brooding skies

2

mythology posters || chang’e

Now that a candle-shadow stands on the screen of carven marble, 
and the River of Heaven slants and the morning stars are low
Are you sorry for having stolen the potion that has set you, 
over jade seas and blue skies, to brood through the long nights? || Li Shangyin

for @hynpos myth event day seven

3

Happy birthday, Greta Garbo! ♡ 18th September 1905 - 15th April 1990

‘To know Greta - one must know the North. She may live the rest of her life in a Southern climate, but she will always be Nordic with all its sober and introvert characteristics. To know her one must know - really know - wind, rain, and dark brooding skies. She is of the elements - actually and symbolically. Forever, in this present incarnation, she will be a Viking’s child - troubled by a dream of snow.’ - Mercedes de Acosta

Third Time (Daryl Dixon imagine)

imagine: when tara catches the two of you together, daryl’s trust issues arise. (2017 words)

note: micamaloley requested a part three to first time! part one is here and part two is here. i was kinda pressed for ideas and not much happens in this so i hope its still ok. also the title’s misleading because this is not about daryl’s third time but it fitted in with the series so who cares. and finally the ending is out of character i think but i needed closure for the story and this was the only way. gif is by a-pathetic-fangirl and is obviously not daryl but its the thought that counts. - natasha :-)

  “Uh, guys?” said Glenn. “It’s been 20 minutes.”

  “Thanks for letting us know!” I said sarcastically through the door, twisting the lock with one hand and pressing the thumb of the other against Daryl’s hipbone.

  “Um. Alright then,” Glenn spluttered with a laugh, his voice muffled from behind the wood.

  “Do you wanna… take things a little… further?” I asked in a breathless murmur, kissing the rough skin of Daryl’s cheeks between every few words.

  His eyes blinked open slowly, eyelashes fluttering. He nodded quickly and chased my lips with his.

  Another bang on the door ripped us apart; Daryl’s head fell back against the door in frustration.

  “I gotta be honest with you, I was beginning to worry your baby maker wasn’t screwed on right, so this is nothin’ short of a relief!” Abraham’s voice rung out, permeating the electric atmosphere like needles pricking a balloon. Before he could say anything else to lower the mood, Rosita dragged him away after muttering an apology on his behalf.

  “Typical,” I whispered, hoping in earnest that Daryl hadn’t been put off by Abraham’s use of the phrase ‘baby maker’. I tested the waters with fumbling hands on his belt buckle, and to my relief Daryl’s hands joined mine.


  A month or so later, I was sneaking into Daryl’s room late at night for the umpteenth time. When Rick had finally deemed Alexandria safe, we’d split between the two houses and now everyone had their own rooms. Much to my annoyance, Daryl had been adamant that we not share a room, since he ‘didn’t want no one thinkin’ shit’. I hadn’t argued with him because his motive was clear and expected: sharing a room with me didn’t match up with the image he had created for himself. Plus he was scared of things getting any more serious than they already were. He didn’t know it, but I had him all figured out.

  So we had separate rooms, but I slept every night in his and snuck back early in the mornings. Ever since the night of seven minutes in heaven, there had been more than enough times to make Daryl’s disappointing first time pale in comparison. And tonight there would be another time.

  Sex only made our friendship grow stronger, and our conversations got deeper and deeper. For me, at least. Daryl didn’t care much for the profound things in life. That’s why I thought it would be amusing to bring the book of poetry I had found gathering dust under my bed. I doubted Daryl liked any kind of poetry, but these poems were the kind that made even me cringe.

  My hand was on the doorknob when the door of the bathroom opened — a cloud of steam rushed out, along with a slightly damp Rick, one towel wrapped round his waist and another draped round his neck. When he saw me — there was no doubt I was looking extremely guilty entering Daryl’s room in the middle of the night — he tilted his head and hit me with a questioning expression.

  “You alright, Y/N?”

  “Uh, yeah! Just… Daryl said that I should… drop by.”

  Rick nodded languidly. “Right, of course.” He rubbed his hair dry with the towel around his shoulders, while still keeping his gaze fixed on mine. “Don’t mind me, go right ahead.” He raised his eyebrows and smiled when I continued to stand there. “Sure there’s nothin’ else you wanna tell me?”

  “Yes! I’m sure! Night, Rick,” I babbled, feeling my cheeks blush pink. Rick knew, I was sure of it. In fact, it was likely that almost everyone knew, since Abraham had no doubt spread the events of the seven minutes in heaven game all around Alexandria. I was grateful that they kept quiet about it, since Daryl’s reaction was sure to be tempestuous when he found out that our relationship wasn’t a secret.

  I practically fell into the room in order to get away from Rick’s knowing grin. What I saw immediately tore my thoughts away from embarrassment and onto something much more appealing.


  Daryl lay shirtless on his bed, smoke trailing upwards from his cigarette like ribbons. His free hand rested on his rib cage, the fingers tapping lightly against his skin. His soft-looking hair fell loosely against the pillow, still bearing the cleanness of his shower from five days before. If it was up to him, I doubt he’d be showering at all, but I insisted on at least one a week, and Daryl reluctantly obliged.

  “Hey,” I said, shrugging off my jacket (the book dropped to the floor) and climbing onto the bed. “Can I have a drag?” I asked, preemptively holding out my hand for the cigarette.

  Daryl hummed in the affirmative and offered it to me. I fell to his side and touched the filter to my mouth. Daryl threw an arm round my shoulder and brushed my hair from my eyes. When I tried to hand the cigarette back, Daryl kissed me instead. Clumsily, I stubbed it out in Daryl’s makeshift ashtray and then cupped Daryl’s face and kissed him back. As much as I wanted to do what Daryl had in mind, I remembered the poems.

  “Wait. Hold on,” I said, gently pushing Daryl away with two fingers on his chin. I scrambled to the edge of the bed and reached out for the book, smiling at Daryl’s defeated sigh.

  I settled back down onto the bed, lying on my stomach and entwining one leg with Daryl’s.

  “What the fuck’s that?” Daryl said sulkily.

  “It’s a book. Of poetry. You like poetry?” I said, opening it up to the page with the corner folded over.

  “No.”

  “Listen to this one. There is a quiet beauty in a miserable grey, with leaden skies and brooding hue, this gentle rain a reminder of you, tracing silent tears on a window pane.” I found it difficult not to laugh at the bewildered look on Daryl’s face.

  “That ain’t poetry. It don’t even rhyme.”

  “Hue and you. Rain and pane,” I said, thinking that it was obvious.

  “Whatever. Don’t sound right to me,” muttered Daryl.

  I flipped through the pages, looking for a slightly obscene one I had seen earlier. “What about this one? I love to trace your pretty lips with my fingers —

  Daryl groaned loudly and threw a pillow over his head in disgust.

  “— and imagine them going down on me,” I finished, smirking, partly from the cringeworthy poem and partly from the face that Daryl was making as he emerged from under the pillow.

  He snatched the book from my hands and chucked it across the room; it hit the opposite wall with a thud and fell open and spine-up to the floor.

  “That definitely didn’t rhyme,” Daryl murmured, glaring steadily at me.

  “Poetry doesn’t have to rhyme, Dixon.”

  “It ain’t poetry if it doesn’t rhyme,” Daryl repeated, stretching his arms above his head, his movement making the sheets slip further down his torso.

  “Oh, and you’re the expert on poetry?” I smiled widely. Daryl’s tongue flicked out to lick his lips, and I was inexplicably drawn to running my thumb along his lower lip. I laughed when I realised that this mirrored the words of the poem, and whispered, “Guess what I’m imagining?”

  Daryl didn’t guess, he just pulled me on top of him and kissed me hungrily, tired of pretentious poetry and waiting around.


  Daryl was weaving a path of wet kisses down my stomach when the door was flung open by none other than Tara Chambler. I yelped, pulling the sheets up to cover myself, and Daryl dropped onto the floor on the side of the bed hidden from the doorway, grunting in pain.  

  “Oh my god,” Tara said in a strangled voice that brimmed with held-back laughter. She spun around and left, giving us a half-hearted “Sorry!” as she slammed the door behind her.

  “She’s such an idiot,” I said with a mixture of fondness for Tara and apology for Daryl. I ran a hand through my hair and shuffled up the bed to lean against the pillows.

  “Why didn’t ya lock the fuckin’ door, Y/N?” Daryl grumbled, climbing back on to the bed and wincing in pain.

  “I didn’t think. It’s fine, Tara already knows,” I said off-handedly, forgetting that I wasn’t supposed to be telling Daryl that.

  “What?” he said, halting in his movements to light another cigarette.

  “She… she knows about us,” I admitted, deciding there was no point in trying to lie. “She saw us kissing weeks ago. She hasn’t told anyone. Tara’s my friend; she’s kept it a secret.”

  Daryl squinted at me, his eyes hardening dangerously. “She know anythin’ else?”

  “Uh… no?” I said, unsure of what Daryl was getting at.

  “Y’told her, didn’t ya? The thing I told ya?”

  I inhaled shakily, biting the inside of my lip in anger. “No. I’ve told you so many times that I’m never gonna tell anyone. Why can’t you trust me?”

  Daryl said nothing. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed and rested his forehead in his hands.

  I was so tired of Daryl’s constant unease that I would tell someone that I did nothing to stop the surge of bitterness swelling within me.

  “If you can’t trust me with that how can you possibly trust me enough to fuck me?”

  He glanced at me with red-rimmed eyes before hiding his face behind his palms again.

  “Or is it the other way round? Just want the sex and not the trust? The relationship? Fuck feelings, right Daryl? That’s what you do; why feel anything when you can alienate everyone around you instead?

  “Fuck you,” Daryl growled.

  “Nah, not tonight. Not tomorrow, either. Not ever,” I spat, grabbing my wrinkled shirt from the sheets and pulling it over my head. My pants were nowhere to be found, and my anger was more important than my dignity right now, so I left the room in my underwear, slamming the door even harder than Tara had.  


  Two hours later I lay awake in the dark, my anger mostly faded to regret and loneliness. I had thought that I understood Daryl, but I didn’t. Daryl was distant, but he felt. Daryl probably felt more than anyone I’d ever known. A tentative knock at the door reverberated in my ears like thunder. “What?”

  It was Daryl; of course it was Daryl. In one hand he held the pants that I had been unable to find, and in the other was the book of poetry.

  “Thanks,” I said quietly. Daryl dropped the pants on the floor but clung to the book, much to my confusion.

  He took one step towards the bed. “‘M’sorry. I ain’t good with trust.”

  “I’m sorry. I was a bitch.”

  Daryl stepped closer and I held out my hand. When he took it I guided him to sit down on the bed.  

  “Y’don’t have to trust me yet. But someday I hope you can. I trust you.” I trusted him enough to vow to myself that I would tell him about all the people that likely knew about us. But in the morning, not now.

  Daryl nodded jerkily. The book was still cradled in his hands, and he opened it to another page with the corner folded down. “I found one ‘bout you,” he mumbled. He cleared his throat awkwardly and flushed red before the first word had even left his mouth. “Magic tumbled from her pretty lips and when she spoke the language of the universe—the stars sighed in unison.”

  “That didn’t even rhyme, Dixon,” I said teasingly, but I felt my heart beat faster and I kissed him softly. “I hate it when you get deep.”

  Daryl grimaced, obviously having second thoughts about reading poetry.

  “C’mere,” I said, pulling him close so that he was the little spoon. He stiffened at first but soon enough his breathing evened out and the tension left his body.

  There was no time that night, but it was certainly a first.

6

H A P P Y  B I R T H D A Y,  G R E T A  L O V I S A  G U S T A F S S O N ! // 18th September 1905 - 15th April 1990

It’s impossible to try and achieve anything out of the ordinary here…. If only those who dream of Hollywood know how difficult it all is.’ - Greta Garbo 

To know Greta - one must know the North… She will always be Nordic with all its sober and introvert characteristics. To know her one must know - really know - wind, rain and dark brooding skies.’ - Mercedes de Acosta

Directing Miss Garbo is like playing a fine musical instrument.’ - Rouben Mamoulian

Child or animal, whichever you please, I prefer to think of her as a deer, in the body of a woman, living resentfully in the Hollywood Zoo, suffering in the bonds of a complex civilization, startled by human contacts, disinterested in human things…. Our generation’s loveliest woman is but a phantom upon a silver screen.’ - Clare Boothe Lace

the indie combination, [listen here]

twenty-three tracks with a combination of indie pop, indie rock, electronic and alternative.

// i. skulls bastille // ii. wallow coasts // iii. climbing walls strange talk // iv. heart out the 1975 // v. always panama // vi. heart of stone american authors // vii. drowning banks // viii. female robbery the neighbourhood // ix. stay coasts // x. beggin for thread banks // xi. ghost sir sly // xii. mother & father broods // xiii. durban skies bastille // xiv. strange feeling panama // xv. luna bombay bicycle club // xvi. king city swin deep // xvii. where the kids are blondfire // xviii. heart of a lion the griswolds // xix. return the favor we are scientists // xx. gold sir sly // xxi. from nowhere dan croll // xxii. riptide vance joy // xxiii. gooey glass animals //