not tucked into her fro.

It was beautiful how carefree she seemed, a smile always on her lips and a twinkle in her eye. That’s how you wanted to be, not only in life but with the hair on your head as well.

There were many times that you wished you got the chance to meet your grandmother. Both of your grandparents were also involved in the civil rights movement and your grandfather seemed to be the only person that didn’t mind sharing his story. You were thankful since it seemed like any conversation that you wanted to have was deemed as you talking back—words by your mother, which was a issue.

It was evident that there were deep-rooted problems with your mother that she wasn’t ready to address yet. You tried your hardest to be empathetic but also realized, thanks to your therapist, that it isn’t only your job to connect with your mother. You were healing from your own childhood trauma that she was part of and you didn’t hate her but distance was needed. Love shouldn’t be heavy, especially when it came to the woman that once held you in her womb.

And so you dealt with her verbal abuse as a kid until spending summers in Georgia with your grandfather gave you purpose. You had the idea with your grandfather at just eleven years old to cut your damaged hair off. Your grandfather did the honors of buzzing the rest off for you in the pink tile bathroom and the twinkle that appeared in your eye afterwards…matched his late wife’s.

That moment was kept a secret during your two month stay and you actually did some heads for the very first time for kids on the cul- de-sac. Your grandfather witnessed this with pride and even took you to a salon where you met a woman named Carlotta. She was welcoming and encouraging after learning that you worked on two kid’s heads that came to see her occasionally. Carlotta even let you work in the shop twice a week during your stay and once you started working on a few adults heads (a choice you did on your own after she was dealing with her own personal issues) at eleven years old? She told you had a gift and you knew your purpose.

Now you were running late to the shop, knowing you were pushing it by the time you were fumbling with your hair in the bathroom. The change in weather was making your hair dry and it was time that you did a hair mask soon. You knew your god-brother would give you a mouth-full if you didn’t take care of it before he did your first wig-install in two weeks.

Adding the right amount of oil to your hair and scalp, you combed, brushed, and decided to slick your hair into a Sade braid for the day, adding some elastics to sections of the braid to make it more fun. Once satisfied, you checked the time again as you got back into the bedroom, thankful that EZ made the bed for you and scrambled to grab your earmuffs and bag.

Your first appointment was at 8:45am and you already knew you were going to be somewhat late. Thankfully this appointment was a simple rod-set and wouldn’t take too much time to get your client done. Thudding down the steps of your bungalow, you heard your stomach rumbling and figured you’d just have to UberEATS breakfast to the shop.

Sitting on the bench, you shoved your feet into your trainers then reached for your black trench coat to place over your clothes for the workday.

“Hey. I know you’re not leaving without this.” Ez called out to you, most likely from the dining room.

Sending out a text to your god-brother, you slipped your bag onto your shoulder slightly jogging back to the dining room where your husband sat comfortably at the head of the table. Of course he looked amazing so early in the morning, snug long sleeve white-thermal shirt on, decorated with his tags and grey sweats on and his skin? We loved a moisturized king! He most likely got his pre-workout done already if he was having tea and oatmeal. Usually he only sat down for breakfast if he worked out already and didn’t need to be at the club until later that morning.

EZ looked up from his phone, his hand already held out your YETI which was filled with orange juice. “No coffee and heavy breakfast while you’re on the road. We both know how that doesn’t agree with your system. I already slipped a protein bar into your bag while you were in the shower and the real breakfast should be there by the time you get to the shop.”

“You’re a good man,” you cooed gripping Ez’s chin, his facial hair pricking your fingertips as you connected your lips.

Ez laughed into the kiss after a couple of pecks, “eh, depends who you ask mi amor.”

“I’m not asking anybody anything,” you replied with a shrug of your shoulders, “I know my man.”

“Period, uh.” Ez slipped his hands beneath your trench coat to give your backside in your cozy sweats a nice squeeze.

Pointing at the man you said, “don’t ever do that again.”

Ez smiled up at you, “i promise I won’t. Have a good day sweetheart, let me know when you get there.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You kissed his lips again which made him lick his own.

“Mm, is that a brown sugar chapstick?”

“I have no idea. I just snatched whatever was in the night stand.” You breathed, stepping back from the man who simply nodded his head in understanding, “you heading to the club soon?”

“‘Round eleven or after. Gonna take Sally for a walk, nap and then head out,” EZ answered as he picked up his mug, “it’s your late day right?”

“Yes,” you sighed, “last client is coming in at five. Pray for me.”

“Always do.” Ez grinned, “I love when you do the braid by the way, allows me to see that prettiness in full.”

Having a good gulp of OJ you held out your hand to EZ, your wedding ring glistening in the dining room, which made him smile with fulfillment as he awaited your feedback, “keep treating me well and I might mess around and get pregnant with a real baby instead of a fur baby by new year’s.”

“Please tempt me with a good time.” Ez mentioned, sending a wink your way, making you groan and throw your head back.

Stomping out you yelled, “Bye, Ezekiel!”

“See you later!” Ez chuckled to himself, turning his attention back to his phone once you were out of his sight.

Thankful to have not only a loving husband and a automatic starter, that you forgot to start before Ez called you into the dining room, you flinched as your hands rested on the steering wheel. Immediately your hands went to mess with the knobs to crank the heat up, shaking your head at the brawny man for messing with the temperature in the car.

He was warm blooded and you were always cold. It was a whole debate inside of the house but in the car, you did not comprise despite the increase of gas prices. You couldn’t stand being cold and EZ knew that.

Checking the time again on the dashboard, you searched your glove department for your gloves, then the console, the backseat pockets, and the side holders in the doors but couldn’t find them. Sighing you threw the driver’s side door open again, allowing the winter air to bite at your cheeks as you jogged around your car and back to your home.

You just knew your gloves had to be on the bench and you previously overlooked them. Unlocking the door, which took a little bit of a tussle thanks to the cold, you made a mental note (that you would probably forget during the day) that you or EZ needed to use the WD-40 so neither of you didn’t experience a broken key again this winter.

Zoning in on the bench in the entry way, your eyes scanned the object and then you crouched down to the cubbies, feeling around for the gloves just to not locate them.

“Ez,” you called out, “have you seen my gloves? The Prada ones?”

Lifting your head, you spotted EZ standing down the hallway, your eyes shifting to Sally, your pitbull who had her paws resting up on his thighs, “Seriously? Take them off Sally.”

EZ smiled sheepishly at you as Sally peered over at you in annoyance. It was evident that your girl was sick of his mess too. He was a typical dog dad, taking the girl everywhere he could when he had the car, if you weren’t in the passenger seat you can only guess who was and forcing her into costumes when it was clear she didn’t care to be dressed up. He simply liked bothering your teenage fur baby, that’s all.

“I thought you’d be gone already and wouldn’t mind letting Sally borrow them on our walk,” Ez told you, while you stepped forward and held out your hands for the item.

Sighing Ez took them off Sally’s paws, who dropped them back to the wood floor and sat, watching the exchange.

“You got lucky this time, girl.” Ez pointed at Sally who just blinked and looked over at you.

“I know, he’s a real pain in the ass and if I had the time, I’d beat him up for you.” You told Sally who wagged her tail in response.

Ez huffed as he leaned over, slapping the gloves into your outstretched hands, “I just wanted to have a trial run with her since,” He whispered to you, “I got her some mitts for Christmas to protect her paws for our daily jogs and walks.”

“She’s not gonna wear them,” you shoved your hands into the gloves, “you know Sally trots to her own drum. She might even think they’re chew toys; you saw what she did to those Halloween costumes two months ago.”

Ez stretched at his brow, “have a little faith please. Maybe her favorite holiday is Christmas and she’ll be on her best behavior. We haven’t figured it out yet.”

“Her favorite holiday is sleeping and chewing shit up, then acting like she didn’t do it. It requires minimum effort on her part.”

Sally growled a bit before barking.

“I think you struck a nerve,” Ez joked, “and you might want to keep those gloves in the car if you know what’s good for you.”

Fanning your gloved hands at the two you spun on your heels, “On that note, I’m outta here. love you two, be good.”

“We love you too but…no promises.” Ez murmured as he smiled at your retreating form that began closing the front door, now putting a leash on Sally and giving her a good pet.

◢✥◣ ◢✥◣ ◢✥◣ ◢✥◣ ◢✥◣ ◢✥◣ ◢✥◣

Continue along with my December anthology prompts here.

#mayans mc fx #Mayans mc #mayans mc s4 #mayans mc x reader #ez reyes x black!reader #ez reyes x reader #ezekiel reyes x reader #ezekiel reyes #jd pardo #december prompts #winter prompts #queued #Spotify

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theteasetwrites · 1 year

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Merciless Beauty

Chapter 1: Your Eyes Slay Me Suddenly

❧ Pairing: Knight Daryl Dixon x Princess Reader ❧ Era: Medieval fantasy AU ❧ Pronouns: she/her ❧ Warnings: mentions of blood/gore and violence ❧ Word Count: 5.3k

❧ Before You Read...

❧ Glossary

❧ In This Chapter: Duke Richard of House Grimes and his knight, Sir Daryl, arrive at King Ezekiel's court, though they do not know why they've been invited. Meanwhile, things are not well in the kingdom of Alexandria as a new threat begins to terrorize its citizens. Despite this, the princess dreams of seeing the world outside the castle walls by which she is imprisoned. She meets someone who she thinks might be able to help.

❧ A/N: Well, here it is. The first part of this weird ass thing I'm writing. I realize that this is super cringey but do I care? Well, a little, but you know what, I am having so much fun writing this and learning about medieval stuff so I am happy with it. I will link a "Before You Read..." page so that you guys can get a little more background info about what I'm trying to do here. I know this is kind of a weird AU and stuff so I have some disclaimers in that link. I've also included a link to the Merciless Beauty Glossary, which lists definitions for some of the terminology I will be using throughout the series. I recommend having that document open as you read as you can use it to quickly refer to in case you come across a word you are not familiar with.

Beyond gentle slopes of overgrown emerald pastures rose tall, imposing battlements of limestone, with tiny silhouettes of guards poking out of each crenel. From this distance, they looked hardly menacing, but the king’s guards were diligent, and their prowess in battle was not to be underestimated.

The duke raised the blue flag of Alexandria, signaling to the guards that they were no threat. In response, a guard reached over the wall to wave the same flag.

“They see us,” remarked the duke, pulling on the reins of his golden horse. “Here.” He handed back the worn piece of cerulean fabric to the knight who rode by his side. “Strange customs, but I don’t blame them.”

They moved upon their horses in a dignified trot, the knight’s ebony friesian stallion trained to mirror the movements of the steward’s palomino steed.

“They should be afraid,” said the knight. “The world is a dangerous place. Can’t believe they’ve held out this long.”

The duke flashed him a knowing look, that almost seemed to curl into an amused crack of the lips. “Sir Daryl,” he said, “I’ve always admired your optimism.”

The knight adjusted his feet in the heavy iron stirrups. He’d never quite get used to his lord’s jests. “Sorry,” he spoke simply. A man of few words, Richard always said.

“It’s all right, but you’d be advised to put on a cheerful face for the king. Joviality goes a long way with his type.”

“His type?”

“Unlike you, my friend, King Ezekiel is known for his… good humor.”

Daryl scoffed from the corner of his crooked smirk. “Thanks… What does the king want with you, anyway?”

Richard’s brows knit together in another amused expression of faux offense. “You think I’m not able to acquire a king’s favor? Careful, knight, you’re a free man now, but you could be downgraded to villein if necessary.”

Of course, the serious knight knew that such a threat was meant in good humor. Ten years of loyal servitude to the duke was more than enough reassurance.

The men continued onward, their horses plodding through moors that seemed to stretch on forever. The castle couldn’t come closer for Sir Daryl. He was dreading it, the pomp and circumstance of it all. But then, he knew that when he became a knight. It wasn’t the typical story, in fact. He wasn’t of any kind of good birth, his parents being poor and rather unsuccessful merchants in some other kingdom he’d purposefully forgotten the name of.

No, he wasn’t a nobleman’s son or a squire. He’d earned his title almost reluctantly, through his triumphs and battle prowess in the First War. That is, the war that preceded the Scourge.

A knight’s duty was to protect a lord, of course. He’d managed a position as the protector of Duke Richard’s land, just outside of Alexandria. In exchange for his protection, the knight had a place to live, and not a bad place at all. It was better than any decrepit wooden shack he’d lived in before, and, as far as nobility went, the duke was not a bad man. In fact, he was a good man, and that was hard to come by in times like these.

“But it’s odd,” Richard continued, “I don’t know what the king wants with me. I know he wants me to join his court, but I’ve heard he hasn’t invited anyone to court in ten years, since it broke out.” It, of course, was always understood as a reference to the plague that killed ordinary men with a gruesome fever, then brought them back as snarling, rotting walking dead men that feasted on the flesh of those who were unlucky enough to still be alive.

No one knew where it came from, but many thought the curse was nothing short of the wrath of God Himself. It was the only explanation in a world completely devoid of comfort. Though the idea that a supposedly benevolent god bestowing such a pestilence upon his so-called beloved children was hardly comforting. In these times, people took what they could get.

“Maybe he just wants your wonderful company,” Daryl replied, sure to speak with a sarcastic lilt to his gruff voice.

“No, no,” Richard said. “It doesn’t make sense. Ezekiel and I have only spoken a few times… You know, there’s a princess.”

Oh, yes, everyone knew of the princess, of course, though no one had seen her in years. The gatehouse of that castle hadn’t opened in ten years. No one had come in, and no one had gone out. Until now, of course.

“There’s always a princess,” Daryl huffed. “What does that have to do with anythin’?”

“Well, she’s got to be a woman now… I’m sure the king is looking to wed her to someone.”

Daryl flashed a suspicious glance at the curly-haired man, who returned the look with a steady shake of his head.

“You think he wants you to court her?”

“I don’t know, but if what they say is true, the princess is the most beautiful woman in Alexandria. Some say beyond Alexandria, too.”

It was odd for a man of Richard’s age and status to be unmarried. His wife had died six years ago in childbirth, along with the child. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, but it was a great tragedy in the duke’s life. The knight couldn’t see him remarrying at all after that, but if the king was going to offer his daughter to him, he would be a fool not to accept.

“Women with that kind of beauty are hard to come by,” continued Richard. “And royal, too. Hell, the princess is the king’s only child. That means… I could become king when he dies.”

“Gettin’ ahead of yourself,” chided Daryl. “We’re not even at the gatehouse yet.”

“Welcome, my friends!”

The king extended his arms wide, about as wide as the grin upon his countenance. He crossed the great hall, the steps of his pointed poulaines echoing off the grand high ceilings. The king’s hand clasped jovially upon the duke’s shoulder, but the gesture quickly turned into a hearty embrace.

“It’s good to see you,” said the king. “It’s been too long, Richard.”

“It has.”

The duke raised his eyes to gaze upon the magnificence of the hall. Though the exterior of the castle may have appeared quite imposing, the great hall was warm, welcoming, even. Elaborate arrangements of strong wooden arches upheld the roof, complete with intricately designed corbels to support them. Draped from the high stone walls were long blue banners bearing the royal family’s crest, no doubt made from the finest threads. Tapestries depicting mythical creatures and romantic scenes of knights going to battle or courting ladies were on full display, too. The hall was illuminated by the gilded light of what seemed to be a hundred or so candles, some upon sconces, others upon tables and in iron chain chandeliers. The pungent aroma of honey and elderflower tickled at the uninitiated noses of the two travelers, and, sure enough, in the king’s hand was a fine pewter goblet, which no doubt must’ve been brimming with a particularly pungent, sweet smelling mead.

“Come!” exclaimed the king. “Have a drink! This is cause for celebration.”

The loud bravado in the king’s voice must’ve alerted the court as finely dressed nobles began to pour in from the arches and the upstairs landing. As the duke and his knight followed the king to his banquet table, just in front of his imposing bronze throne, the court gathered in greater globs. Murmurs began to permeate the great hall, and the knight could just feel an army of eyes laid upon him and his lord. It wasn’t a feeling he reveled in.

“We’ve already had our feast,” said the king, sitting himself comfortably at the head of the long wooden table. “But I can have a servant bring you something. Only the finest dining here.”

“We’ve already eaten. Just a drink is fine for now, your majesty,” said the duke. As he sat, the loyal knight followed.

Daryl felt bear, having been made rid of his greatsword and his cloak by the guards at the entrance to the keep. There were few places outside of his home that he felt safe enough without either.

“Ah, libations!” exclaimed the emphatic king. He held his goblet high for emphasis. “This is the finest mead in Alexandria and her surrounding kingdoms. It comes from a monastery, I’ve been told. They raise bees there, isn’t that fantastic?”

The knight and the duke exchanged a glance. They had no idea what to make of the king. He was so full of merry, the likes of which they hadn’t seen in years. Perhaps it was the mead, but Richard knew the man was jovial. Still, it was a kind of shock.

The servants arrived with intricately detailed pewter pitchers full of the honey wine, filling their goblets to the brim. The excesses of wealth and royalty were foreign to the knight. Duke Richard was wealthy, yes, but not like this.

“So,” spoke the king, “I trust your journey through my kingdom was pleasant? No dead ones crossed your path?”

“Not at all,” said Richard. “Your kingdom is quite safe, it seems. Those tall walls will keep anything out.”

“Hm, yes,” agreed Ezekiel. “But you can never be too careful. No one’s left the castle in ten years, I’m sure you know. It’s better to be safe.”

That reminded the duke. He intended to ask why the king had invited him to court, but before he could speak again, the boisterous king looked to Sir Daryl with an enthusiastic curiosity.

“This is your knight?”

“Yes, this is Sir Daryl.”

The king settled back in his chair, stroking the gray corkscrew hairs upon his noble chin. “Ah, I’ve heard of your gallantry in battle, how you earned your title. My father knighted you, didn’t he?”

Daryl looked to his steward, wordlessly asking for permission to speak. Richard nodded. “Yes, your majesty,” spoke the knight. His voice was raspier than usual, having been silent for so long since arriving at the castle. After all, what could a knight possibly have to say? His only duty was to protect his lord, as a vassal. He was of lower rank than Richard, and, though he never much cared for the details of hierarchy, it was in his best interest to know his place.

“How grand! Well, gentlemen, I do hope you find this court to be a fount of merriment in these dark times.” He gestured to the surrounding great hall, and the people who watched with bated breath as they clung to the monarch’s every word. “Everyone has been so eager to meet you. This is a momentous occasion. A toast!” The king stood to his feet, raising his goblet high. Others followed suit, of course, as the two newcomers sat overwhelmed at the king’s table. “To Duke Richard and his knight, the first additions to court in a decade of strife.”

“Huzzah!”

With a long drink of his mead, the king met the duke with wide eyes, then removed the cup in a near panic, though it was a jolly panic. “I almost forgot! How could I forget? My daughter, (Y/N). Elizabeth! Fetch my daughter!”

“Yes, your majesty.” The mousy young maid with flaxen hair frantically ascended the staircase with great haste.

Richard straightened in his seat, clearing his throat. The knight could tell he was nervous, but he couldn’t understand why. A princess was hardly anything to be nervous about. It was the king the duke needed to impress, he thought.

“Minstrels!” the king exclaimed, gesturing towards the troupe of musicians across the great hall. There were three, each dressed in colorful garb and feathered caps. One held a lute, the other, a flute, and the third, a tambour. “Play something for the princess’s entrance. Something… delicate, but dignified, like her.”

“Yes, your majesty!” one of the minstrels replied.

Yes, your majesty, seemed a rather common phrase around here.

Then, from atop the stairs appeared a young woman.

You heard the musicians begin to play their little tune—a soft, simple tune that seemed to evolve with each step you took. Each step was calculated and precise, partly because that was how you were trained to walk, and partly because you were careful not to trip over your gown. Your father had instructed you to wear your best clothes the last few days, though you weren’t sure why. You’d heard of a duke coming to court, but it was hardly of any interest to you. Why should you care? Why should you welcome an outsider when you haven’t been able to leave this dusty old castle in years?

“That must be the duke,” whispered Margaret. She followed your every move, as a lady-in-waiting was supposed to.

“He’s handsome,” Michonne whispered back.

You shushed the ladies out of the corner of your mouth. They were much too excited for their own good, much more excited than you.

At the base of the staircase, your father held his hand out to you, beaming at your beauty. Tonight, you wore your favorite champagne-colored surcote, made from a heavy silk, with long, flowing sleeves that split at the elbow to reveal the pure white lace-front gown. The décolletage was modest, but deep enough to reveal just the beginning of your cleavage, formed by the tight lacing that held your chest in place. It wasn’t quite in vogue these days, but then again, nothing was in vogue these days.

As you took his hand, you realized that the duke and his knight were standing for you. Of course they were, but their new faces caught you off guard. You knew everyone in court so well, it was strange to see two strangers standing for you.

Your father lifted his hand, in turn raising your arm to show you off like a prized mare. With knitted brows and a quivering lip, you flashed him a confused expression. He’d never introduced you like this before, but then again, he never introduced you to anyone before.

“Gentlemen,” he said, turning his attention to the duke and his knight. “I present to you my daughter, (Y/N), Crown Princess of Alexandria.”

The men each bent over to bow before you, and you took in their appearance with great interest. It wasn’t often you had new faces to study.

The duke was well-dressed, wearing a damask scarlet doublet that must’ve cost a fortune, with tight-fitting wool hose to accentuate his lean legs. It would be remiss not to note how handsome he was, with a head of lush curls and a short, well-trimmed beard to frame his salmon-colored lips. If it weren’t for his title and his clothing, you could tell the man was a noble just by looking at the shape of his nose, aquiline and strong. Yes, he was handsome.

But just beyond his shoulder, your eyes were pulled like magnets to the knight. His clothes were more muted, but made from a fine material. A plain black wool tabard draped over his broad shoulders, his waist cinched with a fine leather belt, strapped to which was a lone misericorde, the dagger which you knew from your studies to be what knights used to deliver the final death blow to an enemy. The sharp tip sent a shiver down your spine as you wondered briefly if he’d ever had to use it.

Though his coloring was similar to the duke, both having hair of brown and eyes of blue, their similarities ended there. The knight had a much more tired face, world-weary. It was difficult to see clearly, given the shadows created by the long wavy locks of hair shrouding his visage, but he appeared to have a reddened scar trailing from his brow to his cheek, crossing over his left eye.

From what you could see, he looked nothing like any man you’d seen before. He was weather-worn and hardened by the world, at least, that’s how he looked. He must’ve seen such terrible things, you thought. In the fine lines of his face, you could begin to make out an image of the world outside. Here was a man who must’ve known its ins and outs like the back of his hand, must’ve been so brave to have survived this long outside the walls, fighting the Dead.

Though your face was softened by curiosity, the knight’s was stoic and cold. He seemed somehow both distant and alert, aware of his surroundings despite his reluctance to be surrounded by them. The duke’s kind face was much more welcoming, but, for a moment, you were held hostage by the knight’s narrowed, serious gaze.

“Your highness,” said the duke. “I am Duke Richard of House Grimes.” He turned to gesture towards the knight. “And this is my knight, Sir Daryl.”

A curious name for a curious face, you thought. Still, you tried to maintain your focus on the nobleman.

“It is an honor to meet you, milord,” you replied. “The court has been anticipating your arrival.” Though I haven’t. “Oh, these are my ladies-in-waiting, Lady Margaret and Lady Michonne.”

You brought the ladies forth, each of them curtseying before the duke. It gave you a moment to look upon the knight again.

“Pleasure,” the duke said to your ladies. “And… may I say, princess, you’re just as radiant as they say.”

You looked wide-eyed at the king, who smiled bigger than he had in years. The blush that blossomed upon your cheeks was not one of flattery, necessarily, but slight embarrassment. “Oh… They speak of me?”

“Yes. Common people often praise your beauty. Many would sell their land or their livestock for the chance just to get a glimpse of you. I must admit, it would be worth it.”

A whirlpool of emotions formed in your belly, mostly confusion. You’d never been complimented quite like this before. “Well… Thank you, milord. That’s very kind of you to say.” Swallowing hard, you turned to your father, who seemingly expected you to return with an equal compliment. “Father, I’m going to retire to my chambers for the evening.” You turned back to face the duke. “Goodnight, Richard. I hope your stay in court is pleasant.”

Your father’s smile faded with your announcement, but he nodded as he tried to offset his disappointment. “Of course, my dear. Goodnight.”

At length, you sat before your vanity to remove your jewels while Elizabeth prepared your bed as usual. She hummed to herself the same little tune the musicians had played earlier for your grand entrance to meet the duke. Removing your translucent veil, you got to work undoing the circles of elaborate braids and removing the genuine pearls laced throughout when a rapping came at the door of your chamber.

“My dear, it’s me,” said your father. “May I come in?”

Oh, for pity's sake.

You turned on your stool to gesture towards Elizabeth. “Let him in,” you said. “I can undress myself tonight. Goodnight, Beth.”

The young girl nodded before opening the door for the king. He thanked her as she left, while you straightened up to no doubt receive a tongue lashing for your less than friendly reception of the newcomers.

“(Y/N),” he sighed, sitting at the foot of your bed as he adjusted his gold trimmed velvet robe. “My dear… I must say I am a bit disappointed that you didn’t sit and speak with the duke tonight.”

“Well, father, I… It’s hard to be excited about these new guests when I myself haven’t been outside the castle since I was a girl. And now, all of a sudden, you’re letting in some nobleman and his knight? Why?”

To the king, it was obvious, but to you, it was totally unclear. There was much about the world you still didn’t know, and though you were knowledgeable, on account of your royal tutoring, you were still naïve in many ways.

Your father stood as he sighed, piecing a long, gray-black dread lock behind his ear. “Well, I was hoping…” He shook his head, then crossed over to you, taking your hands in his as he looked at you with that adventurous sparkle in his eyes. “You liked Richard, didn’t you? He was charming?”

You were caught off guard by the question, but you shrugged and nodded with a half-smile. “Why, yes. He’s charming.”

“And handsome?”

“Well… Of course. He’s very handsome, any woman would think so.”

“So…”

“Father, are you… trying to ask me if I want to court the duke?”

“Yes,” he laughed in relief that you caught on without him having to explain. “Richard is a good man, one of the best nobles left. He’s wealthy, too. Though I was always hoping for a political marriage for you, as long as the man is at least a noble and a suitable husband, I think this kind of match would be good for you. In fact, we could move Richard here, that way you never have to leave the castle, and—”

“Father!” you exclaimed, shocked by how excited he was at this idea without even hearing your thoughts, of which you had many. “I’m not ready to marry!”

“But you’re twenty-six, my dear.”

Standing to your feet, you shook your head and pulled out the remaining braids in your hair. “I’m just not ready. The duke is… He’s perfect, but I’m not interested. I can’t explain it, it’s just not a match.”

“But you’ve hardly spoken to him!”

You didn’t need to speak to him to know, you just knew. It was impossible to explain. All you knew was that it wouldn’t work, and that marriage was simply not in your near future. You had other priorities, other… curiosities. Love was not one of them, except in your fairytales and love poems. You had a hard time believing love could be any better than that.

“Father, please. I’ve told you how I felt, and I’m sorry if you brought this man here just for me, but I can’t force myself to try with someone who doesn’t interest me in that way.”

He crossed the room with a soft step, his face morphing into an understanding smile. “I know, darling. I’m sorry to have upset you. I would never force you into a marriage that didn’t please you, I just… I just want you to marry a good man. Well, so long as he’s a noble, at least.”

Your father was never a traditional king, but he still insisted on some things, and one of them was that you would marry well. Well meaning high status. Some things were sacred.

“But if the duke isn’t to your liking,” he continued, “I won’t force it.”

“Thank you, father. That means a great deal to me.”

“Good.” His hand cradled the back of your head to bring you forward, allowing him to bestow a fatherly kiss upon your forehead. “Someday, you will make a great queen. A better ruler than me, I am sure.”

“Father,” you laughed. “You are a great ruler. The people love you. Everyone loves you. That’s what matters.”

“My sweet girl,” he said, now holding your cheeks to admire your pretty, delicate features. You were truly a princess through and through. “You’re the most precious jewel in my crown.” An old phrase he’d said to you since you were a little girl. The man was so sentimental, a trait you admired greatly. “I bid you goodnight.”

As he headed back towards the door, you began to think freely, with your mind returning to the knight beside Richard. Daryl, you recalled his name. You’d never heard a name like that, nor seen a face like that.

“Father?” you called out to him just before he could leave.

“Yes, my dear?”

Looking down, you toyed with the fine silk fabric of your surcote, prefering to study the rich champagne color than to face your father as you asked, “Tell me about Richard’s knight.”

The king’s brows furrowed, his head tilting to the side in a display of curiosity and confusion. “The knight? Sir… Daryl, I believe?”

“Mhm,” you mumbled, still nervously rubbing the garment between your fingers. To clarify, you lifted your gaze to your father. “Well, I mean… I was just curious. You know how I have a fascination with knights and things of that sort.”

The king shook his head with a warm, deep chuckle. “Oh, daughter. Well, I don’t know much of him, other than that he is brave, loyal… He was knighted by your grandfather, you know. Just a few years before he passed.”

“And he is of noble birth, like Richard?”

“No, no,” he replied. “Not at all. His parents were lower gentry. He earned his title in battle, a rare feat for a knight, as you know.”

Indeed, most knights were born to nobility, becoming pageboys before the age of ten, then promoting to squire in their youth. After years of studying under an established knight, the squire would then undergo the dubbing ceremony. He’d learn the code of chivalry, and he’d pledge allegiance to a lord, offering military services in exchange for a fief, or land. It seemed that Sir Daryl must’ve met many of these requirements, but he certainly wasn’t a noble.

“That’s quite interesting,” you said. “I knew he seemed different. Well, goodnight, father.”

“Goodnight, my sweet.”

When the candlelight was extinguished, and the only sound left in the dead of night was that of the crickets chirping and the toads ribbeting, you were left in solitude with your thoughts. These thoughts were not new, of course. They were visions of the outside world, beyond the castle walls and the walls of the kingdom. They hung somewhere between consciousness and dream, but your thoughts were intentional, purposeful. You thought of the trees, the flowers, the little streams. You thought of the deer and the birds and the butterflies, every beautiful thing you hadn’t seen since the Scourge began. That plague had taken everything from you, your mother, your freedom, your peace of mind.

Others had it much worse, of course, and you knew that, but that didn’t ease your heartache. There were many nights you cried yourself to sleep, hoping your father couldn’t hear, for he did what he did for good reason—he was terrified of losing you, his only child.

But tonight, you didn’t cry at all. In fact, there was a strange sense of hope nestled in your heart, something you hadn’t felt in so many years. At first, you couldn’t put your finger on it, but as your head and your heart began to work together, you realized—it was the knight.

Not only was the knight a new addition to the court, but he was brave, a fighter. He would surely help you escape.

Escape was something you’d thought of before, but now, it seemed within reach. Of course, you wouldn’t leave forever, just a day. Just a day outside the walls, breathing in the fresh air, feeling the soft grass underfoot. There wasn’t anyone else. The guards all pledged such strong allegiance to the king, they would surely inform him of your plans if you asked. The others weren’t skilled in combat, couldn’t keep you safe. No, the only solution was the knight. He would help you. Surely, he would help you.

In your alone time, you often walked the corridors of the keep, as there wasn’t much else to do when you weren’t occupied by your books or your needlepoint. Today was no different, though the court was still excitable over the arrival of the duke last night.

You tried to ignore that, instead keeping yourself in your thoughts as you wandered aimlessly, until your father’s panicked voice resounded from inside his cabinet, adjacent to his bedchamber. What you made out were the words, “How could this happen?!”

Curiosity overcame you, your boredom having been relentless. You looked around the corridor for a moment, ensuring no passersby would see you. The guards were at the other end of the hall, facing away from you. If you were quiet, no one would see you pressing your ear to the ornate wooden door.

“Constable,” your father huffed, “are you quite sure?”

“Yes, your majesty,” spoke Lord Constable Aaron. “There have been reports of mysterious cloaked knights extorting citizens throughout the kingdom. They demand crops, livestock, women… They threaten murder if they don’t get their way, my liege. We had some isolated incidents in the past, but this past month, they’ve been happening more frequently.”

“And you didn’t think it of import to tell the king?” questioned Lord Chancellor Gerald. “There hasn’t been crime like this in Alexandria since we closed our gates.”

“I didn’t want to worry his majesty with incidents of petty crime,” responded the constable. “But now… Well, a boy has been killed.”

“What?!” your father exclaimed. “Who?”

“Thomas Webb, son of the innkeeper, James. He was only sixteen… I’ve been told it was…”

The constable trailed off, his voice becoming shaky as he spoke.

“Speak, Aaron,” demanded the king.

The constable cleared his throat, then lowered his voice. You pressed your ear harder against the wood of the door, so much so that you feared a splinter.

“Apologies, milord… It—it was a gruesome death, the likes of which we haven’t seen in Alexandria since the Dead breached our walls. But this wasn’t a dead man, it was a knight in black armor, their leader. We could hardly identify the boy, his head was… Well, your majesty, his head was obliterated.”

A small gasp escaped your lips, your hand quickly reaching up to catch it before it alerted the guards.

“By God,” uttered the chancellor. “What kind of knight are we dealing with?”

“A knight wouldn’t commit a crime like that,” spoke an at first unfamiliar voice, but you quickly identified it as that of the duke. “No, not any kind of true knight. A dishonored one, maybe.”

“It’s of no concern to me what this man’s status is,” said the king. “All I care about is protecting my people. Constable, I need strengthened security across the kingdom, especially in the merchant district. Something tells me these marauders are targeting the middle and lower classes. I also want tighter security at the outer curtain. No one should be entering or leaving the kingdom without my permission, and if they’re entering clandestinely, there must be a blind spot or a chink in our armor. If the living can get in, the Dead can, too. Get it sorted. There will be no more of this… obliterating in my kingdom, understand?”

“Absolutely, your majesty. We’ll double up our defenses. This won’t happen again… Oh, and… There is one more thing.”

“What is it?” asked the king. “I have very little time for idle conversation today, constable.”

“Yes, yes, of course, your majesty, but… Well, this is quite important. The knight in black armor left a message with one of our guards, just before he… chopped off his arm.”

Your lips trembled with fear. How could a man do such a thing? And this man was in your kingdom, hurting your people. It was horrifying. That poor guard, you thought. That poor boy… Oh, that poor, poor boy.

“Good lord!” huffed the king. “All right, what is it?”

The constable cleared his throat as you heard a crinkling of paper. “Your majesty,” the constable read from the letter, “let this be a first warning, an introduction of sorts. My name is Sir Negan of House Smith, my people are the Saviors. If you cooperate with me, there will be no more bloodshed, but if you go against me, I will plunder and pillage this pretty kingdom until the streets are soaked red. I ask, or demand, rather, for one thing: your daughter.”

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