at some point in your life you will be boiling fruit, water, sugar, and lemon juice in a pot to make a syrup or jam. the instructions will tell you to simmer for a certain amt of time. your timer will go off and you will look at the pot and go, "hm, this doesn't look thick enough. maybe i'll let it go for another 10 minutes." this is the devil speaking. it's only so liquid right now because it is at boiling point. it will thicken when it cools down. learn from the follies of my youth and do not let this happen to you
at some point in your life you will be making a sauce or a stew in which you need to add cornstarch to thicken it. and you will prepare a slurry of starch in cold water and think "this looks like way too little starch to thicken this amount of liquid." this is the devil speaking. cornstarch instantly polymerizes at 95°C and if you add too much it will turn into an impossibly thick goop.
at some point in your life you will be making some sort of cream based dessert that requires gelatin to thicken it. and you will soak some gelatin sheets in water and think "this is too few gelatin sheets for this amount of cream." this is the devil speaking. it will thicken in the fridge and if you add too much you will end up with milk jelly
at some point in your life you will be baking cookies. you will take the sheet out after twelve minutes as the recipe instructs and the cookies will still be glistening and soft. "these don't seem cooked enough," you will think to yourself, "i should place them back into the oven until their edges are nice and golden." this is the devil talking. this is how you get dry, overdone cookies. the cookies will continue to bake on the warm sheet for several more minutes and then harden up after sitting on a rack for a while. trust the process. trust the process.
at some point in your life you will be adding a small pasta to a soup and you will think "that is not enough small pasta." this is the devil talking. the pasta will absorb the stock and expand. this is how you end up with a soup that is a solid mass of soggy ditalini.
At some point in your life you will be adding garlic to a dish and you will think "that is not enough garlic." These are angels speaking. They are correct. Add more garlic.
all the rights that come with marriage you should be able to have without marriage btw. you should be able to designate a person who can visit you in the hospital regardless of your relationship to that person.
âOhhh she keeps adjusting her glasses how cute itâs probably an awkward quirkâ no fuckass they are falling off. My nose is a slide. Glasses were made for such a specific white people nose type that not a single one Iâve ever tried (OF MANY) fits my (A WHITE PERSON BTW) breathing tunnels. Do better society
Daryl Dixon knows how to do a lot of things.
Hunting. Tracking. Killing. Surviving.
So why the fuck is he stumbling over his words and fumbling when he's around you?
Daryl Dixon knows how to do a lot of things.
Tracking a deer through mud and silence in the dead of winter? Easy.
Splitting apart a walkerâs skull in one clean motion without getting splattered? Routine.
Finding water in places most people wouldâve already died of thirst in? Second nature.
Fixing broken crossbows, reading the wind, building traps from scrap metal and instinct? He could do it half asleep.
But you?
You make him feel like heâs seventeen again and donât know where to put his hands.
It starts small.
At least, it does in his head.
You asking him a question and him answering too fast, voice coming out rougher than intended. You laughing at something Carol said and him missing half the conversation because heâs watching your face instead of listening.
You saying his name and suddenly he forgets what he was doing with his own damn hands.
The bolt he was tightening slips.
He mutters something under his breath that wouldâve made Merle proud and turns away like the wall is suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.
Behind him, Glenn notices immediately.
âOh my god,â Glenn whispers to Maggie. âHeâs doing it again.â
Maggie doesnât even look up. âLeave him alone.â
Daryl Dixon does not get flustered.
Thatâs the lie he tells himself.
He just⊠gets distracted.
Yeah. Thatâs it.
Distracted.
Not because youâre sitting on the tailgate of a truck with the sun hitting your face just right and your sleeves pushed up and your voice soft when youâre talking to Judith.
Not because you handed him a can of food earlier and your fingers brushed his for half a second and suddenly his brain went blank like someone unplugged him.
Not because you smiled at him when he came back from a runâlike you were actually glad he made it backâand he had to look away so hard it almost gave him whiplash.
No.
Just distracted.
The first time he really embarrasses himself is at the fence.
Youâre helping repair it, standing beside him with wire cutters and steady hands while he tightens a section of mesh.
Itâs quiet.
Comfortable in that rare post-apocalypse way where nothing is actively trying to kill you for five whole minutes.
âYouâre good at this,â you say casually.
Daryl snorts. âAinât hard.â
You hum, like you donât fully believe him.
âStill. You make it look easy.â
That does it.
Something in his chest tightens so fast it almost hurts.
He shrugs too hard, misjudges the angle, and jams the pliers straight into his own thumb.
âShitââ
He yanks his hand back instantly, cradling it like itâs betrayed him personally.
You turn toward him immediately. âAre you okay?â
âFine,â he snaps automatically.
Too fast.
Too sharp.
You step closer anyway, because of course you do.
âDaryl, let me see.â
âI said Iâm fine.â
You donât listen.
Of course you donât.
You reach for his hand anyway and thatâs where the real problem starts.
Because the second your fingers wrap around his wrist, his entire brain turns to static.
He goes very still.
Too still.
Like a deer realizing itâs already been seen.
Your touch is gentle as you inspect his thumb. âItâs not bad. Just a cut.â
âYeah,â he manages. âTold ya.â
His voice comes out wrong.
Thicker.
Lower.
You look up at him for half a second.
Thatâs worse.
Thatâs always worse.
Because now youâre close enough that he can see the small details he normally tries not to notice. The shape of your lashes. The way your expression softens when youâre focused on something.
The fact that youâre holding his hand like it matters.
His throat goes dry.
You let go eventually, patting his wrist lightly. âYouâre allowed to admit when youâre hurt, you know.â
âDonât need it.â
âYouâre bleeding.â
âAinât much.â
You smile.
And thatâs it.
Thatâs the moment his brain fully shuts down.
He nods like he heard you, turns away too quickly, and walks straight into the fence post behind him.
Thereâs a dull metallic clang.
Silence.
From behind him, he hears Glenn lose his absolute mind.
After that, it only gets worse.
He starts avoiding you in ways that make no sense.
Not obvious avoidance.
Just⊠strategic repositioning.
If youâre in the kitchen, he suddenly needs to check the perimeter.
If youâre near the fire, he volunteers for water runs.
If youâre talking to him directly, he suddenly remembers a very urgent task that involves being literally anywhere else.
Carol notices first.
Of course she does.
She catches him one evening sharpening arrows he doesnât need to sharpen.
âYouâre running from her,â she says mildly.
Daryl nearly slices his own finger. âAinât.â
Carol raises an eyebrow.
He grits his teeth. âJust busy.â
âMm.â
That single sound is worse than any argument.
The breaking point comes when you get hurt.
Not badly.
Just a scrape during a supply runâslipped on debris, caught your arm.
Daryl sees it happen before he even realizes heâs moving.
One second heâs across the street.
Next heâs right there, grabbing your arm without thinking.
âShitâare you bit?â
âNo,â you say quickly, startled more than anything. âItâs just a cut.â
Heâs already scanning you anyway. Checking. Hands steady this time, all survival instinct and focus.
But then you look up at him.
And soften.
âIâm okay,â you reassure him quietly. âReally.â
Something in his chest twists hard.
Because youâre still holding onto his wrist.
Still letting him touch you.
Still not pulling away.
And he realizesâ
Heâs not afraid of you getting hurt.
Heâs afraid of what happens to him when you look at him like that.
Like heâs someone worth trusting.
His grip loosens immediately.
He steps back too fast.
âNeed to patch it,â he mutters.
âIâve had worse.â
âStill needs patchinâ.â
You watch him for a second. âDarylâŠâ
He turns away before you can finish.
Because if he hears his name like that again, heâs going to say something stupid.
Something honest.
Later that night, heâs sitting by the fire when you come over.
Quiet.
Careful.
Like youâre approaching something skittish.
You sit beside him anyway.
No pressure.
Just presence.
After a long silence, you say softly, âYou always do that, you know.â
He doesnât look at you. âDo what.â
âRun off.â
His jaw tightens.
You bump your shoulder lightly against his. âYou donât have to.â
Thatâs the problem.
He does.
Because staying means sitting too close to you.
Means hearing your voice.
Means risking looking at you again and forgetting how to function.
He finally glances at you.
Bad idea.
Always a bad idea.
Youâre watching him like youâre not afraid of what he might be.
Like youâre not waiting for him to turn into something sharp.
Just⊠there.
Warm.
Real.
His hands flex once against his knees.
âDonât know what you want,â he admits quietly.
Itâs the closest thing to honesty heâs given you in days.
You tilt your head. âI think you do.â
He huffs a quiet, humorless breath.
âYouâre wrong.â
âAm I?â
Silence stretches between you.
Firelight flickers.
Somewhere in the distance, someone laughs.
Daryl swallows hard.
Then, like it physically costs him something:
âCanât⊠think straight around ya.â
The words hang there.
Ugly.
Raw.
True.
You donât laugh.
Donât tease.
Donât make it worse.
You just look at him like that matters.
Like itâs not something to be embarrassed about.
âThat sounds like a problem,â you say gently.
He almost smiles at that.
Almost.
You shift closer, just enough that your knee touches his.
âYou donât have to be good at this,â you add.
His eyes flick to you again.
âYeah?â he mutters.
âYeah.â
A beat.
Then, quieter than everything else heâs said:
ââŠainât ever done this before.â
You lean in slightly. âMe neither.â
That finally gets him to look at you properly.
Really look.
Not through you.
Not away.
Just you.
His breath catchesânot dramatic, not obvious, just a small betrayal of his own body.
You lift your hand slowly, giving him time to stop you.
One of my favorite tropes is post apocalyptic towns being named after dilapidated signs with missing letters, like Novac (no vacancy) and Eaden (dead end). Thereâs something inexplicable about it
stormborns
ellievsbear
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
baratheonpilled
titsay
vaporwave
2087
andulkaphoto
