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terrablaze514 · 5 years

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Amethyst Necklace (CIYS Sidestory) *Erik x Reader*

A feature presentation: With Love, From Wakanda (hosted by @hoopshoney and @purple-apricots ). This is my *headdesk* late *headdesk* submission. I'm steadily getting my life back, so all hope is not lost. This is based on the Crawl Into Your Sleep series (there's a time jump). Hope you all enjoy it.

“Are we on a date right now?” (Prompt #4)

Rated M (for brief mentions of violence and attempted assault)

Disclaimer: Black Panther belongs to Marvel. I don't own the other fandom that's mentioned, either.

*******

It's been ten weeks since you've crossed paths with Erik. The first few moments were random, albeit sudden - you still couldn't believe how well that first shopping trip went. The instant messages on your school D2L account, the anxious coffee shop meetup, and a fierce ride in his Mercedes-Benz to hit up the mall did things to you. For the record, his swagger switched your senses on no matter how many times you've tried to avoid it.

The way he'd given Dresden a beatdown, accompanied with his “evil twin” Adonis and fellow trainee Viktor… three versus five grimy trifles had presented a gut wrenching experience. You didn't watch the scene, but the terrifying sounds of breaking bones and curdling screams had prompted a random witness to call the cops, since your trifling ex had the audacity to confiscate your phone. Yet, he had intentions to do a gangbang train on you, so in a sense, it’s a great thing Erik and his entourage appeared on the scene before your ex’s friends had a chance to rip your jeans off at the library parking lot.

~°~°~

Erik also had a strange way of blocking thirsty traps on multiple social media accounts you own, especially Instagram and Facebook. The ladies who interfered with him, M'Baku and T'Challa were also blocked in a flash, and they came banging on your door this one fateful night. Half of them were another set of thirst traps from school; a combination of Churchians and R. Kelly sympathizers. You weren't in the mood for their bull, and proceeded to call the cops when your speed dial activated at the press of nine.

“What's going on?” Erik had asked, the racket downstairs noticeable. His voice never failed to melt you, but there were troubling matters at hand.

“Some angry ladies from school, they're at my house, armed with baseball bats and knives…”

“Okay, don't panic!” He commanded. “Remember that amethyst necklace I bought you two weeks ago?”

You've raised an eyebrow when shattered glass is heard from the living room.

“Y-yes,” you whispered.

“Put it on, and don't forget the mace!”

You did as he told. The beautiful gem hung low on your bust. “So, what difference would a necklace make?”

You could sense Erik's smirk. “Make an X with your arms.”

“An X, what for?”

“Y/N, you don't wanna die! I'm all the way on the opposite side of the city, and it’ll take me an hour to physically reach you. So do as I say, okay?”

Another glass shatter, and the door bangs are even louder and pronounced. Expletives that attacked your character were heard with more clarity.

“Do you believe in Wakanda?” Erik probed, bringing you back to focus.

“I do, but that's-”

An attempted disarming at the front door caught your attention.

“Do you believe in Wakanda, babe?”

You took a deep, albeit shaky breath.

“Yes.”

“Then make an X with your arms.”

Both arms did as he commanded. The gem on the necklace glowed and brightened your bedroom, where you're currently occupied.

“Now break it!”

You did it. Golden flashes zapped through the walls and wires of your house, and ultimately knocked your threats ten feet away from your house. As you exited your room, the voices of angry women were gone. Despite the broken window, the warm breeze engulfed your body. There were no crazy ladies in sight. The only display was a pile of bats, knives and Prada bags.

Another thing that caught your attention were the cars. Most were parked at their usual spots, but only two looked totalled, with broken windows and headlights.

“Wow,” you breathed as you processed this lovely aftermath. “All this unnecessary drama, because of social media. It doesn't make much sense, but it must be a good thing, right?” You poked the gemstone on your necklace. “This thing literally saved my life.”

~°~°~

Your phone and laptop alarmed at the same time. A message had arrived from Erik, encouraging you to change and worry about the house damage later. You've selected your favourite evening combo, along with a hat and silver hooped earrings. White tank top, a short silver jacket worn over it, followed by jaguar designed tights, a black skirt and tall black boots. Erik's car had pulled and he hopped out in an instant, surveying the aftermath of the crazies who came for you earlier.

A low whistle left his lips as you descended the staircase. You couldn't help the warmth rushing to your cheeks.

“Look who's glowing this evening!” he began as he opened the door for you.

“Thank-you,” You replied, settling in and buckling up. “So where are we headed?”

Erik entered his side of the car. “Straight to your necklace.”

You peered at it. “My necklace? Why?”

Erik started the engine and, as the car sped, he held the gem. “Just place your hand over mine.”

This is the second time he'd requested a strange favour from you. Strange in your eyes, because of the necklace. What's so special about it?

There's no such thing as magic in Wakanda.

“It will take forever to get there and back if you don't.”

You rolled your eyes as his dimples complimented his smirk.

“Or should I form an X and knock you out of here?” Your sudden confidence boost didn't go unnoticed. Erik chuckled; he liked it when life didn't weigh heavily on your well-being. It's allowed you to spread your wings. To get you out of your shell more, he’d let go of the gem and kept his eyes on the road. Meanwhile, this didn't help your curiosity.

“Well, which one is it?” You pressed. “What's so special about this necklace?”

“That is entirely up to you to decide, but there's someplace special I wanna take you to.”

You cocked an eyebrow in response, “and this is supposed to help us get there?”

“Depends on what you think. I know its location is several hours away.”

Erik's signature smirk had returned, yet this time, you've also noticed a knowing glint in his eye. You needed answers, and you’re gonna get them now.

“Are we on a date right now?”

Erik chuckled, “Of course!”

“Then why haven't we arrived? And why is this necklace so important?”

Just as Erik entered the freeway, he took your necklace and held the gem one more time.

“Just take my hand and we'll get there.”

Alright, alright. Let's see what this can do.

Without blinking, you held his hand and the scenery changed. You were no longer on the freeway in town - the roads looked more sophisticated with pebble tones. Neon lights shone brightly around the cars that drove now. You’ve also noticed that these drivers, well, the majority, were Black.

Your ride entered a bridge, and as you peeked out your window, the ocean below sparkled like stars. It's sunset time and the hues of orange, bright red, pink and fuschia accented the cascade of clouds in the sky. Birds flew across it.

Your hands rummaged through your purse for your smartphone to take photos of these beautiful sights.

Erik smiled, silently thanking Bast for granting his cousin Shuri the ability to create such technology, and for enabling this Pen Pal Program to happen.

~°~°~

Without missing a beat, you both arrived at your destination a few moments later. Krispy Kreme was the hot spot, and you've noticed multiple people walking in as well. Once the guards had verified your IDs, Erik linked your arm with his as one braided guard escorted you both to the VIP floor.

Upon entry, All the Stars by Kendrick Lamar and SZA played in the background. You both took front row seats. As Erik ordered drinks, a young lady with Bantu knots and a sparkly brown dress entered the stage and made an introduction.

“Good evening everyone, this is our Open Mic Night. Thanks for coming out! So settle in, let go of your worries, and enjoy our relaxed atmosphere. All are welcome to participate - the mic is yours. Poetry, song, storytelling, cypher… is entirely up to you.”

At the end of her introduction, your drinks arrived and a variety of performers, known and unknown to Wakanda, owned the mic. By the time the sixth performer of the night closed her song, a round of applause rolled through the atmosphere. You loved every minute of this so far. The overall vibes were cool and collected, warm and welcoming.

That’s when Erik stood and took your hand, escorting you towards the stage.

“Wha- what are you doing?” you whispered.

“It’s our turn,” he said.

Our turn?

Without hesitation, the crowd whistled and made bullet signs - a sign of respect for the Wakandan prince. A handful of young men hollered, “All hail King N'Jadaka!”

... until another set shushed them.

“So what’s your plan?” You mouthed.

“I paint, you speak.”

Well, if this isn’t nerve-wracking. But, I’m here. So here it goes...

You recalled the day your professor had graded you horribly, then the words came.

“How many more times should I feel,

Misunderstood?

How much longer before the world could hear my plea?

This forged, silent treatment had left me in chains,

Chains of choices, between the innovator and the warrior.

When can I rise? When can I fly? When will it be my turn to spark the flames of positive change?

For a brokenhearted daughter? Or the drifting, confused sister?

Where I'm from, there’s promises of empowerment...

Only to be broken and unfounded.

Then let them take credit, erase your name, your contribution, your standing,

Because your leadership is a threat.

How much longer before I can reclaim my power, spread my wings and fly?

I guess only time will tell.”

At the end of your segment, the audience snapped their fingers, whistled and offered their rounds of applause. You took a bow, and noticed Erik’s completed painting: A group of women, staring out of the jail cell, counting the stars. The bottom part of the picture featured his interpretation of what marginalization and institutional racism looked like, from your eyes.

You couldn’t help the warmth radiating your cheeks. Originally, you liked him. Admired him. Favoured him.

Tonight, you fell in love even more. He gets it.

You returned back to your seats, when your hands caught his face and your lips captured his. Thankfully, no one had noticed. The gem on your necklace formed a shield that barred others from seeing what was happening.

His tongue probed entry, and you allowed it. Although, you’ve noticed something a little unusual. Breaking the kiss, you inquired, “Is that a tongue ring?”

Erik chuckled and smacked your butt. “And what’s so important about that?”

Giggling, you added, “You’re dangerous. Now kiss me silly.”

Your lips locked again.

*******

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#tb514fanfics #crawl into your sleep #erik x reader #withlovefromwakanda #erik stevens #black panther fandom #black panther #black love #wlfw #erik killmonger stevens #t'challa #m'baku #hoopshoney #purple-apricots #bpwriters #amethyst necklace

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acklest · 5 years

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Threesome, Party of Two

Pairing: Sam Winchester x Dean Winchester

Genre/Warnings: Wincest, One shot, Outsider POV, Top!Dean (implied), Bottom!Sam (implied), alcohol use, cursing. Nothing is truly all that smutty.

Words: 6,668

Summary: Whitney Evans meets two very charming and attractive FBI agents at a bar. Dean is intent on taking her home with both of them, but Sam clearly has some reservations. Fortunately for them, she’s a problem-solver by trade, and there’s definitely something up with these two.

Author’s Note: Inspired by an idea from @jbt111886 - thank you! Sorry Not sorry for all the gratuitous movie references. This was mostly an excuse for an outsider POV and some brotherly er, partnerly bickering. I’m hoping that if I officially post this, I’ll be less likely to delete it altogether.

✯✯✯✯

She had no intention of checking anyone out tonight, but his hands caught her attention.

Whitney had a thing for hands and picking up on small details was literally her day job. It wasn’t something she had ever managed to turn off.

He was leaning against the bar right next to her. His left hand was in a semi-relaxed fist that forcefully staked his place at the bar, and his right was palm-down with cash under it. They were broad, rough, and freckled, and three of his knuckles were healing up from bad abrasions. When he absently played a drum solo with the right, she noticed a couple more bruised knuckles and that his nails were short and clean, but cut bluntly across and chewed around the cuticles. No rings on either hand. The matte black watch on his wrist was more special ops than stylish.

The most intriguing part was that absolutely none of this matched the well-tailored sleeves of his suit, which was a tastefully muted blue-gray. A man with a suit like that should’ve had a manicure and a shiny watch, and a man with hands like that should’ve been in a biker bar with a jukebox, not a busy Irish bar in midtown with polished wood and delusions of grandeur.

Whitney almost turned to look but thought better of it. Nope, not here for that.

Then the pretty redheaded bartender leaned toward him, asking, “What can I get for… you?” That little hesitation should’ve been Whitney’s first warning. She had been here for an hour and a half, and had watched a half-dozen men flirt shamelessly with the bartender, and found her friendly but professional. But this guy, whoever he was, had gotten through.

Then he gave his order and Whitney was momentarily distracted by the sound of him. “I know it’s practically a felony to not order Guinness in a place like this, but I think that tap over there says Murphy’s Irish Stout on it.”

She grinned. “Sure does!”

The right hand flashed two fingers while she still was watching it. “Pints, please. Don’t go easy on the foam.”

The bartender seemed to twinkle up at him, Whitney’s second warning. “One of today’s specials is our bomber size, that’s our 22 ouncer for the same price as the pint.”

“Mmm. Hurt me, Riley,” he half-growled flirtatiously. She could hear his grin without seeing it. She also noted that in her time here, no one had bothered to learn Riley’s name, or if they had, hadn’t bothered to use it.

But his voice is what brought her up short at the moment. He spoke with a lazy, ambiguously accented drawl. His voice was low and rough, in that perfect Johnny Cash sweet spot between Barry White and Tom Waits. If he smoked, he certainly didn’t smell like it.

It was just one more thing that didn’t match the suit and Whitney finally gave in to curiosity and slightly turned to check him out.

Unfortunately, the stunned “oh” that played in her head was simulcast to her mouth.

Turning his head to glance down at her, his face softened from what she imagined was a resting smolder to a knowing half-smile that clearly stated, “I get that a lot.” But he seemed more pleased that she was pleased, rather than pleased with himself, which made the silent acknowledgement endearing rather than insufferable.

He was a few years older than Whitney and, though she was sitting down, seemed like he was about a head taller. In his suit, he looked kind of pleasantly solid all over, his thick torso balancing his broad shoulders. In American football, he’d be a running back, built for power and speed all at once.

Green-gold eyes appraised her with a not terribly subtle once-over. He had a well-defined jaw with maybe three days’ worth of stubble, a strong nose (ah, more freckles) that would’ve overpowered a lesser profile, and a generous, pouty mouth. With his dark hair in a frat boy cut swept up with product and a navy-blue foulard tie done up in a Prince Albert knot tucked neatly into his waistcoat, he was James Dean dressed up like Cary Grant and it shouldn’t have worked. At all.

Attractive men didn’t really impress her. Over the last few years, she had worked with hundreds of powerful, attractive men who wore even nicer suits than his, and had developed something of an immunity. But this guy had something else: Total, unabashed, panty-dropper confidence, earned through – if she dared to guess – years of rigorous study in the discipline. It radiated off of him in waves. She could almost guess that his first act had been to imagine her naked, and that his goal from that point on was to find out what made her tick.

He glanced down at her nearly empty glass. “Martini, huh? Can I get you another one?”

“Sure,” she managed a smile. “Thank you.”

His eyes lit up and he asked silkily. “Do you like ‘em dirty?”

That totally shouldn’t have worked, but he sold it through sheer audacity. She found herself almost as flustered as the time she met Gerard Butler at a party. Well, there was nothing she could do but play through the pain. “Yes, very,” she answered, then waited a couple of beats. “Wait, did you mean the martini?”

The smirk turned into a warm, appreciative smile, complete with the glimpse of teeth, that made little wrinkles fan out at the corners of his eyes. Okay, maybe the Cary Grant thing wasn’t entirely the suit.

He easily got Riley the bartender’s attention again. “Gin martini, stirred, extra dry, straight up, four olives, and —” He cut her a vaguely obscene sideways look. “Very dirty.”

“Wow.” Whitney was legitimately impressed.

She’d been right about the resting smolder, as he lapsed back into it while straightening a tie that didn’t need straightening. Just as she was starting to miss his big, open grin and all the crow’s feet that came with it, it snuck back across his face. “I overheard you orderin’ the first one. But, admit it, I almost had you.”

You had me well before that, she didn’t say. Besides, he clearly already knew, and it was a little late for her to play hard-to-get. Also, this meant he’d noticed her before she noticed him and since he continued to flirt with her, she liked her chances.

“Dean,” he told her, unprompted. Then, almost as an afterthought. “Gillan.”

“Whitney.” She mimicked his pause. “Evans.”

As the bartender deposited a fresh martini in front of her, Whitney asked, “So, Dean Gillan, what it is you do that you wear such nice suits, but also look like you start fistfights for fun?”

Dean stepped back to examine his suit, hands spread defensively. “A man can’t dress up for a fistfight?”

She was still laughing at this when another man walked up and stood behind Dean, flashing her an apologetic smile. He wore a nice suit as well, in a somber charcoal gray. His tie, she noticed, was the red version of Dean’s blue one, done up in the same knot.

This man was taller, broader across the shoulders but much narrower in the hips. His suit was cut to flatter both, and he seemed to wear his more comfortably. He had dark hair, too, but his was thick and collar-length and fell slightly into his face when he looked down. His deep-set eyes were either blue or hazel, or possibly neither, and he had a sharper side profile.

She didn’t get the same dirty “down for anything” vibe from him that she got from Dean. At the moment, she was thankful for that. She didn’t think she could handle two of them. However, the hand that gripped his phone was big, his fingers longer, but with the same blunt nails. No ring on him, either.

With his earnest expression, all he needed was a pair of half-rimmed glasses and a tweed suit, and he’d be that college professor who didn’t understand why so many students sat in the front row. How was it that they hung on to his every word and were still failing the course?

Without thinking, she asked faintly. “Are the hot guys traveling in pairs tonight?”

She glanced quickly at Dean, expecting him to bristle or look hurt since the two of them had been hitting it off. All he did was give her a small smile that she couldn’t quite interpret.

Dean turned to the other man and fixed part of his shirt collar that had fallen. He theatrically licked a finger and made a move toward the man’s hair, which was only narrowly avoided as he turned back to her with a smile. “Whitney, this is my partner, FBI Agent Sam Blackmore. Sam, Whitney Evans. She thinks you’re hot for some reason, so try to act like it.”

FBI agents. Now the suits and busted knuckles made a little more sense.

Sam briefly glared at his partner, a blink-and-miss sort of thing, before looking down at her to smile, revealing dimples in his cheeks. He turned back to Dean, showing him his phone. “Get this.”

The two of them stood with their heads almost touching to peer at Sam’s phone, eyes tracking back and forth, Dean’s lips moving slightly. Then the two had the most truncated (and possibly most dude-like) conversation she had ever heard in her life.

Dean leaned in closer to scroll his index finger down the screen as their eyes tracked some more. Dean straightened to look at Sam. “What the hell?”

“I don’t know.”

“Seriously, what the hell?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said, more insistently this time.

“And there were —?”

“Two.”

“They find ‘em both?”

Sam frowned. “Just one.”

Dean turned to Whitney for a moment, smiling apologetically. “Bureau business, sweetheart, don’t go anywhere.”

“Why?” Whitney asked playfully. “Am I being detained, Agents?”

This earned her a shy grin from Sam and a much more suggestive one from Dean.

Besides, two hot guys, and the one coming on strong was apparently secure enough that he didn’t mind that she thought the other one was hot, too? How often did that happen? Why on earth would she go anywhere?

Dean turned back to Sam, their conversation picking back up right where they left off. “If there’s only one —”

The two pulled back from the phone, processed something for a moment, then chorused, “Vernal equinox.”

Whitney laughed. “You guys have been working together too long.”

The two peered at her over the top of the phone and Sam smirked. “You have no idea.”

“When?” Dean asked him.

“Not until March,” Sam answered. “But then –”

“The other thing.”

“Right.”

“And?”

“Well they —” Sam looked furtively at Whitney and seemed to select his next words carefully. “We probably won’t hear anything back until Friday.”

“Friday?” Dean brightened and happily braced Sam by the shoulders, giving him a firm little shake that made him roll his eyes. “You know what I’m gonna say next, right?”

“No idea,” Sam answered sarcastically. “But I’m guessing ‘something something pick this up tomorrow something something see you in the morning, Sam.’”

“Then you guess wrong.” Dean handed him one of the two big glasses of beer that were waiting next to him on the bar, before ducking his head to look the pretty bartender in the eye as he passed her a tip. “Thank you again, Riley.”

Whitney didn’t think it was the tip that made Riley straighten a bit and smile up at him.

“Why do you always do that?” Sam muttered as they turned away. “Give her a chance to finish her college education, Hef.”

Dean visibly balked at “Hef” but moved one hand palm-up under his chin and along the side of his head as if displaying a game show prize. “This is just my face, dude. It does what it does. I can’t control it.” He turned to look conspiratorially at Whitney, voice mock-mournful. “God knows I’ve tried.”

Whitney didn’t actually know which of them she liked better.

Sam ignored him and looked down at the beer in his hand. “Why’d you get me a beer if I’m just going back to the room?”

“’Cause you’re not going back to the room, you’re coming back to our table with me and Whitney.”

Whitney was as taken aback by this as Sam seemed to be. Not that she was complaining.

“C’mon,” Dean prodded gently, like he was trying to coax a pet back in from the outdoors. “You gotta sit for serious drinking, not as far to the floor.”

Sam shook his head, but followed them to the corner-most table in the back. Whitney noticed that Dean had a sort of hip-rolling strut. Because of course he did. She wondered if it was an affectation for her benefit.

The two both moved to pull a chair out for her, but Sam surrendered the right of way to Dean. After she was seated, Dean squeezed around her to the chair wedged directly in the corner facing the front doors, and turned it around to straddle it and rest his arms on the back. The suit now looked more incongruous than it had back at the bar. She found herself wondering what he wore when he was off-duty. Or maybe he had been a cop before a fed and hadn’t ever shaken it off?

Dean made an abrupt “put it away” gesture at some books and papers that were in Whitney’s place and Sam swept them into an open messenger bag before she could really get a look at any of it, though it didn’t seem like official research materials. Then again, if their case really involved the vernal equinox...

Sinking into his own chair, Sam watched Dean’s face intently.

“What?” Dean wiped at his mouth with his hand. “Do I have foam?”

“Uh... no. You... you got it.” Sam took a big swallow of the beer and leaned back in what she immediately recognized as feigned relaxation.

An attractive blonde server in her thirties stopped to ask them if they needed anything, and Dean jokingly gestured at Sam. “Can we get a double milk for this kid?”

As the server laughed and walked away, Whitney perked up. “Was that a quote from U.S. Marshals?”

Dean grinned. “I knew I liked you. See, Sammy, some people watch fun movies.”

Did he say Sammy? Hmm.

“Wait.” Sam blinked a couple of times. “Are you talking about the sequel to The Fugitive? That’s a terrible movie.”

“Actually…” Dean paused to take an operatically prissy sip of his beer and raised his chin haughtily. “Since it doesn’t continue, expand, or resolve the story from The Fugitive, but instead moves existing characters to a new story, U.S. Marshals is not a sequel, but... a spin-off.” Dean gave Whitney a wink that should’ve come with some sort of warning and then smugly looked at Sam across the table.

His beer glass stopping halfway to his mouth, Sam asked, “Wait... was that... were you being me?”

Dean nodded his head with a smirk. “Huh? I nailed it, right?” He added, sotto voce to Whitney, “I’ve been practicing.”

Shaking his head as if disappointed in both of them, Sam’s thumbs moved quickly across his phone’s screen and then turned it around so they could see it. “Look, 26% on Rotten Tomatoes.”

“Yeah, you’re right, now I can never watch it again,” Dean said drily. “That’s a solid flick, man. You’ve got Tommy Lee Jones, RDJ, and that cute French chick who played Wesley Snipes’ girlfriend.”

“74% of the world isn’t as easily amused as you.” Sam winced at what he’d just said and looked at Whitney contritely. “Or... you. Sorry.”

Whitney shrugged, feeling like she was a supporting character in a buddy cop movie like Lethal Weapon. Dean probably liked that one. Sam probably pretended he didn’t.

“This kid looks up the reviews for dive bars before he’ll agree to go,” Dean told Whitney incredulously. “Dive bars. What’s the review gonna say? ‘I had seven beers, they were fine, I passed out on the pool table and no one drew a dick on my face, will recommend to my friends’?”

Sam glared. “What if they had a salmonella outbreak or rancid bathrooms? Wouldn’t you want to know in advance?”

“I’m with Sam on this one,” Whitney conceded. “I don’t want to end up at The Titty Twister.”

“First of all, I’ve spent my entire life looking for The Titty Twister like it was El Dorado.” Dean scowled at both of them, but rounded on Sam first. “Also, any respectable dive bar has a rancid bathroom, that’s why it’s a dive bar.”

Sam interrupted to huff in disbelief. “Did you just use the word respectable and --?”

Dean plowed ahead. “And... And, as we’ve been over so many times, you don’t use that bathroom under any circumstances. Not even to hover.”

He turned to address Whitney now. “And you… you lost a point by agreeing with him.” His forced stern expression faded back into a smile. “But then you got it back by referencing From Dusk Till Dawn. That was a close call.”

Sam groaned and spoke to Whitney with a mischievous air that she liked very much. “We have to change the subject or he will talk about the snake dance and I can’t go through that again. Last time he talked about it for an hour, and it’s only a four-minute dance.”

“Not if you keep replaying it.” Dean fixed his eyes on a point behind his partner’s head, and he must have been watching the video in his own brain because Sam waved a hand in front of his eyes to interrupt.

Whitney ate one of her four olives, looking from one of them to the other. “You guys are fun. I thought feds were supposed to have sticks up their asses.”

“He carries both of our sticks,” Dean said. Was that a little wink he gave his partner? “He won’t admit it, but I think he likes it.”

She didn’t know whether to laugh more at Dean’s proud “yeah, you heard me” expression or the dirty look Sam shot him from across the table. The comment would’ve seemed strangely sexual, but she knew that law enforcement officials had that unvarnished way of trash-talking that civilians didn’t often understand.

“What do you do?” Dean asked as Sam’s dirty look faded in intensity. “When you’re not being picked up by two federal agents?”

“I’m --” Wait. Had he said -- two? Did he mean “picked up” as in...?

It was obvious from his reaction that Sam had the same question, but Dean was looking only at her.

Whitney watched them for a moment and started again. “I’m a high-level intermediary for some of the corporate interests in the area.”

Sam squinted, then laughed under his breath. “So, you’re a fixer.”

Whitney smiled at him demurely, tilting her head slightly. “That term has taken on some unfortunate connotations. But... yes, I pay attention. I solve problems.”

The two of them exchanged a brief look, eyes widening and brows raised.

“Like Winston Wolfe?” Dean asked, intrigued.

“Or more like Michael Clayton?” Sam offered.

Dean had another one. “Madeliene White?”

Sam broke away from Whitney to look at him. “What?”

“Inside Man. You’re the one who wanted to watch it. We watched it.”

“I know the movie, Dean, I just didn’t think you were paying attention, since it didn’t have Salma Hayek dancing with a snake.”

Dean pointedly scratched the corner of his eye using only an extended middle finger, and Sam just as pointedly ignored him.

So, they watched movies together? Was being FBI partners not enough time in each other’s company?

“She was more of a power broker, actually,” Whitney said.

Dean frowned. “Those aren’t the same thing?”

“Power brokers are more about politics,” Sam explained. “Influencing things to turn out a certain way rather than trying to fix them. Like Henry Kissinger.” Sam added glibly for Dean’s benefit, “You might not have heard of him, since he’s not from a movie. He’s a real person.”

A nod and an obviously fake smile, all cheeks and no teeth, was his reward from Dean. There was just enough hostility in that look that she thought Sam might pay for this put-down in some small way when they didn’t have a guest.

Whitney took a sip of her martini to forestall laughing. “Well, if we’re sticking with fictional fixers, I guess I’m more like Alec Baldwin’s character in Glengarry Glen Ross. Though I’m much more diplomatic, I’d like to think. Usually.”

Dean leaned back, almost more in the corner than the chair. “Hmm. So when someone needs a fire lit under their ass, they call you.”

“Something like that.” She ate another olive. “When things are broken, they probably call someone else. But before that, they call someone like me to get things moving when they’re stopped, or stalled.” She smiled at Dean. “Not as many corpses to dispose of on that side of things.”

Smiling back, Dean raised his hand to get their server’s attention. “I’m orderin’ another round.”

Sam objected. “Dean, we haven’t even eaten anything.”

“Why do you think I’m ordering stout, dude?” Dean drained what was left in his glass and set it down with a thump. “The steak of beers. I bought you a burrito this morning, it’s not my fault you didn’t finish it like I told you to.”

Whitney sat back to watch them as they continued to bicker. There was no malice in it for them as near as she could tell. It seemed like more of a sport.

It wasn’t that they were excluding her exactly, and Sam especially would turn to her and loop her into it whenever he saw an opportunity, but the person they were trying most to entertain was each other. Which was fine. She usually preferred observing people to actually talking to them anyway.

As the give-and-take continued, she couldn’t help it. She started to notice things.

When she and Sam had started talking between the two of them, Dean would act out in some small way to get Sam’s focus back on him. She was flattered at first, thinking Dean didn’t want to share her. But when it happened the second time, she knew it was Sam he didn’t like sharing.

Dean was possessive then, jealous. Each time she watched it happen, Sam played annoyed but the rest of his body language betrayed that he was pleased. This was theatre.

They struck her as two very different people who shouldn’t have gotten along: Well-spoken vs. blunt, intellect vs. instinct. It was like the president of the chess club had hit it off with the motorcycle bad boy, and the two had bonded over some kind of shared experience, or maybe they had survived some kind of traumatic event. And now they filled in each other’s blanks.

But it was the little flickers of light between them as they argued that struck her the most. It was a little half-smile here, and a fond eye roll there, putting on a show for each other and, to a much lesser extent, her. The jaded, bossy senior partner and the eager, put-upon junior partner, each pretending they didn’t enjoy their roles.

There was more than friendship here. Or partnership. These two had tunnel vision that was only aimed at each other.

Whitney had guessed wrong: She wasn’t in a buddy cop movie. She was in a rom-com that thought it was buddy cop movie.

After they finished a second round, Sam started to relax, and Whitney was delighted that his cheeks flushed red when he was drunk. Sam touched them self-consciously. “It happens sometimes, I don’t know why.”

“It’s adorable, makes me feel like I just bought him his first beer.” And the little light in Dean’s eyes matched that statement of “adorable” with actual adoration that she wasn’t sure he knew he was showing. “Alright, this needs to be the last round, or we won’t be having fun tonight for very long.”

There it was again, that cryptic “we.”

Sam rose awkwardly, the handle of the messenger bag already in his hand. “I’ll leave you to it.” He turned to glance down at Whitney. “It was nice to m—”

Dean silently pointed his finger from Sam to the chair. After a moment, Sam sat back down.

The two of them then seemed to go into some silent discussion, somehow conveyed only through facial tics, Dean’s more forceful, Sam’s more uncertain.

If Sam didn’t want to be part of this, why was he? He was a big dude, the bigger of the two. He didn’t have to do what Dean was suggesting. He could’ve just gotten up, said “goodnight” and walked away. But he didn’t.

Did he want to be talked into it? And why did Dean want him there if Sam clearly didn’t want to be?

Oh.

Ohhh.

This was shaping up to be a very interesting evening.

As their secret sign language thing continued, Whitney looked up local hotels on her phone and found one that looked like it was very nice. “Let’s skip another round and just get to the main event.”

Dean beamed at her. “You are singin’ my song.” Absently, he reached over and slid the beer that Sam clearly wasn’t going to finish toward him, picking it up and draining it in one swallow, looking at Sam directly the whole time. Then, with another hand command that indicated Sam and then he and Whitney, Dean went to settle the bill.

Whitney had never made a wager in her life, but she was ready to bet money that these two were in love.

✯✯✯✯

When she got out of the bathroom and walked outside, they were standing together (very close together) against a shiny black muscle car. (She could guess who did most of the driving.) From the body language, it seemed that Dean was giving a pep talk, one hand flat against Sam’s chest.

She approached only to hear Dean say, “Think I’m gonna poke you in the eye? You’ll be at the other end.”

They didn’t see Whitney yet, so she decided she might as well eavesdrop.

“But it’s --” Sam’s hand was anxiously raking through his hair. “We don’t -- It’s weird, right?”

“Nothin’ you haven’t seen before, puritan boy.”

“Dean, those times weren’t by choice.” Sam protested. “They were usually because you forgot to hang the thing I made on the door.”

Hold up. Hold. The. Hell. Up.

Did these two... live together?

Dean braced him by the shoulders again. “Look, we only get to play it one day at a time, man.”

Sam stared at him, confused, then rolled his eyes and huffed. “Bull Durham? Right now?”

Dean’s laugh was in no way repentant. “Seriously, you’re good and lubed up and you’re probably feelin’ a little loose so you just have to go with the --”

Sam noticed Whitney standing there and slapped at Dean’s chest quickly in the universal “stop talking” gesture.

The two stepped away from each other slightly. Slightly. Sam was obviously considering the last words Dean had said, and his face flushed as if he was going to try to explain that Dean didn’t mean that kind of “lubed up” or that kind of “loose” but Dean held up a hand to stop this before it started and asked her, “You ready to go?”

“Absolutely, I already picked a place, but I need to make a stop on the way over, won’t be ten minutes.” She pointed at a silver Audi in the adjacent row. “Follow me.”

Dean’s grin was infectious as the prospect of sex grew nearer. Sam smiled, but also looked like he wanted a trapdoor to open beneath him and pull him down into the earth, never to be seen again.

✯✯✯✯

The hotel clerk was a lady in her 60s and, to her credit, when Whitney paid for a luxury suite with one king-sized bed for the three of them, her expression only changed subtly. It was that kind of place, with all the discretion that the rates could provide.

Dean caught the woman’s reaction and grinned back shamelessly, then turned to look at Sam as if sizing him up. Sam seemed to be carefully pretending that none of this was really happening, staring in feigned fascination at the shelf next to the front desk with all the different pamphlets for local tourist attractions.

“California king,” Dean amended, turning back. “If you have it.”

Whitney wasn’t sure what to expect when they got into the room. More small talk? Not that she hadn’t enjoyed their small talk at the bar. Should she call room service and have them send up more drinks?

The two of them shared a soft “huh” as they walked into the room. Likely, the FBI only paid for the minimum accommodations while they were on the road.

As soon as the door was closed behind Sam, Dean casually took off his jacket and draped it over the armchair next to the door, and she watched as Sam, who seemed to be foundering, followed his lead with their socks and shoes next.

Under his jacket, Dean wore a horizontal shoulder holster in soft brown leather that looked like it was out of the 1940s. Whitney was considering asking him to put it back on once he had taken off everything else.

Next was Dean’s waistcoat. Sam didn’t have one of those, so he went with his button-down next. Just as Dean was deftly removing his tie, Sam tried to do the same and hesitated. He looked at Whitney as if he hoped she wasn’t watching, but she couldn’t not watch this play out.

“Dean?”

“Hmm?”

Sam’s eyes darted back to Dean. “I can’t undo your stupid knot.”

Dean stripped out of his own button-down like he didn’t care if it still had buttons tomorrow or not. He had good, solid biceps. “I’ve shown you like three times, dude. Watch the YouTube video I sent you, and practice.”

“Whenever I try to untie it, it gets worse.”

Sighing wearily, but not at all convincingly, Dean stripped out of his white undershirt. He was just as broad and meaty as she had imagined, but none of it was fat. Given the amount of stout he had just put away, he must’ve had the metabolism of a hummingbird. If she knew him better, she would’ve warned him that metabolism slows down at forty, and she figured he was coming up on that.

When he turned around to rescue Sam, she could see every ripple and groove of his back. The deep valley down the middle looked more pronounced because of the bulk of muscle on either side. Out of the suit, and from the side, he looked almost svelte compared to how he looked from the front.

Sam raised his chin and exposed his throat so Dean could more easily access the knot. Dean picked at it from where Sam had tightened it and then undid it as effortlessly as he’d undone his own. Whitney wondered if Dean had picked out their ties this morning, and if he had tied Sam’s tie. She was wondering a lot of things.

Dean was unfastening his belt as Sam was still unbuttoning his shirt. When Dean turned, Whitney saw an ornate tattoo with a star at its center, just under his collarbone. She was actually expecting more ink on him than that.

After Sam pulled his undershirt over his head, she gaped at him, stunned. She wouldn’t have known it, but Sam was some kind of Greek god under that suit, his muscle was more structured, more by design, whereas Dean’s seemed more incidental. They were intellect vs. instinct even in this. Dean could’ve posed as Michelangelo’s David (though he was packing considerably more heat, given the outline of his black boxer briefs), but Sam was the Farnese Hercules.

Thank god both types coexisted. She wouldn’t want to live in a world where they didn’t.

As Sam reached up to smooth down his disheveled hair, Dean slapped his hand away. “No, we talked about this. You get that middle part every-thing-behind-the-ears thing, it looks stupid.” Dean stepped closer. “Here, look at me.”

She watched them, open-mouthed, enjoying this unguarded moment.

It wasn’t the way that Dean reached up with both hands to muss his partner’s hair further so that it hung messier around his face. It wasn’t the way that Dean stood back to admire his handiwork, and then stepped forward to make minor adjustments.

It was the few seconds before that, before Dean had made any move at all, where Sam had ducked his head with a good-natured eye roll, waiting patiently for Dean to “fix” his hair.

And then it was a few seconds after where Dean seemed to give his partner a critical assessment that was not only confined to his hair. “There. Looks better that way.”

Was she watching a live gay porno? That’s what this felt like. The “story” part of a porno before it got to the good stuff.

Sam turned to put his pants on the chair and she saw it.

The same tattoo that Dean had, in exactly the same location on his chest.

“Alright, guys, time out,” Whitney said finally, leaning forward.

Both men jerked toward her in unison.

They had literally forgotten she was in the room.

She smiled. “This is where I get off.”

Their bewildered expressions matched like their damn tattoos, and Dean’s eyebrows were raised, mouth quirked in a half-smile. He had only just realized that she hadn’t removed any of her clothes, not even her shoes.

“The ride,” she expanded. “This is where I get off the ride, now that I’ve got you two where I want you.”

As Dean put himself between her and Sam, he went through an abrupt transformation. Suddenly, he moved with military bearing and every muscle she could see was... not tense, exactly, but ready. There was no more Cary Grant; it had all burned away. There wasn’t even James Dean.

This, she ventured, was Dean Gillan. The real one, under all the charm and showmanship. She was looking at Mr. Fistfights-for-Fun, in the flesh. In almost all of his flesh, actually.

“What are you?” He asked, voice stripped of any sultry teasing.

In that moment, she could see the man who wanted to wrap his fingers in his younger partner’s long hair and fuck hard into him for those little disparaging remarks back at the bar.

As Sam stood just behind Dean to back him up, puppy face gone hard, she realized she was legitimately frightened of them both.

“I’m a fixer,” she said quietly, hoping to bring down the temperature in the room just a bit. “I get things moving when they’re stopped, or stalled.”

She indicated Dean first. “You want to be here. You want to fuck me. But, more importantly, you want him to see you fucking me. You want to show off, you want him to see how good you are. Because he’ll see what you do to me, and he’ll wish it was him, and you like the thought of that.”

Dean stepped just a little closer, but she continued.

Then Sam. “You do not want to be here. At least, not for me. You want to be with him, and you see sex-by-proxy, even sex you don’t want to have, as a way to get that. Something might accidentally happen between the two of you. That’s your hope. But me?” She smiled. “You don’t want me. You don’t want anyone else but him.”

Dean snorted derisively and glanced at Sam with an unspoken “can you believe this bullshit?”, but drew back slightly when Sam wouldn’t meet his eyes. She couldn’t help but notice that Dean made no specific denials of her assessment of him.

She went back to Dean. “You want him. Maybe more than you’ve ever wanted anything, but you don’t think you can have him.”

Then to Sam. “And the same for you. What is it, FBI regulations about fraternization?” Neither of them would look at her now. “Because I have a newsflash for you: It’s really obvious. You’re not subtle. Any supervising agent you have who hasn’t noticed is either oblivious or looking the other way because you’re good at your jobs. If I hadn’t had three martinis before I saw you at the bar, I would’ve picked up on it a lot faster.” She went back to Dean again. “You gave it away, almost right away, and I missed it at first. When I made the remark about your partner being hot, you didn’t get jealous. You didn’t get angry. You were... honored. Proud. You were gratified that someone else found him hot.”

She could tell by the hard line of his jaw and eyes that looked all but dead that Dean’s temper was barely in check, and even though neither of them could look at the other, Dean held one hand against Sam’s stomach as if holding him back.

“We could all still hook up,” she said calmly. “Or the two of you could hook up, and I could just watch.” To Dean, “You would like that, wouldn’t you? Why is it that when you’re fucking a woman and your partner’s around, you can’t seem to lock a door, or hang a sign? You want him to see you, just like that, in all your glory. All sweaty, red-faced and fucked-out.”

Sam shifted uncomfortably behind Dean.

“And you,” she addressed to Sam. “Your partner doesn’t strike me as being a particularly quiet lover, and I doubt the women he’s with are quiet, either. And you’re a trained FBI agent. You listen at doors before you open them. You already know what’s happening on the other side, so why do you open it? Why are you always so, so shocked by what you see?”

“You’ve got us wrong,” Dean said finally, but even he seemed to realize that this was a weak rebuttal.

“I’m wrong about a lot of things,” Whitney admitted. “But not people. I’m always right about people.”

Whitney stood now, hands spread placatingly with a plastic bag hanging from one wrist. “You can treat this room like a pocket universe if you want. A place where you can resolve all this tension and want and then, if you don’t feel like talking about it after that, you agree to never speak of it again. But I don’t think your partnership would survive. I think you’ll like what happens in here, if you give it a chance.”

She handed that plastic bag to Dean, who took it only reluctantly, letting it hang from two fingers like it was something foul.

“That’s what I picked up on the stop before we drove here,” Whitney explained. “I don’t think either of you have done this before, so I thought it might ease things along. For your bottom... or that is to say, Sam’s bottom.”

Dean looked a little smug at this appraisal, which Sam caught. As if fully realizing what he was being smug about, Dean’s face went carefully neutral.

“You’ve got the room until noon tomorrow.” Whitney put her purse on her shoulder. “It’s a luxury suite. There’s room service. You can simply decide that you’re going to sleep here and nothing will happen. But if I were you...” She smiled. “I’d make it memorable. I might even see it as a challenge to break the bed.”

Whitney walked past them, still not entirely unafraid but playing it off. Right before she closed the door, she said, “It was nice being an intermediary for something other than a multinational corporation.” Finally returning the wink Dean had given her earlier, she said. “Good luck.”

#wincest #dean winchester fanfic #sam winchester fanfic #spnfic #supernatural fanfic #dean winchester #sam winchester #i write things

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backseat-negan · 7 years

Text

|Long-Awaited Savior: Part One|

This is my first ever fic - not just in the Negan fandom, but for anything. I’ve never been much of a writer or reader. Deciding to try something new. Feedback is MUCH needed and appreciated.

Masterlist

Characters: Negan (JDM) x female reader

Words: 2,012

Heads up: violence, swearing, a rapist being found out, bondage (non-kinky), flashbacks, and there will definitely be smut in the upcoming chapters/parts :)

Setup: Negan & the Saviors overrun your community and dole out some long overdue justice, changing your life in the process.

Part One: Justice for One

You jerked awake as you heard the unmistakable sounds of a fight occurring just outside the shed you lay in. Blinking repeatedly, you hastily tried to clear away the dirt that had collected on your eyelids. Your shoulders and hips screamed in aching protest at another night spent sleeping on the solid earth.

For fuck’s sake, I need to learn how to sleep sitting up.

Well, it would help to be able to move around in this tiny shithole.

There were shouts from dozens of voices as gunfire rang out. While adrenaline quickly flooded your veins, your brain went into full fight-or-flight mode, and you weren’t entirely sure which avenue you should pursue. The muscles in your jaw and fists clenched instinctively, but you had to calm down - you were no good if you allowed your body to take control. You focused on your breathing, closed your eyes… and prayed that after all this time you wouldn’t lose your life to a goddamn looter. Or worse, one of the dead.

You tried to push yourself up with your elbow as you strained to distinguish the sounds going on outside, but after a few pathetic failed attempts you collapsed back onto the hard dirt with a frustrated groan. Despite the gag pulled achingly tight across your mouth and the tape shackling your wrists behind your back and your ankles together, you mentally prepared yourself for a fight as the sound of commotion drew nearer. You rocked your body back and forth until you managed to twist yourself into a sitting position - back pressed against the wall and feet coiled, ready to lash out at whoever was planning on coming through those god-forsaken doors.

Come at me, motherfucker.

There was a deafening boom at the door, and while the chains on the other side rattled violently you heard a deep voice bellow, “Are you holdin’ out on me? Hiding more shit? I swear to fuck, if I find more guns in here, we’re gonna have a big fucking problem. I will shut that shit down. I won’t ask you again, open the goddamn lock.” Your lips curled in disgust as you heard an all-too-familiar voice stuttering excuses as the lock and chains continued to clang against the heavy door. Wesley.

Be my guest and kill the fucking prick.

After a split second of silence, you heard a soft click followed by a thud and assumed the dickwad had finally found the right key. Funny how he never had to fumble around with the lock when he was the one trying to get in. You dug your feet into the dirt, pressing yourself into the wall with such force that you could feel the splinters tearing at your elbows and shoulders. After a deep breath, you pulled your legs back to your chest, and as soon as the sunlight spilled through the opening doorway, you launched your legs out and up with as much force as you could muster and connected with solid flesh.

I’m not going down without a fight, bitches.

“JESUS FUCK!” you heard the unfamiliar voice roar. Before you could even consider winding up for another kick, you were quickly dragged out into the blinding sun by your feet. Squinting through the sudden burst of light, you could just barely make out the outline of a tall man hunched over in pain and gasping for breath. He was leaning on something… some kind of pipe or bat. As you squirmed to get a better look, you felt cold steel press roughly into your temple and throw your head back into the dirt as a different voice whispered, “You move or try to pull that shit again and I’ll end you right here.” You chanced a glance up the barrel of the shotgun and saw a glimpse of a man with a dark mustache at the other end of the gun.

A bullet in my head would be the best option I’ve had in a good long while.

You were genuinely considering throwing in one last kick to end your life on a high note, but then you heard the first voice again - the tall man - gasping hoarsely, “Put the fucking gun down, Simon. Does it looks like she’s gonna fucking kill me taped up like that?” You felt the pressure on your temple ease up, and you quickly squirmed onto your back and tried to sit up. You pathetically toppled over almost instantly and continued to struggle, eliciting an enthusiastic eye roll and smirk from the man holding what you could now see was a baseball bat wrapped in… barbed wire?

I’ve seen some twisted shit, but… that might take the cake.

“You’re just a fucking ray of sunshine, aren’t ya? I’m Negan. And those were my balls you just kicked.”

When you finally managed to sit up with your back against the shed, he squatted almost on top of you, his face mere inches from yours. His eyes were like wildfire, and the grin showcasing his perfect teeth was more dangerous than inviting. You began to take in the rest of his features - the dimples set deep into his cheeks, the silver sheen in his beard - and found yourself becoming slightly enthralled before his booming voice interrupted your wandering thoughts.

“What the fucking hell did you do to get locked up, beautiful? Had to be some pretty fucked up shit. What’d, you try to kill someone? Sabotage a run? Hey fuckface,” he called over to the one miserable face in the group that you recognized, “Come over here and enlighten me. The fuck’d she do?”

You felt your heart pounding in your ears and chest as Wesley came close, sweat beading and rolling in rivers down his balding head as his eyes darted nervously between you and the man called Negan.

Fucking pig.

Your eyes jumped to the blood soaking through his shirt near his hipbone and gleefully wondered if he had been shot. You’d even be happy with a stab wound at this point, but if it had been up to you, he’d be bleeding in a lot more places.

“Caught her tryin’ to sneak a .45 out a few weeks back,” Wesley spat out with a shit-eating grin, his eyes now glued to yours. “She ain’t ever even been on watch duty, so she’s got no reason to carry. Little bitch can’t even be trusted to wash fucking dishes without trying to fucking steal shit,” You unconsciously growled through your gag and lunged forward, only to be thrown back against the shed wall by the bat man’s powerful hands.

“Now just hold on for one fucking second,” he drawled. “I gotta hear both fucking sides of this story. This is gonna be good, I can already fucking tell. Simon, cut it off.”

Mustache man stepped forward with a blade drawn and before you could even hiss your disapproval at him, he had sliced through the coil of linen that had been gagging you. Trying not to look surprised, you opened and closed your jaw over and over as the rag fell from your face, trying to stretch out the muscles that had been strained for weeks.

Hell, it could’ve been months for all I know.

Negan - with his nose still mere inches from yours - quickly studied every inch of your face, a frown setting deeper on his lips and an even wilder fire igniting behind his eyes with every passing second. For an instant you thought he might kill you for the theft Wesley had accused you of, but you realized that was far from the truth when his eyes softened for just a moment as he whispered quietly to you, “What happened, doll?”

You’re gonna pay for your sins today, you sick fuck.

“I’ve never taken a goddamn thing from this prick,” you growled quietly through clenched teeth. “Never a fucking shirt, never a bottle of water, never an ounce of food, and definitely never a fucking gun.” You spat hatefully in Wesley’s direction, and immediately saw his eyes flare with anger. But as quickly as he reached for the knife hanging from his belt, the man named Simon grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him to the ground, busting his lip open on impact.

“Go ahead and move, prick. I dare you,” Simon whispered in a dangerously calm tone, kneeling and dropping his knee heavily on Wesley’s back. You watched the blood trickling down Wesley’s chin with satisfaction.

“This fucking asswipe has been shoving his dick down my throat and up my ass every chance he’s had since I got here!” you half shouted, surprised at your own audacity. You quickly realized there was more of a crowd gathered than you had previously noticed, and somewhat regretted the boldness of your statement.

You watched the look on Wesley’s face go from getting-away-with-murder to shut-the-fuck-up-right-now in the span of mere seconds. Negan turned his head slowly to take in the full picture of Wesley held chest down in the dirt - sputtering excuses yet again - before turning back to face you. You tried desperately not to tremble, but your adrenaline surged again - if your hands weren’t still taped, you would no doubt be at Wesley’s throat.

Negan turned lazily to look at Wesley once more before turning back to you and raising his hand slightly above his head, prompting Simon to shove the shotgun into the side of Wesley’s head. You felt your breath catch in your throat. Was justice actually going to be served, and on such a glorious platter?

DO IT. Fucking end him, right here and now.

Negan looked you hard in the eyes as he softly tipped your chin up with a leather-gloved hand and whispered so quietly you were certain you were the only one to hear him. “Did you ever consent? Did you ever say yes?”

You couldn’t hold back the tears that silently pooled in your eyes and rolled down your cheeks as images flashed back in your mind. They were tears of rage, despair, embarrassment, fear, and agony. Tears for every night you spent screaming into the gag while no one could hear, every night you heard the lock click shut as you lay trembling in the dirt, feeling filthy, used, and worthless. You closed your eyes before shaking your head slowly and whispering with a cracking voice, “No… no… I never wanted this.”

You weren’t sure which came first, the gunshot or Negan’s hand signaling Simon. They seemed to happen in the same instant. There must have been shrieks of surprise from the camp members who had gathered judging by the looks on their faces, but all you could hear was a ringing in your ears as you stared at the pieces of Wesley’s head littering the ground. Your mouth hung open in stunned silence as Simon handed Negan a knife.

It’s over.

Negan’s touch was surprisingly gentle as he carefully peeled the broken tape from your skin, but you barely even felt the tug of the adhesive. Your eyes darted back and forth from Wesley’s obliterated skull to Negan’s eyes, which were far too focused on releasing you from your bonds as painlessly as possible. You were still in shock. He occasionally glanced up at your eyes to assess how you were coping as he finished removing the shackles you had worn for far too long.

It’s fucking over.

“Let’s go, doll. Come with me,” Negan murmured in your ear, but you were frozen in place, still staring at the brain flesh strewn everywhere. “Get the truck,” Negan nodded to Simon as he delicately scooped you up into his arms and brought you close to his chest. The tears still streamed down your cheeks as you stared blankly ahead, trying to process the events of the last ten minutes. Negan leaned down and tenderly kissed your forehead as he walked to the truck, whispering what your head had been repeating to you since the gunshot:

“It’s over.”

Next Chapter (Part Two)

Ahhhhhh!! It’s so terrifying to finally post this! There is DEFINITELY more on the way, but I didn’t want to blow my load for Negan all at once :) The naming of the rapist as Wesley was a therapeutic thing for me and has nothing to do with the show or comic. Please leave feedback - I absolutely need it!!

Tagging those who have asked or have inspired me to write - if you’d like to be removed or added, please just let me know: @wickednerdery , @flames-bring-a-ton-of-ash , @negans-network , @negans-dirty-girl , @my-achilles--heel , @ladylorelitany , @marythenurse

#negan x reader #negan fanfiction #twd fanfiction #negan's thirst squad #negan's network #noob writer #first fanfic

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