#don’t mind me just mildly rick rolling

[ichorai]

sorry ; daryl dixon.

track three of BROKEN MACHINE.

pairing ; daryl dixon x doctor!reader (gender neutral pronouns)

synopsis ; you were on your knees, and daryl was too. he wouldn’t look at you—he couldn’t—terrified that negan would bring that bat down on your head if he noticed.

words ; 7.9k

themes ; heavy angst, mild action, doctor au

warnings / includes ; death and violence, negan at his worst, vulgar language, guns/weapons, descriptions of injury/blood, mentions of maggie's pregnancy, negan goes on long ass monologues, poor rick is going Through it, the walking dead s6-7 spoilers (fic starts right at the season six finale), mild sexual dialogue from negan

main masterlist.

Maggie hummed with discontent when you pressed a cold, damp cloth to her forehead. There was a pallid color to her skin, and her temperature was beginning to rise, despite her violent shivers beneath the blanket. The inconsistent, rocking motions of the RV weren’t doing her any favors, either. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll get you to Hilltop real soon,” you said, feeling mildly guilty that you couldn’t help her more, despite being a doctor yourself. Alexandria was completely out of medical supplies and this was urgent—if Maggie didn’t get help soon… you’d never be able to forgive yourself if something bad were to happen to her or the baby. “Hang on for me, okay?”

The brunette slanted her lips in a tired smile, eyelids heavy. 

Rick knelt down beside you, speaking in a low, comforting tone. “We’re gonna get there. Once we get the medicine from Hilltop, Y/N will fix you right up.”

A small sigh fell from her pale, trembling lips. A thin film of tears warbled over her eyes. She was terrified. 

“Oh, Maggie,” you murmured, gently pulling away the short strands of hair sticking to her face. 

“How do you know?” muttered your friend, gaze trained on the ex-cop. 

“Everything we’ve done… we've done it together. We got here together and we’re still here. Things have happened, but it’s always worked out for us, ‘cause it’s always been all of us. That’s how I know. As long as it’s all of us helpin’ you, we can do it.”

A hot tear meandered down Maggie’s cheek. You nodded gratefully at Rick—he’d always had a way with words that you’d never really gotten a grasp of. 

The next hour passed by slowly. You switched between cooling her head, and helping her drink some water, sometimes just holding her hand and telling her that everything was going to be fine. To take her mind off the pain, she’d asked you to tell her about how you and Daryl met, all those years ago long before the dead began to walk. 

“I’m glad Daryl’s not here right now, because he always tells the story differently than I do. Well, how I remember it, he and his dick brother used to come to a small convenience store near their trailer park. That’s where I worked. I was around… nineteen at the time? Almost twenty. I was just working a couple jobs on the side to pay off my growing student debt. Daryl was twenty-three, almost twenty-four. Merle tried to cozy up to me—and I didn’t have any of that. I told him to fuck right off. And later that night, just as I was to close up, Daryl came by and apologized on his brother’s behalf. He was real sweet, so I—”

“What the bitch?” barked Abraham from the driver’s seat, effectively cutting your story short and rolling the RV to a grueling halt. 

“What?” asked Rick, standing up to look out the window. You followed suit, eyes widening upon the sight. 

More than half a dozen Saviors blocking the road with three of their cars—and all of them holding large guns. A lump formed in your throat, and you cast your worried gaze to Rick.

“We goin’ through?” asked Abraham, jaw set. 

Rick gnashed his jaw together in thought. “No,” he said. “We’ll talk to them. C’mon. Y/N, you stay here, watch over Maggie.”

Teeth worrying into your bottom lip, you nodded, stepping to the side to let the rest of them file out of the RV, their own loaded guns at the ready. 

From inside, you couldn’t hear what the Saviors were saying, but from the smug expression of the one in the center with a hideous pornstache, you knew it couldn’t be anything pleasant for your group. 

Three minutes later, they came back in, all looking a bit disgruntled. Rick, most of all.

“What’s going on?” you asked Carl, placing a hand on his forearm. 

The young man that you were so fond of grimaced, shaking his head and lowering his voice to a whisper so that Maggie couldn’t overhear. “They won’t let us through. Want half our stuff.”

Your breath hitched. At this rate, you didn’t know how long Maggie could last without the proper care and medicine. And Alexandria was running low on supplies as it is—taking away half of everything would put the community in a pretty dire situation.

“Alright, thanks kid,” you told him, trying your absolute best not to cry from frustration, your nose burning with the effort. 

The truck began to pull further away from the Saviors, until they were only but little dots against the horizon. 

“Logrun Road’s a straight shot,” said Eugene, repeatedly tapping his finger against the map spread out across the RV’s pull-out table. 

Next to you, Sasha shook her head. “We want visibility.”

You pursed your lips, craning your neck to scan the small, faded texts of the map. “Can we go down Shelton?”

Eugene hummed in agreement, drawling out in his thick Southern accent, “Golf course, country clubs, sloping terrain—no bum rush from the bogeymen. We’d see ‘em from a good piece. It is a longer trip by a third but we’d get the scenic safety of clear-cut dingles and glens.”

Both you and Sasha stared at him blankly. 

“You’re being serious, right?” asked Sasha.

“As coronary thrombosis,” replied the man across from you, stony-faced. Besides, Eugene was never one to joke around.

Sasha rounded her gaze to you expectantly, waiting for you to explain in normal terms. “He’s serious,” you said. “It’s a longer route, but it’ll be well-sheltered and hopefully keep us hidden from the Saviors. I’ll try to keep Maggie steady until then.”

The two nodded at you, and you pushed away from the table, heading further back into the RV where Maggie and Rick were. She was pale and clammy, but still had enough energy to talk to you, so you took that as a good sign. 

Not even ten minutes later, while you were taking measurements of her blood pressure and body temperature, the vehicle came to another rumbling halt. 

“Bitch nuts,” cursed Abraham, loudly for both you and Rick to hear. 

The Saviors were blocking the road. Again.

You could feel panic seize about your chest, constricting your lungs. The situation wasn’t looking good for Maggie, not one bit—but you couldn’t give up hope. Not now, when she needed you the most. You blew out a shaky breath, absentmindedly wishing Daryl was here with you to give you some comfort of mind.

“We making our stand?” asked Sasha, staring out of the window, where more than a dozen saviors were lined up. 

Carl, ever the fiery one, spat out, “Yeah. We end this.”

The blue of his father’s eyes flashed dangerously. “No. Not now. It’s too dangerous for Maggie. They’ve been waiting—they’re ready. We ain’t. With one of us behind the wheel, and Y/N with Maggie, that’d be five on sixteen. We’re gonna play it our way. How we want it.”

Reluctant, Carl nodded. 

Slowly, the RV started backing away. Three successive, warning gunshots were fired into the air. You could feel a sick, twisted rage curl up within your stomach. 

If Maggie died on your watch—her blood would be on the hands of the Saviors.

You fumbled for another map pinned up on the cork board, eyes roaming over the roads, desperate for another available route. Could they possibly have you surrounded? No—the woods were vast, and the roads were winding—there were so many paths left to take to Hilltop. The Saviors simply wouldn’t have the numbers to stop you.

Wouldn’t they?

The RV came to another stop. This time, there were no Saviors blocking the road, but instead, a line of chained-up walkers. Not wanting to risk damaging the RV by driving through them, the rest of the group filed out to check if the coast was clear. You told Maggie you’d be right back, before hopping out of the RV, lingering by the doorway to narrow your gaze at the restrained walkers.

“That’s Michonne’s,” breathed out Carl, his single eye widening. A lock of her hair was stapled against the center walker’s forehead. 

Horror, as black as tar itself, seeped into your chest when you glanced over to the next snarling form, just to see two of Daryl’s arrows embedded into its decaying stomach. Daryl always retrieved his arrows. Which meant… something had happened to him.

“That’s Daryl’s,” you said, loud enough for Rick to hear. “Oh, no, Rick… they did this on purpose. They knew we were coming this way—!”

Just as Rick was about to cleave his axe into the walker’s skull, ricocheting gunfire crackled into the ground, making the dried leaves flutter up with the sudden force, plumes of dust and smoke flying with each bullet. 

“Get back to the RV! Go!” yelled Rick. You scrambled up the steps and ran to a concerned Maggie, trembling as you carefully hovered over her, in case any bullets pierced through the walls and accidentally hit her. Carl and Sasha began shooting blindly into the woods, having not a clue where all the shots were coming from. Rick surged forward and thrust his axe down onto one of the walker’s rotting arms, effectively leaving a gap open for the RV to drive through. 

The rest of the group rushed inside, and Abraham practically threw himself into the driver’s seat to get the RV moving.

The shots died away after a few minutes. With shallow, inconsistent breaths, you slid off of Maggie, slumping down beside her. She croaked out a question, but it fell upon deaf ears, ringing with static and white noise. A warm tear fell from your burning eyes, and you quickly brushed it away with the back of your palm.

Something happened to Daryl. And it was killing you that you couldn’t help him. That you didn’t even know where he was. 

You looked out the window through a watery film of tears, watching the yellow-green fields pass by in a blur. A quick glance at the lowering sun told you that the group was going to lose daylight soon enough, as well. 

A strange, creaking noise was coming from below the RV. 

“What’s that sound?” said Sasha, worried. 

“Undercarriage could’ve caught a bullet,” replied Eugene. “Could be transmission. Could be nothing.”

Agitated, Rick growled out, “They were firing at our feet. They blocked the road, but they weren’t trying to stop us.”

“They want us in this direction,” you murmured, making his wild gaze swivel to you. You gestured to the map. “Rick, they know we’re coming. They know we wanna go North.”

“Meadows would take us East a piece,” said Eugene, “but we can get back on track on Mayhew.”

It would take too long, you thought. Maggie doesn’t have the strength to carry on anymore.

Shaking her head, Sasha said, “We’re down to a third of a tank—we could top off at the next stop, but it’s risky. We can’t have any refills after that.”

A low moan fell from Maggie’s pale lips as a wave of pain washed over her, moving in and out of a hazy unconsciousness. You were quick to check her temperature, blanching at the fact that she was nearly scalding to the touch. You quickly placed the damp cloth to her skin again, trying your best to keep her temperature down.

“Rick, she’s burning up,” you told him, voice thick with worry. 

It was then that the RV came to another stop. 

This time, there were more saviors—around three dozen, maybe even four.

“Go back,” said Rick, eyes wide and stress evidently painted across his strained features. 

Abraham squared his jaw. “We have nowhere to go back to.”

With a shaky breath, you stroked Maggie’s head, your heart shattering into millions of pieces. “I’m sorry, Maggie,” you said, a sob bubbling in your throat. “I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry—I wish I could do something, I’m sorry.”

Disoriented and not having heard a word of your apologetic babbling, Maggie croaked out, “Are we there yet?”

More tears slipped down your cheeks. Rick was by your side, placing one hand on your shoulder and the other on Maggie’s arm. You stifled your sobs with your palm, and Rick replied in your stead.

“Yeah, Maggie. We’re—we’re getting there.”

The woman’s eyelids fluttered lethargically. “Were there… I heard shots.”

Rick’s expression softened. “Yeah, the Saviors—they’re gone now. We’re gonna get you there.”

A ghost of a smile tilted the corner of Maggie’s lips up. “I know.”

“You’ll be okay,” you told her, sniffling. “The baby’s going to be okay. This isn’t the end.”

“There’s more,” agreed Rick. “There’s gonna be more, I promise.”

A beat of silence. 

“I believe in you, Rick,” she hoarsely said. Maggie’s gaze slowly moved from Rick to you. “In both of you.”

Maggie was asleep again. You made sure to give her plenty of water and what was left of the antibiotics you had saved—but that was the very last bit of supply you had. There was little else you could do for her other than getting her to Hilltop for the proper medicine and treatment she needed.

“So what’s the play?” asked Abraham. “They’ve cut us off every turn we made.”

“She needs medicine,” said Rick, desperation lacing each word. “She’ll die without it.”

“We only have two plausible routes North from here. They’ve cornered us,” Sasha whispered, gaze trained on the map.

Hopelessness laid uneasy on all of your shoulders. 

“They’re probably waiting for us right now,” said Aaron.

Eugene gritted his teeth. “So, they’re ahead of us. Heck, probably even behind us. But they’re not waiting on us, per se—they’re waitin’ on this rust bucket. They don’t know the moment-to-moment occupancy of said rust bucket. And the sun sets soon.”

“We need to leave now if we want Maggie to make it to Hilltop,” you said, voice trembling with a myriad of guilt, anger, and frustration. “We carry Maggie, and we go on foot. Through the woods. They can’t block us there.”

Eugene took the RV in hopes of tricking the Saviors. Everybody else in the group set off into the woods, taking turns carrying Maggie on the makeshift stretcher, bundled under two layers of blankets. The sun had long set, and the whispering winds were cold this time of year. 

“Just let me walk it,” she rasped, voice scratchy and throat dry. 

“No,” you were quick to reply. “You’re in no condition to walk right now, Maggie. It’s only a few more miles. Just rest up a bit more, okay?”

Though she didn’t look happy, Maggie didn’t protest any further, letting her tired eyes slip shut once more. 

After a couple more minutes, Aaron stepped in to carry one end of the stretcher for you, telling you that you also needed to rest your arms for a second. With a grateful nod, you reluctantly let go, falling into stride with Carl.

“Are you okay?” the young man asked, his hand brushing yours, his nonverbal way of saying that he was here for you if you needed him. “I’m sure Daryl and Michonne are fine. They’re fighters. Maggie’s going to be fine, too.”

You sent him a fond, but tired smile. “Yeah, I hope so, kiddo,” you told him, cuffing his shoulder affectionately. The thought of Daryl out there, probably worried sick for you as well, made your stomach twist into knots. “I really hope so.”

It was at that moment, a shrill whistle sounded out from the darkness of the forest. The group halted in their tracks. One by one, more whistles were added to the ear-splitting melody. It sounded like there were dozens, if not a hundred voices surrounding you. 

“Go!” yelled Rick. “Go!” 

The rest of you broke out in a sprint, and you grabbed Carl’s hand, winding around tree trunks and hopping over overgrown roots, ignoring the stinging scrapes of twisting branches against your face. 

The whistling only continued, growing louder, louder, louder—

Until you came face to face with the source itself. 

Car lights suddenly flashed open, momentarily blinding you. You drew Carl closer to you, instinctively protecting him, but it was no use. They had your group surrounded. Saviors, hundreds of them, gathered around you with leering expressions. All of them were clutching guns.

Raw fear curled around your lungs when you saw Eugene on his knees not too far from you, tears dripping down his face. 

Rick looked destroyed. Devastated. 

You were shaking so hard that your knees began to buckle beneath you. 

Finally, the whistling began to dwindle away. 

From the crowd, stepped out a familiar face—the man with a hideous pornstache that stopped the RV on the initial route. 

“Good,” he called out. He swept his arms out in a faux inviting gesture. “You made it. Welcome to where you’re going—because you ain’t goin’ anywhere ‘til we’re done with you. We’ll take your weapons.”

When he pointed a gun straight at Maggie, you immediately did as he said, pulling out the pistol wedged in your belt. There was a knife inside your boot, but you weren’t too keen on giving that up yet. You tossed your pistol on the ground just as Abraham threw down his rifle. The rest of the group followed suit.

Trembling, Rick spat out, “We can talk about this—”

“We’re done talking,” interrupted Pornstache. “Okay. Get her down, and let’s get you all on your knees. Lots to cover.”

“She can’t,” you snarled, stepping in front of Maggie protectively. “She’s sick, she can’t—”

“Oh, she’ll be far worse than just sick if you don’t get her on her knees,” the man easily rebutted, eyes roaming over your protective form. 

Lips trembling, you turned around, and with Abraham on her other side, you helped Maggie limp off the stretcher and gently set her down on her knees. Your eyes glistened and warbled with unshed tears. Maggie could only shake her head, as if telling you that it wasn’t your fault.

Terrified, Rick glanced around at the rest of the group. He’d failed you. All of you. 

“Gonna need you on your knees, sweetheart,” said Pornstache, slowly dragging the end of his gun up your cheek with a salacious grin.

With a withering glare, you sank down beside Maggie, Rick on your left side, breathing haggard and lips quaking. Sasha and Abraham followed suit. Carl was the last, fists clenched by his sides. 

“Dwight!” whistled Pornstache. “Chop chop! Bring out the others!”

A blonde man with half of his face horribly marred by what looked to be a severe burn injury, stepped forward, yanking open the back of a truck. 

And, to your horror, he dragged out your boyfriend, covered in blood—blood that you could only pray wasn’t his, even though you knew deep down that that was only wishful thinking. Following Daryl was Michonne, Rosita, and Glenn, equally distraught. 

Daryl caught your eye for a brief second, pure terror within his irises. He looked over you to make sure that you were alright, and you did the same with him, a tear slipping down your cheek.

I love you, you mouthed to him. He dipped his head once in understanding, before forcing his gaze away, not wanting to give the Saviors anymore reason to torture either of you. 

“Maggie…?” Glenn painfully rasped once he caught sight of his wife in such a state. He tried to make his way to her, but the Saviors grabbed his arms and forced him down, guns digging harshly into his back. 

“Alright!” exclaimed Pornstache. “We got a full boat! Let’s meet the man, eh?”

He knocked twice on the door to the RV you were in not even an hour ago. 

The door slowly swung open, squeaking on its hinges. 

And out strode a tall man clad in a leather jacket, a bat covered in barbed wire hanging off his shoulder. He took his sweet time making his way towards the group, feet languidly dragging along the gravelly dirt, and a smirk accentuating his smug expression. 

“Pissing our pants yet?” he drawled, voice tapering into a light chuckle as he stepped out into the light, smiling down at your group on your knees. “Boy, do I have a feeling we’re gettin’ close. Mm, yeah—it’s gonna be pee-pee pants city here real soon. Now which one of you pricks is the leader?”

Pornstache pointed at Rick. “It’s this one here.”

The man with the bat grinned wider, before stepping right in front of Rick, who craned his neck to glare up at him. “Hi there. You’re Rick, right? I’m Negan. And I do not appreciate you killin’ my men. Also, when I sent my people to kill your people for killing my people… you killed more of my people. Not cool, man. Not cool. You have… no fuckin’ idea how not cool that shit is. But I think you’re gonna be up to speed shortly. Mmh, yeah. You are so gonna regret crossin’ me in a few minutes. Yes, you are.” A dangerous, wolfish grin flashed across Negan’s face. “You see, Rick, whatever you do, no matter what—you don’t mess with the new world order. And the new world order is really very simple. So, even if you’re stupid, which you may very well be, you can understand it. You ready? Here goes—pay attention.”

He lowered his bat off his shoulder and slotted the barbed end right below Rick’s chin. You held in your breath, your entire body wracking with tremors. Though you knew you needed to stop, you couldn’t help but chance glances at Daryl every so often, your concern for him rapidly growing. Some of that was his blood, it had to be—his eyes were sunken with exhaust and his chest, the very chest you would fall asleep on every night, was rising and falling unevenly, making you believe he was hurt, but you just couldn’t see what was hurting him. 

“Give me your shit… or I will kill you. See? Simple as that.” Negan pulled the bat away from Rick, and began walking around the group as he spoke. “Today was career day. We invested a lot so you would know who I am and what I can do. You work for me now. You have shit, you give it to me. That’s your job. Now, I know that is a mighty big, nasty pill to swallow. But swallow it, you most certainly will! You ruled the roost. You built something, Rick. You thought you were safe, I get it. But the word is out. You are not safe. Not even close. In fact, you are pegged—more pegged if you don’t do what I want. And what I want is half your shit. If that’s too much, you can make, find, or steal more, and it’ll even out sooner or later. This is your way of life now. The more you fight back, the harder it will be. So, if someone knocks on your door… you let us in. We own that door. You try to stop us? And we will knock it down. You understand?”

Rick swallowed heavily. Narrowing his keen eyes, Negan cupped his ear and leaned down closer to the kneeling man. 

“What? No answer? You don’t really think that you were going to get through this without being punished, now, did you? I don’t want to kill you people. I just wanna make that clear from the get go. I want you to work for me—and you can’t do that if you’re dead, now, can you? I’m not growin’ a garden. But you killed my people—a whole damn lot of ‘em! More than I’m comfortable with, honestly. And for that… for that you’re gonna pay.”

Your hands curled into fists on your knees. You knew what was coming. And you’d be damned if you were going to let it happen.

“So, now… I’m gonna beat the holy hell outta one of you.” Negan inhaled sharply, as if he enjoyed prolonging the torture. He bent down once more, showing off the barbed bat. “This right here—this is Lucille. And she is awesome. All this… all this is just so we can pick out which one of you gets the honor!”

Negan stopped in front of Abraham, who straightened and glared defiantly at the smirking man. In thought, Negan subconsciously rubbed his bearded jaw with one hand at the sight of Abraham’s own mustache. “Huh. I gotta shave this shit.”

On he strolled, before halting in front of Carl. “You had one of our guns. Hm. You got a lot of our guns.” Carl only scowled at the man. “Shit, kid. Lighten up. At least cry a little.”

Chuckling, Negan moved on. 

You could feel one of your eyes twitch when you saw his shoes stop right in front of you. His bat was beneath your chin in an instant, forcing you to look up. The sharp metal on the bat painfully scratched against your jaw, and fresh tears pricked the corners of your eyes.

“My, my, you’re a pretty thing, aren’t you? What’s your name, darlin’?”

Hatred simmered within your chest, but you forced your expression to remain indifferent.

You quietly told him your name, wincing when his bat dug deeper into your neck and he ordered you to say it louder. You repeated yourself, voice cracking. A single tear meandered down your cheek and slid down your chin, dripping onto Lucille.

Negan hummed, nodding in satisfaction. “Now that’s what I want to see, folks! A little emotion around here—Y/N’s got the gist of it!”

“Kill me,” you gritted out, making the rest of the group’s eyes widen. You could feel Rick’s stare burning holes straight through you, but you refused to meet his gaze, staring straight up at Negan. “You can kill me. Just don’t hurt them. Let them go. Maggie, on my right, she’s real sick and she needs medicine—if she doesn’t get the proper treatment soon, she’ll… she’ll…”

The man in front of you barked out an amused laugh. “She’ll what?”

“She’ll die,” you snarled. “So kill me. Get it over with—and let them go.”

And for a split second, you let your eyes return to Daryl, one last time. He wouldn’t look at you—he couldn’t—terrified that Negan would bring that bat down on your head if he noticed.

But it was all futile. He noticed anyway. 

He followed your gaze over to Daryl, lowering his bat to gesture between the two of you. 

“Ah… you two are a thing, ain’t ya? Damn. And here I thought you were available for takin’, sugar.” Negan tossed his head back and chuckled with mild disappointment. “God, look at you bein’ all heroic, offering yourself up for the chopping block! No, no, darlin’, this ain’t a game of who gets to be a martyr and save their friends. You don’t decide what’s happening here. I do. You think I don’t know you’re the doctor of the group? My people have been reporting to me—they know you’ve been the one taking care of Little Miss Sickly over there. No… you’re far too valuable for me to kill. We need more people like you, darlin’. Plus, I wouldn’t want to bash in your pretty little face, now, would I?”

With a hum, Negan stepped away from you, fixing his gaze upon Maggie.

“Jesus. You look shitty. I should just put you out of your misery right now—!”

“NO!” screamed Glenn, scrambling onto his feet and lunging at Negan. Before he could even begin to make contact, Dwight grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, threateningly shoving Daryl’s crossbow into his face. 

Maggie cried out—both from a fresh wave of pain seeping through her bones, and from the sight of her husband being dragged back to his spot like a ragdoll. 

Huffing out a sigh, Negan grunted out, “Nope. Nope, nope, get him back in line.”

Glenn screamed, choking back a sob. “No… don’t. Don’t!”

Negan could only smile. “Alright, alright, listen. Don’t any of you do that again—I will shut that shit down, no exceptions! First one’s free—it’s an emotional moment. I get it. Mmh. Sucks, don’t it? The moment you realize you don’t know shit.”

Rick trembled violently beside you. Tilting his head, Negan glanced between him and Carl, realization dawning upon him when he noticed the physical similarities between the two.

“This is your kid, right? Ohoho, that is definitely your kid!” 

“JUST STOP THIS!” yelled Rick, so sudden that it made you flinch.

Equivalent in volume, Negan bellowed back, “HEY! Do not make me kill your little future serial killer! Don’t make it easy on me! I gotta pick somebody—everybody’s at the table waitin’ for me to order, hm?” 

The man whistled out a shrill tune, one that sent a shiver dance down your spine. 

“I simply cannot decide. But I got an idea.” With that, he pointed the bat at Rick. “Eenie.”

He moved to you, before narrowing his eyes, and skipped over to Maggie. “Meenie.”

Abraham. “Minie.”

Michonne. “Mo.”

Glenn. “Catch.”

Daryl. “A tiger.”

Rosita. “By.”

Eugene. “His toe.”

Sasha. “If.”

Aaron. “He hollers.”

Carl. “Let him go.”

And so on he went. 

My mother told me to pick the very best one. And you… are… it.

Your heart dropped when the end of his bat stopped in front of Abraham. 

No. No… no… no…

“Anybody moves, anybody says anything, cut the boy’s other eye out and feed it to his father, and then we’ll start! You can breathe, you can blink, you can cry. Hell, you’re all gonna be doin’ that!” 

And with that, he swung the bat back and brought it clean down on Abraham’s head.

Screams erupted from around you. You could feel your vision blur over with your tears, and you closed your eyes shut, not wanting to see such a gruesome sight, curling in on yourself as you listened to the repeated, sickening squelch of Negan’s bat repeatedly hitting your dear friend. Negan gloated and laughed and jeered. You cried and sobbed and flinched with every strike.

His blood—Abraham’s blood—splattered on your face. You could feel it. 

Warm, moist, and thick. Dripping down your cheek. 

“You guys… look at my dirty girl!” proclaimed Negan, jutting out the bloody bat for all to witness. The monster of a man tilted his head at Rosita, whose eyes were horrified and bloodshot, dripping with fat tears. “Sweetheart… lay your eyes on this!”

When Rosita began to cry harder, Negan hummed. “Oh, damn. Were you… were you guys together? That sucks. If you were, you should know—there was a reason for all this. Red—and damn if that isn’t a good name for him—he just took one, or six, or seven for the team! So take… a damn… look.”

Rosita refused to move her gaze from Abraham’s mutilated corpse.

And, much to your horror, Daryl growled out as he surged forward on his feet, landing a clean punch against Negan’s jaw. You screamed out his name when three Saviors grabbed him and beat him back onto the ground, pinning him tightly against the gravel. A sob wracked through your frame and you could feel your stomach twist into itself. Daryl was still struggling against them, clutching his side as he panted out.

“No!” yelled Negan, clearly furious. “Oh, no. That—is a big no-no. The whole thing—not one fucking bit of that shit flies here!”

Terror clutched at your palpitating heart when Negan shoved Lucille right up into Daryl’s face, smearing Abraham’s blood all over him. 

Dwight strode up and pointed Daryl’s own crossbow against the back of your boyfriend’s head. A sob fell from your lips. You couldn’t watch this—you just couldn’t.

“Daryl,” you cried out, hiccupping through your words. “Negan… no. No, please, don’t! I’ll do anything, please! Not him. Please, not him!”

Amused at your pleading, Negan casted a sidelong glance to you, before grabbing at Daryl’s hair and pulling him upright. “See what you did there, Buckaroo? You got your little partner all upset! Look, they’re crying their eyes out, worried for you.” Negan got back up on his feet. “Get him back in line,” he barked, though his eyes were trained on you.

And in two quick strides, he was back in front of you, gripping your face tightly between his gloved hand. “Look at you, darlin’, all covered in blood. Would it be weird if I say it makes my dick hard as fuck?” You scowled, trying your best to pull your face away from his uncomfortably rough grip. “Ah, ah, ah, sweetheart—your boyfriend here didn’t listen to me earlier. I said the first one was free, didn’t I? And what does that mean? Second one’s got a price, hm? I said I’d shut that shit down—no exceptions. I don’t know what kind of lyin’ assholes y’all have been dealing with… but I’m a man of my word. First impressions are important! I need you all to know me. Know that I’m not joking around with this shit. Now, if you weren’t a doctor and you weren’t so fuckin’ hot—I would’ve bashed your head to pieces without battin’ an eye! But, lookie here, I’m faced with another dilemma. I need to kill another one of you to get my point across.” 

A wail bubbled up in your throat and you began to claw at Negan’s fingers now painfully squeezing your jaw. “No… please, please… don’t, please—!”

“And I want you, darlin’, to pick which one of your little friends I kill.” 

“No!” you spat, breathing shallow and panicked. “Me—just kill me, Negan—you don’t have to hurt anyone else, please, please, let them go, you—”

Getting irritated with you, Negan shook your face until you stopped blubbering. “You’re not listenin’ to me. Pick. Someone. Not you, and not your little boyfriend. I want him to live with the fact that one of his friends died because of him. Pick someone. Anyone, sweetheart. You’ll be doin’ em a favor, honestly. They get to save the rest of you from a miserable death! Now, doesn’t that sound appealing?”

A beat of silence. Negan stared you down, and you glared right back.

“Eat my shit,” you snarled out.

Narrowing his eyes, Negan finally relinquished his hold on you. You gasped for breath, chest heaving, stabilizing yourself with your hands on your thighs. “Goddamn, you’re feisty! Might have to keep you around after this—holy fuckin’ shit. Mmh, alright… fine, then. Since you won’t pick—I’ll just have to kill your precious patient’s boyfriend, hm?”

Before any of you could react, Negan spun on his heel and arced his bat through the air, right onto Glenn’s head. Again, and again, and again.

A piercing scream echoed across the forest. Maggie’s scream. 

Your mouth dropped open as a silent cry scratched down the sides of your throat. 

Glenn was still alive, somehow, after all those bashes. Blood caked his entire skull and part of his head was caved in—to your nauseating horror, one of his eyes had come out of its socket.

“Buddy, you still there?” exclaimed Negan in astonishment, bending down to inspect his handiwork. “I just don’t know… seems to me like you’re tryin’ to say something! But you just took a hell of a hit! I just cracked your skull so hard, your eyeball popped right out! And it is gross as shit!”

After all that, Glenn managed to slur out, “Maggie… I’ll find you.”

Sobs rang throughout the clearing. The rest of the group cried tears for Glenn—without him, all of you would’ve been dead three times over. 

“Awh, hell. I can see this is hard on you guys,” said Negan. “I’m sorry. I truly am. But I did say… no exceptions!” 

With that, he brought down his bat again. Over, and over, and over.

Maggie cried so hard her voice started to give out. 

Daryl, your beloved Daryl, flinched with every stroke of the bat, his eyes red and puffy with tears. You could see it already—the guilt behind his gaze. He thought it was his fault Glenn was killed.

You shut your eyes again. 

“Lucille is thirsty! She’s a vampire bat!” proudly declared Negan, as he swung one final hit on Glenn’s long-dead body. “What? Was the joke that bad? Tough crowd, huh?”

“I’m gonna kill you,” whispered Rick once Negan was done. Rick had blood splattered all over his face, as well. Abraham’s blood. Glenn’s blood. 

Negan squatted down beside him, tilting his head. His bat was dangerously close to you. “What? I didn’t quite catch that, Rick. You’re gonna have to speak up.”

Squaring his jaw, Rick drew in a sharp inhale. “Not today… not tomorrow… but I’m gonna kill you.”

Negan sucked at his teeth. “Jesus,” he softly said. “Simon. What did he have? A knife?”

Pornstache raised his brows. “He had a hatchet. An axe.”

Snorting, Negan shook his head. “Simon’s my right-hand man. Having one of those is important. I mean, what do you have left without ‘em? A whole lot of work. You have one? Maybe one of these fine people still breathing? Oh… or did I…”

The man waved the bloodied bat in front of Rick’s face, taunting him. 

“Sure, yeah. Give me his axe.” Pornstache handed Negan the small weapon and Negan smugly slid it into his belt. Suddenly, Negan grabbed the back of Rick’s jacket and yanked him up, practically dragging him by the scruff towards the RV. Your breath hitched, wanting to stop him, but all the guns trained on the backs of your friends made you freeze. All you could do was lower your head and stave away your raucous sobs. 

“I’ll be right back, folks! Maybe Rick will be with me! And if not… well, we can just turn these people inside out, won’t we? I mean… the ones that are left!”

They were gone for hours.

During those hours, part of you wanted to go to Maggie, comfort her, check if both she and the baby were alright. No doubt she was in a tremendous amount of both emotional and physical pain. The other part of you wanted to go to Daryl, curl up in the safety of his arms and cry into his chest. 

But you couldn’t do either. Not with the Saviors pointing the barrels of their rifles to the back of your skulls. 

The sun was already beginning to rise, tinting the sky a sweet, soft shade of blue. A stark juxtaposition to the dark red blood steadily drying on the rocky ground.

When Rick got back, Negan ruthlessly threw him down in front of the group. He looked exhausted. More than that—he looked dead inside. The light behind his eyes was gone.

“Do you know what that little trip was about?” asked Negan. 

Rick looked around wildly, as if making sure that everyone else was alright. 

“Speak when you’re spoken to,” Negan hissed.

Begrudgingly, Rick bowed his head. “Okay… okay.”

Negan wolfishly grinned, though there was a dark glimmer to his irises that you misliked. “That trip was about the way that you looked at me. I wanted to change that. I wanted you to understand. But you’re still lookin’ at me the same damn way. Like I shit in your scrambled eggs, and that’s not gonna work!” Once again, Negan squatted down beside Rick, that smug expression still plastered across the man’s coarse features. “So… do I give you another chance?”

After a moment’s pause, Rick hacked out, “Yeah. Yes.”

Satisfied, Negan clapped Rick on the back, before getting back up onto his feet. “Alright! Here it is, the grand-prize game. What you do next will decide whether your crap day becomes everyone’s last crap day… or just another crap day. Get some more guns to the back of their heads. Level with their noses, so if you have to fire… it’ll be a real fuckin’ mess.” 

You could feel cold metal graze the very top of your temple. 

“Kid, come here,” said Negan, making your heart plummet to your stomach. Rick’s expression shifted to one of pure dread.

Carl didn’t move. 

“Kid… now.” 

With cautious movements, Carl stood up in front of the taller man. 

“You a southpaw?” asked Negan while he unbuckled his belt, pulling it out of its loops.

“Am I a what?”

“A lefty,” clarified Negan. 

Carl scowled. “No.”

“Good,” retorted Negan, before grabbing Carl’s left arm and tying the belt around his bicep. “That hurt?”

Gritting his teeth, Carl bit out a negative. 

“It should. It’s supposed to.” Negan smirked, knocking Carl’s cowboy hat off his head. “Alright, get down on the ground next to daddy, kid. Spread them wings!”

Slowly, Carl lowered himself down beside Rick, his cheek pressed flat against the dusty gravel.

“Simon, you got a pen?” 

Pornstache nodded, brandishing a marker from his pocket and tossing it over to Negan. The man uncapped the black pen with his teeth, flashing you a wink and spitting out the cap somewhere to the side. He kneeled down by Carl to draw a straight line just below the junction of his elbow.

“Sorry, kid,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “This is gonna be as cold as a warlock’s dick, as if he were hanging his ballsack above you and dragging it right across your forearm! Gives you a little leverage, don’t it?” 

Stammering, Rick muttered out, “Please… please don’t. Please don’t.”

Negan tilted his head, lightly chuckling. “Me? Oh, I ain’t doin’ shit. Rick… I want you to take your axe and cut your son’s left arm off—right on that line! Now, I know you gotta process that for a second. That makes sense. Still, though—I’m gonna need you to do it, or all these people are gonna die. Then your kid dies. Then the people back home die. Then you… eventually. I’d keep you breathing for a few years just so you could stew on it!”

“You… you don’t have to do this,” pleaded Michonne. It was the first time she’d spoken since she got out of the truck. Seeing Carl splayed out in front of her, practically her son, made something inside her snap. “We understand. We get it, we—”

“You might understand! I’m not so sure Rick here does. I’m gonna need a clean cut right there on that line. Now, I know this is a screwed-up thing to ask, but it’s gonna have to be like a salami slice. You remember those, right? Nothin’ messy. I want a clean, forty-five degree cut. Give us somethin’ to fold over. You got Y/N right there to fix him up nice and good. The kid’ll be just fine. Probably.”

Rick was just about losing his mind, rocking back and forth, murmuring incoherently beneath his breath. Sweat dripped down his bloodied face, his hair, mixing with the salty tears leaking from his crazed eyes. 

“Rick. This needs to happen now. Chop, chop. Before I crush the little fella’s skull myself.” 

Swallowing down his sobs, Rick choked, “It can—it can… it can be me. It can be me. Wh… you… you could do it to me. I c-can go with—with you.”

Negan smiled at his desperation. “No. This is the only way. Pick up the axe, Rick. Not making a decision is a big decision, let me tell you that. You really wanna see all these people die? Because you will—if you don’t PICK UP THE FUCKING AXE!”

Rick began sobbing uncontrollably.

“Oh, my God,” said Negan, pulling at his face wearily. “You gonna make me count? Okay, Rick—you win. I’ll start counting. Three!”

“PLEASE!” screamed Rick. “IT CAN BE ME. PLEASE!”

“Two!” Negan kneeled down and slapped a sobbing Rick across the face, before grabbing his cheeks, not unlike he did with you hours before. “This is it, Rick. Make a decision. One!”

With a gut wrenching scream, Rick’s trembling fingers curled around the handle of his axe.

“Dad…” whispered Carl. A tear slipped down your cheek as the events unfolded in front of you. “Just do it.”

Rick cocked his arm back, seconds away from bringing it down to cleave Carl’s hand off. 

But Negan grabbed Rick’s wrist at the very last second, stopping him.

The man smirked, pleased with himself. “You answer to me. You provide for me. You belong to me. Right?”

Frantically, Rick nodded his head. 

“SPEAK WHEN YOU’RE SPOKEN TO! You answer to me. You provide for me!”

“I’ll provide for you!” cried Rick.

“You belong to me! Right?” hollered Negan.

Hiccuping a sob, Rick bobbed his head. “Right.”

“Now that… that is the look I wanted to see.” Negan grabbed Rick’s axe from him and stepped away. “We did it. All of us, together. Even the dead guys on the ground! Hell, they get the spirit award, for sure! Today was a productive damn day! Now, I hope for all your sake… that you get it now. That you understand how things work. Things have changed. Whatever you had going for you before… that is over now.”

Negan clapped his hands together, sighing out in relief. 

And strangely, you were slightly relieved, as well. Maybe he was done. He wasn’t going to kill any more of you. This was all over for now. 

Right?

“Dwight,” said Negan. “Load him up.”

To your shock, Negan pointed Lucille straight at Daryl.

“See, he’s got guts. Not a little bitch like someone I know,” Negan told Rick. “I like him. He’s mine now. You still wanna try something? Not today, not tomorrow? I will cut pieces off of… what’s his name?” 

“Daryl,” said Pornstache.

“Wow. That actually sounds just about right. I will cut pieces off of Daryl and put them on your doorstep! Or, better yet, I will bring him to you and have you do it for me.”

“No…” you croaked out, when Dwight grabbed your boyfriend and dragged him back to the truck as if he were a wild animal, crossbow pointed at his chest. Maggie sobbed from beside you. “No, Daryl… please, no, don’t—please don’t take him from me!” you cried. “Please, I need him… Daryl!”

Negan smiled down at you. “Mmh. Alrighty, then. I’ll take you, too. Come on.” 

A gasp lodged in your throat when he suddenly grabbed your arm and yanked you upwards. 

“No, wait, I’m the only doctor they have, they need—Maggie needs m—!”

“I don’t give a rat’s flying blue ass,” growled Negan, shoving you in the direction of the truck, where Daryl watched you with wide, scared eyes. You craned your neck around to look at Rick and Maggie and the rest of the group—your family—one last time, unsure of when, if ever, you’d see them again. “You’re mine now. Got a whole lot of shit you can do for me, that’s for sure, darlin’. Load ‘em up!” 

One of the Saviors pushed you into the truck just as Negan yelled out, “Welcome to a brand new beginning, you sorry shits! I’ll leave you a truck. Keep it—use it to cart all the crap you’re gonna find me. We’ll be back for our first offering in one week. Until then… ta-fuckin’-ta.”

You collapsed straight into Daryl once you were inside, thundering sobs spilling from your lungs. He wrapped his burly arms around you, smelling of dirt and blood and motor oil. No words needed to be said. No words could be said.

The both of you had lost so much today. 

And now… you’d lost your freedom, as well.

Daryl began crying into your shoulder, and you could only hold him all the tighter. 

#daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon fanfiction #the walking dead fanfiction #twd fanfiction #daryl dixon angst #daryl dixon oneshot #twd angst #daryl dixon imagines #daryl dixon drabbles #negan smith x reader #negan x reader #rick grimes x reader #daryl dixon fluff #daryl dixon ff #daryl dixon fanfic

[endlessymphony]

🎵- jessie’s girl by Rick Springfield

(did i do this right?)

mac thank u for sending me this, bc i love the idea. sm.

i wish that i had her.

pairing - ron weasley x reader x harry potter (sort-of)

summary - you and ron have been together for a bit now, but harry wishes he had you all to himself

warnings - cussing, LOTS of jealousy

a/n - teenage angst. that’s it. thanks. also mildly inspired by heartbreak girl by 5sos as well as the og song ;) also i’m sorry!! it’s kind of short!!

you had been friends with ron and harry since the first time you all wandered onto that train, the three of you ending up in the same compartment for the trip— “do you guys mind if i sit here? i can’t find any empty spaces...” you were staring at your feet shyly, the two boys welcomed you in and offered you sweets from their hoard. “i’m ron, ron weasley.” you shook his hand, exchanging a smile with one-another. “and i’m harry potter.”

“it’s nice to meet the two of you, i’m y/n y/l/n.” and that’s where it all started.

it shocked everyone when you and ron started dating in fifth year, they were always predicting that you and harry would end up together, claiming you’d be a ‘power-couple’. that was all thrown out the window when ron asked you out in the great hall after dinner, and you happily accepted the offer.

it drove harry mad.

he had fancied you since the moment he laid his eyes on you in first year; the way your hair framed your face and caressed your skin, eyes glimmering like a vast galaxy, the way your smile somehow encapsulated the suns vibrancy.. everything about you was utterly intoxicating. he was always telling himself that he would eventually gather the courage to ask you out later on— his plans unfortunately spoiled by his oblivious best-friend.

it’s been coming up to yours and rons one year anniversary, and everyone knew. he showered you in pda every moment he got with sweet unexpected kisses pressed to any expanse of skin he could manage to reach, fingers interlaced with yours, or a hand ghosting itself up and down your waist. harry could barely stand being in your general area, his stomach churning whenever he saw ron all over you.

it made him SICK.

“that should be me.” harry said through gritted teeth, pacing about the dorm, hands balled into fists.

whenever you made a minuscule change, whether it was to your hair or makeup, harry always was the first to notice, while ron often went about it obliviously. harry always noticed the little changes, and lived for the way that your eyes lit up as you thanked him, how your lips curved up into that smile.

when you and ron got into another argument, his once endearing stubbornness becoming infuriating, you once again found yourself sitting on harry’s bed venting to him.

“shit, y/n, this is the third time this month that you guys have fought about this... maybe he does have the hots for hermione.” harry offers a look of false sympathy, hand resting on your shoulder. you meet his gaze, wiping away the tears that kissed your cheeks. “he’s only going to break your heart.” he assured you, mentally hoping that this would be the time that you finally end things.

merlin, how he wanted to tell you that he loves you, that his heart aches and longs for you. ‘you could be with me now!’ harry wants to cry out, embracing you and pulling you into a kiss that captured all the passion he had felt for you over these few years. he plays along with the charade, hoping that eventually you’ll realise that he’s so much better for you.

“thanks for being such a great friend, harry.” he was so obsessed with how you said his name that the phrase barely stung, a low ache finding a home in his heart once again. he bites his tongue, “of course, i’m always here for you.” harry gave you a quick forced smile before sending you on your way.

you give him a quick wave before leaving, shutting the door behind you. whilst you met up with ron, his apologies and begs for forgiveness becoming a nightly ritual. he embraces you, and everything is okay again.

it was like a waterfall of emotions that thrust itself upon harry, eyes welling with hot tears that begged to roll down his cheeks. his mind begins to wander, flashes of you and ron wedging themselves into his brain. ‘i’m so good to her!’ he sobs, face buried in a pillow. ‘merlin, i want her, i want her so bad.’ just the imagery of you and ron makes him want to vomit.

‘fuck him. FUCK him.’ he wanted to scream until his throat was raw, god! he felt guilty. he fantasises about his best-friends girlfriend, and now he would practically kill ron for you. it disgusted him how unfair this was- how infatuated he was with you.

he finds himself staring in the mirror, fingertips gently resting themselves against the cool glass, free hand tousling his hair about. he takes off his glasses, resting them on the wooden vanity as he wonders what you don’t see in him. ‘am i not tall enough? not built enough? not smart enough?’ every ‘what if’ racks his brain, brows furrowing.

his mind always finds its way back to you, face softening; the angelic sound of your voice, your endearing personality, how charming your laugh is... everything, absolutely everything. you have him utterly mesmerised, at your every beck and call.

‘i want to tell her that i love her, but what’s the point?

i wish that i had her.’

#it’s fizzy approved™️ #harry potter universe #harry potter #harry potter fandom #harry potter fanfic #hp fandom #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter imagines #harry potter imagine #hp drabbles #hp x reader #hp x you #hp x y/n #harry potter x reader #harry potter x you #ron weasley x reader #ron weasley x you #ron weasley imagine #one shot #harry potter angst #ron weasley angst #ron weasley drabble

[walkerwords]

“The Savior Sessions” Part 5 of 33 - Negan x GN!Reader

IMAGE CREDIT: Jackson Lee Davis/AMC

SERIES MASTERLIST

Summary: With a storm approaching, you offer to house Negan for the duration and maybe in the process deal with all the nagging thoughts that have come up during all the sessions so far.

Word Count: 2232

Warning: None

Song I Wrote To: “Keeping Your Head Up” by Birdy

Note: This one is more like an intro to the next one, but I thought I’d post it cause I’m posting these in between some angsty stories!

---------

The constant arguing was finally getting on your nerves. 

Sitting in the meeting hall, you listened to the council and other key members of Alexandria argue about the same thing as always: Negan. This week’s issue was that there was a storm coming in that would most likely bring lots of rain, at least that’s what Eugene was thinking. Whether he was right or not, there was still the question of where they were putting their prisoner so he didn’t drown in his cell. 

There were those such as Aaron and Rosita who couldn’t care less about what happened to the man, but then there were people like Gabriel who were still mildly concerned. They had locked him up, kept him fed, and Gabriel didn’t think it was fair to keep him in such a vulnerable position during the potential downpour.

Nobody wanted to leave him alone in an empty house and Aaron had even suggested tying him up in the watch post, but Michonne had shot that down immediately. 

You sat in the back row of the hall, waiting for them to stop hollering at each other. The last conversation you had had with Negan hadn’t ended well. You were tired, he was curious, and you were not in the mood for his...negan-ness at all. The realization that you and the former leader were similar had rocked you a bit. You weren’t sure what to do with the information. 

There was a part of you that wanted to just walk out the front gate and not look back. Running away had once been a pattern for you before the world had ended, but you had fought to break that streak once you joined up with this group of survivors. However, spending a few days in the woods alone seemed not too bad right now. Daryl did seem to have the right idea at times, you thought. 

The hum of arguing continued and you fought against everything you had not to yell at them. If Alexandria didn't have strong walls, you were sure the Dead would have been called from miles away with this volume.

"I'll do it," you said, more to the wall than anyone. The yelling continued so you stood up and projected your voice louder, "I'll do it!"

Everyone in the room turned to look at you, Michonne pausing mid-sentence. "What?" Aaron asked.

"I said, I'll do it. Negan can stay with me at my place for the duration of the storm." Nobody knew what to say as you offered your home to be Negan’s temporary cell.

"(Y/N)," Gabriel began, unsure how to continue.

"I have an extra room," you explained, "my fireplace works, I live alone, and I'm already his therapist, might as well be his warden too."

"It's not your job to...house him," Rosita said.

"No, it's not," you agreed. "It's probably Michonne's considering she's head of security, but she has two little ones. Now, I doubt Judith and RJ would care if Negan stayed in their living room, but this way I keep him from all of you and y'all can stop bickering like a PTA meeting." 

"And if he tries to leave?" Aaron asked, but you rolled your eyes.

"He won't," you assured him, "though, if he managed to sneak past me, all the other houses, and get over the walls in the storm, then hell, he would deserve the escape." 

"Let's try not to let that happen," Michonne said and you nodded. "Are you going to need extra supplies?" She asked simply. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes at how easy it was to take on the responsibility. You knew it was just a matter of time before someone spoke up and you also knew that person was going to be you.

"I think we'll be okay. I'll wait until the sun goes down and then drag Alcatraz on over.” 

You didn’t wait for a response before grabbing your jacket and exiting the hall. All around Alexandria, people were prepping for the storm. There wasn’t much they could do considering there was only a few hour warning. These were the days when you missed The Weather Channel the most. Since the world had ended, it was the small things that you missed about the old world rather than the big ones. 

Waving to Gracie who was sitting on the steps of her house, you continued on your way to your small home near the South wall. It wasn’t much and it was smaller than the rest of the homes, but you preferred it. Rick had once called it your “crows nest” which was appropriate considering your time as a sniper. 

Rosita’s house was locked up tight as you passed it and jogged up your front steps. There wasn’t much more to do as you tended to keep your house secure most of the time.

You spent the next couple of hours taping down the windows, grabbing firewood from the communal supply, and taking inventory of your food stock. The whole thing was becoming...odd. It was as if you were a kid again, making sure the house was clean for company so your parents didn’t feel embarrassed.

The thought alone made you chuckle as you finished off your chores by grabbing extra blankets from the hall closet. Glancing outside, the sun began to dip and droplets of rain were already spattering against the windows. With a sigh, you grabbed your coat and began the walk over to the cell. 

There were very few people out on the streets and you had a feeling Gabriel and Michonne had spread the news that public enemy number one would be lead out on his leash tonight. Walking by the Grimes’ house, Judith looked at you through the window. You sent her a wink and she grinned back, giving you a thumbs up. 

You often wondered where her constant optimism came from because it definitely didn’t come from being raised by Rick or by her biological father. Shane was never one to see the glass as half full for as long as you knew him. However, now that you were thinking about it, Lori did have that little spark deep down...very deep down. Perhaps Judith Grimes was one of a kind after all.

Pulling the keys from your belt, you shuffled down the steps and unlocked the large door. Stepping inside the cold room, you were surprised to be met with silence. You stepped closer to the bars and then you understood why. 

Negan was fast asleep. 

You took a moment to watch the sleeping man. There was something so innocent about the way a person slept. It was like a reset button for a night and right now he didn’t look like the monster Alexandria and others feared, he was just a man trying to get some rest in a screwed-up world. Rest that you felt bad about interrupting. 

Pulling the right key, you inserted it into the cell door and pushed it open. Negan remained asleep as you crept forward. Leaning down, you gently shook his shoulder, trying to wake him. Negan’s eyes flew open and his hand tightly gripped the arm that was resting on him. “Ow,” you grunted at the pressure, trying to pull your hand back. 

“What’s going on?” He muttered, blinking in the darkness. 

“I’ll tell you if you let me go,” you hissed. Negan finally focused on you, his brows furrowed. 

“(Y/N)?” he asked.

“Negan, hand,” you reminded him.

“Oh, right,” he said, releasing you from his grip. You stepped back, rubbing at the skin that was sure to be bruised later. He slowly sat up and glanced at the open cell door before looking back at you. “What? Has the Queen of Alexandria finally agreed to a public execution?” he asked bitterly.

With a roll of your eyes, you reached over and grabbed the thick jacket Gabriel had gotten for him a few weeks ago. You threw it at him. 

“There’s a massive storm rolling through and Eugene thinks it’ll flood some areas. You’re staying with me until it passes. No more than two days,” you explained, crossing your arms. Negan was silent as his fingers played with the thick material of his jacket. 

“Why?” he asked. 

“Why what?” you asked, exasperated.

“Why would anyone care if I succumbed to the elements?” he asked with narrowed eyes. 

“You don’t want to come? That’s fine. I don’t mind being alone,” you said with a challenge in your eyes. Negan quickly stood, shaking his head. 

“No, no, a warm house sounds very nice,” he quickly said. “I’m a great house guest.”

“Right,” you said, still feeling the awkwardness that remained between the two of you from your last conversation. Negan shrugged on the jacket and then you walked to him, producing a pair of cuffs. 

“Seriously?” he asked, staring at the chains with disdain.

“Either this or learn to swim,” you said, dangling the cuffs. Negan huffed but offered you his wrists anyway. You quickly fastened them and then took hold of his arm. “Come on, it’s already started to rain.

Negan followed you out of the cell, hesitating on the threshold for a moment. You squeezed his arm briefly and he kept walking. The two of you pushed out into the damp air and you let go of him for a second to close up the room tightly, trying to reduce the amount of water damage that was sure to come.

Turning back to Negan, his attention wasn’t on you, but on the overcast sky. His head was tilted back as he breathed in the night air. A look of content was on his face and you almost thought he was smiling slightly. It was then that you realized this was the first time he had been outside in...you didn’t know how long.

Taking his arm again, you pulled him away from his thoughts and tugged him after you. Negan kept pace with you as you began the walk home. The streets were completely empty now, but it didn’t stop Negan from looking around with those curious eyes of his. 

You didn’t know what compelled you to do it, but you easily slowed your pace, letting the walk take twice as long as usual. Looking up at Negan who was completely focused on Alexandria, you let yourself feel a bit sorry for the man. Obviously, Michonne had her reasons for keeping him locked up. You knew them and so did Negan, but you thought that perhaps he should be let out a bit more often. 

Michonne had asked you to start visiting him because she thought all the isolation was bad for him, but she also didn’t realize that it wasn’t just being alone that wasn’t good for him. He needed to be out and even if it was starting to pour, you were going to let him have this moment. 

Sliding your arm off of his, you let him wander ahead of you a bit, keeping him close, but not so much him being a dog being lead on a leash. He took the paths with grass on them and ran his hands down light posts and across fences. It was like watching someone rediscover the world and it made you oddly happy. 

“This way, genius,” you called when he began walking down another street. He quickly walked to your side with a grin on his face. “What?”

“I just never imagined you’d be taking me home so soon,” he joked and you rolled your eyes. 

“Well, I didn’t think you would enjoy spending the night in the stables,” you explained, kicking at a loose stone on the road. 

“And Michonne and Gabe probably told you that I needed a babysitter.”

“That too,” you agreed. You finished the walk in silence. There were moments when you had to steer Negan in the right direction, but overall, you let him walk on his own without a guard. Arriving at your house, you pulled him up the steps, ignoring Rosita who was glaring at him through her window. Negan didn’t seem to notice or if he did, he didn’t say anything.

“Home sweet home, huh?” Negan said as he stepped into your house. The fire was already burning as your pulled of your jacket and lay it across a chair near the flames. Negan was looking around at the warm room when you walked to him and grabbed his wrists, the key to the cuffs in your hand. “Really?” he asked, surprised. 

“Did you expect me to keep them on?” you asked, removing the cuffs.

“Kind of, yeah,” he admitted. 

“Well, this is not the cell, it’s my house. My house, my rules, and I say that nobody needs to wear handcuffs. So, here you go. Two days of whatever you want. The kitchen is stocked, there’s decently hot water, and the spare bedroom is the final door on the left. However, you touch my weapons and I will put the cuffs back on, deal?” Negan stared at you for a second before nodding. 

“Yeah, no problem,” he said and you gave him an awkward thumbs up before leaving him be in your living room. Walking into your kitchen, you wished for whiskey, another small thing you missed from the old world.

“This is going to be a long two days.” 

TAGS:  @thanossexual​ @yes-sir-hotchner​ @boom-bunny​ @delusionalteenagewhispers​ @sophia-gwendolyn​ @ritajammer21

#walkerwords #savior sessions #twd fanfiction #twd #twd imagines #negan x reader #negan imagines #The Walking Dead #reader insert

[satans-helper]

Thinking About You

Pairing: Joe Elliott x Rick Savage [don’t like slash? That’s okay! Don’t read it] 

Word Count: ~3700 

Warnings: masturbation; lots of groping and grinding; non-penetrative sex; cumshots. 18+, read at your own discretion.

This fic really got away from me. Much like our Joe here, it started as one little fantasy and snowballed into something bigger--I actually ended up using a few different dialogue prompts that I found online within this fic, which was an interesting way to keep it moving and build on the original idea.

As the picture may indicate, I was picturing 1986-ish Joe & Sav, but I think you can let your imagination do whatever it wants, honestly. I had a lot of fun writing this one & I hope you enjoy reading it. ~~

P.S. I also post all my slash fics to RockFic & AO3, if you’d rather read & comment there. 

---

Sav was lying on his back, his lower half under the covers, with his hands behind his head. His eyes were closed and his mouth was closed too, the still slightly tense full lips indicating that he hadn’t left for dreamland just yet; his head slowly lolled to the right but, as Joe climbed into his own bed and made the overused frame squeak squeak, Sav suddenly jolted upright and blinked at the desk lamp that was still glowing yellow.

“You’re so cute, half-asleep like that,” Joe commented with a smirk, rolling onto his side. “I’m not even sure I want to turn the light off.”

“Hmm. I’m sure,” Sav replied, punctuating his statement with a quiet groan. He also rolled onto his side, facing Joe, his eyelids fluttering but he inhaled a sharp breath, then looked at him dead-on.

Joe’s smirk grew. “What?”

“You’re staring again.”

“Staring again? At you?” Joe scoffed and rolled his eyes. “You wish, Savage.”

“You’ve been staring at me all day,” Sav continued, gradual sleepiness lacing through his words. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothin’.” That was a lie--something had gotten into Joe, but it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. He was still Joe and Sav was still Sav--nothing had changed except for the tingling in his groin and the fluttering of his heart when he thought about Sav, looked at Sav, talked to Sav. It was new territory for his brain and he couldn’t get Sav off his mind--he had thought about Sav in the shower just a few minutes ago, what those hands might feel like all over his body, what it would be like to kiss him.

He was getting himself riled up again just thinking about it.

When Joe dared to look over again, Sav was smiling sneakily and batting his eyelashes. “That’s why I’m staring,” Joe accused, pulling the covers up over his shoulder, hunkering down against the pillows. “Stop being so cute.”

Sav snickered and rolled over to face the wall, giving Joe nothing but a view of a lump and a mess of curls. “Goodnight, Joe. Will you get the light?”

Considering he couldn’t actually see Sav anymore, Joe turned it off diligently and rolled onto his back. He wasn’t tired, not even after the hot shower--he was aroused. Mentally, emotionally and physically, and all because of his friend sleeping in the other bed, and even thinking about Sav’s lips on his neck and chest, trailing down his abdomen to wrap around his cock, had him getting hard in his shorts.

Fuck, he wanted to do something about it. Wasn’t that wrong, to jerk off with someone else in the room? Maybe even more wrong with them being unconscious? But he didn’t want to go to the bathroom to do it--he wanted to stay in the warm sheets and listen to Sav’s slow, gentle breathing, shoot all over himself, roll over and pass out. If Sav stayed asleep, no one would be any he wiser about the whole thing.

So he closed his eyes and went back to imagining him and Sav in the shower together. He imagined Sav’s palms smoothing down his chest, fingertips grazing his nipples, and Joe imagined himself doing the same to him, touching and exploring the planes, hills and valleys he’d recently become so infatuated with. He’d seen what seemed like every inch of Sav already, and even touched a lot of those places too, though not directly--Joe wanted more than a shirtless, post-concert hug. He wanted to feel Sav.

Joe slid his hand down his own torso a bit impatiently, not slowing down enough to really feel himself and get himself ready. Well, he was already ready--he was more than halfway hard when he reached beneath his shorts and grabbed himself, already working his hand around his shaft, lightly dragging the pad of his thumb over his slit. He swallowed and tilted his head back into the pillows, let himself become even more ensconced in the cotton, and imagined Sav crawling over him, straddling him, and kissing his exposed throat; his other hand went between his legs to caress his balls through his shorts, rubbing the fabric against the thin skin. He imagined Sav’s hands taking hold of the waistband and pulling his shorts down, and Joe spreading his legs wider to let him move between them.

He moaned quietly, the biting of his own lip apparently not enough to keep himself quiet as the fantasy played itself further and further out. He opened his eyes and glanced over to see if he’d woken Sav--he couldn’t see much in the dark but he didn’t see movement and Joe didn’t think his breathing had changed, so he continued stroking himself and fondling his balls as he closed his eyes again and inhaled deeply.

He was just starting to picture Sav’s tongue sliding up his shaft when the actual Sav shifted in the other bed. Joe paused his movements from beneath the covers and glanced over again; he could make out Sav’s shape tossing the blankets back and getting out of bed, nearly bumping into the night table between the beds as he moved. Completely motionless, heart pounding with nerves and suddenly wide awake and slowly losing his hard-on, Joe was paralyzed. He watched Sav go into the bathroom; the door shut before the light went on, then a slant of light peered out from under the door for what felt like one of the longest minutes of Joe’s life, and then Sav was out again.

He caught Joe’s petrified face in the light pooling out of the bathroom while the door was still open. Sav raised an eyebrow: “What?”

Joe’s hand was still around his cock, still somehow half-hard even with all of that. He didn’t dare move it then--he didn’t want Sav to know that he’d been doing that. “What?”

Sav’s hand was lingering on the light switch in the bathroom, still not turning it off. “Why do you look terrified?” Joe didn’t even get a chance to respond before Sav went on with a question that made him want to sink completely into the bed and disappear: “Were you--wanking?”

Joe sputtered, finally tearing his hand away from his junk. “No!”

“I think you were,” Sav accused, placing his hand on his hip. “And while I was sleeping, no less.”

“It’s been two days,” Joe replied, not a lie. “How was I supposed to know you’d get up?”

“Maybe don’t wank when I’m still in the room,” Sav said, but he was smirking, looking Joe up and down, and then he giggled.

“Don’t do that,” Joe warned, his dick twitching in his shorts. “You know that drives me crazy.”

Sav tilted his head. “What drives you crazy?”

Joe reached one hand out from beneath the blankets and gestured at him. “That laugh.”

Head still tilted, now-wide awake eyes looking over Joe carefully, Sav asked, “So what were you thinking about?” When Joe hesitated, lips parted as if he were going to say something of protest but he never managed to get any words at all out, Sav asked, “Were you thinking about me?”

Joe shoved himself up against the headboard. Sav was--okay with this? Clearly he knew that Joe had been thinking about him--in hindsight, it had to have been so obvious. No, remarks about how cute Sav was weren’t completely out of character, but Sav himself had picked up on a change in Joe, that change being Joe wanting him. His heart was still pounding, the fear of rejection palpable but, even worse, the fear of tainting their friendship--and the band--forever. If only Joe could have just had some self-control.

Joe didn’t know what to say. He finally grumbled, mildly accusatory, “Now you’re staring at me.”

“I’m trying to figure you out.” Sav stepped closer, arms crossed, the light behind him illuminating his messy curls. “You--you want me?”

Joe was trying to figure Sav out--was telling him worth the risk? Sav didn’t seem too put off by even just guessing--correctly--that Joe did indeed want him. “Well--,” Joe started, wishing he never had to feel this self-conscious ever again. He straightened up against the headboard and pushed past his rapid heartbeat: “Yes.”

Sav didn’t look away. “When did this happen?”

“I--don’t know.”

Sav moved even closer and then, to Joe’s surprise, he sat down on the edge of the bed right next to Joe’s shins. “What would you want to happen?”

Joe couldn’t help but hesitate again before asking, “Are you offering?”

“Maybe. I’ve thought about things too.” Sav smirked a little. “Just never did anything about it with you in the room.”

Joe couldn’t laugh, not even smile, at that. He was too overwhelmed by the fact that his desire was somehow returned by Sav and, even if they didn’t ever do anything, knowing that was enough. Still, he wanted to see what they could do--what Sav might want to do--and there was one thing he figured he’d never be able to get off his mind unless he tried.

Joe inched closer, not attempting to touch Sav, but leaning in. “I really want to kiss you right now.”

Sav’s smirk disappeared and his face was placid; he leaned forward so his nose was only a couple inches away from Joe’s, and no further. Joe met him those last couple of inches, tilting his head just enough to press his lips to Sav’s so softly he wasn’t even sure if Sav felt it. He felt his hand on his thigh giving gentle pressure as Sav parted his lips slightly against Joe’s and turned his body, shoving his bent knee against Joe’s thigh so he could face him; before Joe could grab his hips and have him straddle his waist, Sav stood up, breaking the kiss that Joe felt had just begun.

He expected the worst, but Sav pulled back the covers and gestured: “Move over, Joe.”

Heart pounding and dick twitching again, Joe moved over and watched as Sav’s long body nestled under the upheld blankets, only in thin pajama pants. He wanted to touch him but he still resisted the urge, patiently waiting to see what Sav would do, which was settle down right next to Joe, blink at him once, and then slide in front of him with his hand on Joe’s chest, bringing his face closer and closer again. Reassured, Joe tentatively reached out and grabbed the back of Sav’s head, threading his fingers as best he could through his hair; Sav’s tongue just barely met his and Sav moaned quietly, sending another hot rush of blood to Joe’s groin. He’d almost forgotten about how this had all begun and now he actually had Sav in bed with him, both of them already nearly naked.

Sav was a really good kisser--he knew just when to pull back and when to go in for more and his lips were so soft, just as lush as Joe had imagined they would be. Their kisses were becoming deeper, hotter and wetter, and Joe’s fingers threaded through more of Sav’s hair while his other hand gripped his upper arm; Sav lifted his right leg and shoved it between his thighs, getting enough leverage to drape himself over Joe’s upper half.

He grunted softly as Sav’s knee brushed against his crotch. “Sav,” he uttered, still holding him by the hair as he pulled away from those delectable kisses. “Are you sure?”

“Sure about what?” Sav’s eyes moved down for a second, then he licked his lips. “We’re just kissing.”

“We’re in bed together. And shirtless.” Joe skirted his hand down to Sav’s bare waist to prove it, running his palm along silky skin and to the sparse trail of hair beneath his navel. His hand wanted to move even lower than that--and he felt the heat radiating from Sav’s groin and the brush of an erection against his wrist--but he was going to wait for a green light.

Sav sat up on Joe’s thigh, making the covers into a peak behind himself. “Tell me what you were thinking about.”

“I was thinking about you doing this,” Joe said, sweeping over them with a wave of his hand. “You, getting into bed with me--kissing, and--” He faltered for just a moment--why hesitate now? He was having a fantasy come to life. But he was growing a bit weary of Sav having the upper hand here--yes, in Joe’s fantasy, Sav was the one crawling all over him but, in real life, Joe needed to get on top, literally. He urged Sav back with his thigh, easing him down onto his back as he shoved the covers back from the two of them--was it the air conditioning or Joe himself making Sav’s nipples hard? Either way, Joe couldn’t help himself from reaching down and brushing his thumb over one as he sufficiently straddled Sav’s hips.

Sav gasped quietly; Joe tried not to look at his face for too much longer, the unfamiliar self-consciousness still lingering even with the two of them giving into one another. Sav was a man--the sharp hips, smatterings of body hair, flat chest and hard abs were further proof--and the only man Joe had ever truly thought about in an intimate way. The differences were becoming less and less apparent--at the end of the day, it was simply that Sav was beautiful and also his very best friend.

He hunched over and pressed his lips to Sav’s skin just beneath his ear, getting a noseful of lingering, almost floral shampoo; with Sav sighing and gripping his shoulders, Joe’s erection got even harder and he started to move back and forth slowly over his hips, bringing them crotch-to-crotch and grinding. He kissed down the side of Sav’s neck, breathing in scents he’d experienced before but never so up close, letting his tongue lightly gloss over the tender skin to taste what he’d only dreamed of; Sav’s right hand slid down Joe’s shoulder to his back, fingertips grazing the length of his spine, then he gripped a handful of his ass and squeezed.

Joe pulled back, first looking down at the shiny trail of saliva on Sav’s neck and then into his eyes. “Is this your first time?”

Sav nodded and reached around for the other cheek. “Yours?” He squeezed again, then slid his hands underneath Joe’s shorts. “You seem--experienced.”

Joe scoffed--what an assumption! As if he’d ever rolled around in bed with another man. “Do I? Maybe because,” he began, arching his back, lowering himself to bring them almost nose-to-nose. “I’ve thought about it a lot recently.” Sav must have thought about it too, but Joe was still curious as to the specifics--what did he look like in Sav’s fantasies? Was he living up to expectation? Would they actually both end up regretting this?

No, Joe told himself, no way they’d regret this. He knew it absolutely for himself, and from the way Sav was looking at him--equal parts lust and love--he wouldn’t regret it either.

Sav started to pull Joe’s shorts down. “Would you have ever told me?”

Joe snorted, the question distracting from Sav’s hand wrapping around his shaft. “No way, Sav. Never.” He glanced down to watch his dick being slowly pumped and groaned softly. “So I guess it’s, ah, a good thing I decided to wank with you in the room. Otherwise--” his hips twitched and he groaned again with Sav stroking him harder and looking up at him, blue eyes relaxed and lips slightly swollen. “Otherwise this never would have happened. Right?”

“Maybe,” Sav replied, tugging on Joe’s shorts again. Message received, Joe forced himself to break away from his touch momentarily to pull the shorts down and off--he felt good, he felt desired, he felt like a man, and the self-consciousness was nearly completely gone. Bending over the bed, he swiveled Sav slightly to the side and pulled his pajama pants down and tossed them aside, leaving him totally bare and spread out, ready for Joe to crawl over again.

He climbed over Sav, bracing his hands on the mattress beneath them, and lowered his hips until they were pressed together from the waist down; Joe watched Sav’s eyes widen and his lips part, then felt the bassist’s hands roaming down his body. He knew what to do in theory--he knew they could go even further--but it seemed like something they’d need to talk about first, and Joe didn’t want to talk. He didn’t think Sav wanted to talk either, not with how he was pawing at Joe and grabbing his hip to pull him down even harder.

So Joe leaned into his instincts and started to move; Sav spread his legs more and their balls were nearly squashed together and the sensation of that skin-on-skin sent a sharp tingle up Joe’s spine into his scalp. It wasn’t even like they needed hands, they just kept moving with Joe grinding down and Sav writhing, pointing his hips up so their cocks were parallel. Lube would be nice, Joe realized, but he was not about to interrupt this so he unceremoniously ducked and let a strand of saliva fall from his tongue to their met groins; Sav whined and yanked him down, teeth meeting his bottom lip before Sav’s lips did.

Joe certainly felt like a man then, and like a man on top of another man, because their grinding, humping, biting and groaning was nothing short of all male. And he liked it. He loved it. He already knew he wanted to do it again with Sav, maybe actually take it further next time. It would be a conversation for another day because, just then, he was sliding his tongue into Sav’s mouth and swallowing his moans. He moved one hand to the crown of Sav’s head and threaded his fingers through those messy curls, subsequently keeping Sav in place, though it seemed as though he had no desire to break away from their swapping of spit.

The warmth from a dribble of Sav’s precum sent Joe moaning; he bucked his hips hard, knocking the bedframe into the wall, and drove his teeth into Sav’s bottom lip. Sav turned his head, eyes blazing as he looked at Joe, and tried to wedge a hand between them.

Joe grabbed his wrist. “No--like this,” he said, resuming his grind, the heat and density of Sav’s cock against his own sending a fever straight to his head.

His left hand not incapacitated, Sav used it to tug on Joe’s hair and bring him down for a messy, rough kiss; Joe’s fingers in Sav’s hair loosened, and he relaxed his hold on his wrist so Sav immediately brought that hand to Joe’s side. He rubbed his fingertips over Joe’s ribs, brushed his thumb over his nipple, the long fingers treading dangerously close to Joe’s armpit. Sav was exploring his body; Joe was still exploring his mouth, their tongues tangled as wet smacking noises and half-way muffled moans filled the room.

He felt a bit of conscious surprise as he came first, pausing his kisses as his body stiffened and he felt himself shoot over both of their groins and Sav’s abdomen; he huffed and groaned, shuddering as he loosed Sav’s name from his lips and somewhat carefully collapsed on top of him. The orgasm was still ripping through his body as he laid over Sav, all that bare skin so warm and familiar, and Joe shivered and tried to catch his breath next to his ear.

Joe felt Sav’s teeth scrape his shoulder, then Sav was grabbing his ass again and grinding up into him. Suddenly embarrassed by his failure to get him off before Joe did, he propped himself back up, leaned back on his heels and grabbed Sav’s rock-hard dick; Sav threw his head to the side, eyes shut tight, and arched into Joe’s touch. It was a little strange to be stroking a cock that wasn’t his own, but the way Sav moved below him, the soft sounds of his increasingly high-pitched, breathy moans, and the feel of Joe’s own release all over Sav’s belly as he pet him superseded the weirdness. He wanted to make Sav come and come hard, so he did what he would do for himself.

Except maybe better, because it didn’t take long for Sav to cry out and arch his back so much Joe heard it crack, then multiple strings of pearly white shot from within Joe’s fist and onto Sav’s stomach, adding to his own, and dribbled over his knuckles as his last few slow pumps drained him.

Still watching Sav’s chest rising and falling heavily, Joe wiped his hand on the sheets and laid down next to him. There was always a pull with Sav and post-orgasm, Joe learned, was no exception. The pull to his friend was even more intense and Joe didn’t hesitate to turn on his side and nuzzle into Sav’s neck, curls brushing over his forehead.

“I turned out liking you a lot more than I originally planned, Sav,” he said, voice low and soft. His eyes were closed--Joe was content to just be there with Sav, limbs not tangled together but their bodies still connected, the shockingly smooth skin of Sav’s upper arm against his chest.

“Mm,” Sav hummed, blinking slowly, the desire to sleep evident in his face. Joe wondered if this was always the way with Sav, or if maybe he really had worn him out that much--that possibility made him smile to himself. Sav reached down and grabbed the crumpled covers, pulling them over both he and Joe as he turned onto his side, effectively making Joe spoon him.

Joe wrapped one arm over Sav and held him, closing his eyes again. A minute later, Sav said in an almost haughty, teasing grumble, “You’ll have to wash this off me in the morning, you know.”

Smirking, Joe hooked one leg over Sav and held him even tighter. “Whatever you want, Sav.”

---

Tagging: my cheerleader @mountainofthesunn​ ;) 

#all feedback welcome #we love to see it #and them ;) #def leppard #joe elliott #rick savage #joe elliott x rick savage #def leppard slash #def leppard fic #rick allen #vivian campbell #steve clark #phil collen

[haltandcatchfiretothemax]

FEMSLASH FEBRUARY 2021 #13: In which Cameron and Donna start to look toward the future

[CN: spoilers for 2x10 and beyond of Halt and Catch Fire]

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It was almost 11pm, the hour when the Mutiny house would finally really start to quiet down. (Or, so long as there wasn’t some crisis that needed to be dealt with immediately.) As usual, Cameron was wide awake. Her bedroom door was wide open, to let in the light from the kitchen, and her bedroom window was open to let in some air and some moonlight. Normally, Cameron would have been working, still, or at the very least logged on, chatting and playing games with Mutiny users, though lately she’d been trying to spend more time on the community pages, observing conversations. But that night, Cameron had gone into her room and gotten into bed. Gazing at her bedroom ceiling, shoulders, neck, and back finally relaxed, Cameron could only think of one thing: California. 

Cameron had been daydreaming about the server for a good twenty minutes when her reverie was interrupted by the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. When the ignition turned off, she realized that she wanted it to be Tom, but then remembered that he probably wouldn’t have come back in a car. She was trying to forget about him when she heard footsteps in the kitchen. She sat up, planting one foot on the floor, ready to grab the baseball bat that she kept near her bed, but before she could get up, there was Donna, hovering just outside of her bedroom.

She knocked on the doorframe. “Hey.”

Slightly bewildered, and mildly worried, Cam said, “Hey. How’s Joanie?”

Donna’s face relaxed. “She’s okay. Thanks for calling and asking about her earlier.”

“Yeah, sure,” Cameron shook her head. “I’m just glad you found her, and that she’s okay.”

Without further preamble, Donna said, “I talked to Gordon. About California.” 

Unable to hide her surprise, Cameron said, “…oh.” Heart suddenly pounding, she put her other foot on the floor, so that she was sitting on the edge of her bed, and leaned forward. “And?”

Donna looked around, checking to see that none of the other staff members were within earshot, and then went into Cameron’s room. Pulling the door closed behind her, she said, “I think we have a plan.”

A plan. “Really?” Cameron semi-whispered. “That’s great? Okay.” She scratched her head absent-mindedly and then said, “You could have called me to tell me that. Or waited until tomorrow? Is everything okay?”

Only half answering, Donna said, “Everyone was asleep, and I needed to get out of the house. Figured I’d try coming here.”

Cameron exhaled, shoulders relaxing again, and realized that she’d been holding her breath. Then, she looked at Donna, standing awkwardly near her closed bedroom door still and said, “Sorry, do you wanna sit? Or something?” She gestured toward her bed, as if trying to wave Donna into the room.

Donna looked around, but of course, there wasn’t anywhere else to sit. She sat down, gingerly, next to Cameron, on her bed, knees close together, hands in the pockets of her hooded sweatshirt. 

Cameron was forcibly reminded of Rick calling Donna “Mrs. Garrett” the night he sold them the counterfeit XTs and they went to confront him. “Sorry,” she said, again. “I’ll have to get a chair at some point.”

“California dreamin’,” Donna deadpanned.

Cameron snorted, and then thought about it. Crossing her legs underneath her, she said, “Huh. I guess you’re right, my future chair will be in my future bedroom in California. That is so weird to actually think about. Like, is this really happening?”

“I guess it depends,” Donna said. “We still gotta figure out how to make it work. There’s a lot to hammer out.”

“Right,” Cameron said. She leaned forward, elbows propped up on her knees, and rested her chin in her hand. “So what next?”

“Well,” Donna shrugged, hands still in her pockets, “I guess, we tell the guys. Tomorrow.”

“But tell them what, exactly?” Cameron wondered out loud. “We’re doing this? Deal with it?”

“We don’t 100% know that we’re doing it,” Donna said. “What we know is that we’re seriously considering it, and that we’ve started to make...inquiries,” she said, carefully.

Cameron smirked. “Spoken like a true product manager.”

Pulling her hands out of her pockets, Donna threw up her hands, and shrugged, “Someone’s gotta do it!” Then she said, “The guys have been very open minded, so far. I don’t think they’ll hate the idea.” She turned toward Cameron, folding one leg and tucking it underneath her, and hunched forward. They’ll understand about the server, and why it could be worth moving across the country to have one of our own. I think, we should just let them know what we’re thinking, and ask them to really think about whether they’d be willing to make the trip.” 

It was a practical and commonsense approach, but Cameron, of course, immediately jumped to what felt like the worst possible outcome. Face creased with real concern, she looked at Donna, and said, “What if none of them come with us?”

“Then we’ll have to make some decisions. We can stay here, with our staff, or we can move and make new hires. Plenty of coder monkeys to be found in Silicon Valley.” Idly twisting her wedding and engagement rings around her left ring finger, Donna added, “I really don’t think that none of them will come with us, though.” When Cameron didn’t look reassured, she said, “Unless there’s one person in particular that you’re worried about? Who’s technically already quit?” 

Cameron’s face turned slightly red. Then, darkly, she said, “I can’t make him come back to work here, right?” 

With a sympathetic, rueful smile, Donna said, “It sucks, right? I get it, though. It feels really great when the person you care about really gets your work, and why you love it, right? The idea of not working with them anymore, it’s….” She sighed. “If we find a way — or, when we find a way to get out there — just ask him, Cameron. He might decide to come with us.”

Leaning back against her headboard, Cameron said, “He also might not. Can’t stay here and wait around for him to forgive me though, right?”

“You could,” Donna said. “I think you might regret it if you didn’t go after that server because of a guy who technically stole your game.” 

Cameron rolled her eyes. “Okay. Fine, you’re right. I would.” She uncrossed her legs, pulling them up toward her chest. “Gordon’s really okay with this, though?”

Donna put her hands back in her pockets. Frowning, she admitted, “He never wanted to leave,” Donna sighed, staring at the floor. “California, I mean. He thought that moving here would be a mistake, and he was right.” She looked over at Cameron, and said, “I’ll deny it if you ever tell him that I said he was right.”

“I won’t,” Cameron said. “But seriously, though, Donna. What if he wasn’t willing to move?

Soberly, Donna said, “I guess I’d have to get used to living in a different place from him, I guess. And the girls, I wouldn’t uproot them and make them settle somewhere else without their dad.”

Cameron wasn’t entirely surprised, but still asked, “You’d really leave your husband and kids behind for my stupid gaming company?”

Exasperated, Donna said, “It’s not just your company, is it? Mutiny is important to me, too. Building something is important to me.” She pushed a stray stand of hair out of her face and behind her ear. “Not using the girls as an excuse to not pursue things is important to me, too. I don’t know, I want them to know that it’s okay to do things. So I should do things, so they’ll know that, right?”

Anxiously, Cameron said, “Uh, I really don’t think I’m the right person to go to for parenting advice? But, I wouldn’t want my mom to not do something just because of me, and my dad. My mom didn’t work, but if she had, you know. I would’ve wanted her to go to California, if it was her. Even if we had to stay here.”

Donna rubbed her shoulder, which had been stiff lately. “We haven’t told the girls yet. Or my parents. I guess I’ll tell them after we talk to the guys about it.”

Cameron looked at her, and suddenly felt very grateful that she was there. “If you didn’t want to, or if Gordon didn’t want to and you didn’t want to leave him, I wouldn’t go. I’d keep looking for a server here. Or, I don’t know, I’d get my tractor license, or whatever and I’d go out there and pick it up and bring it back here.”

Donna grinned sadly at her. “You’d really do all that to keep working with me at our stupid gaming company?”

Cameron smiled at her. “What if I need to steal some more XTs from a black market dealer? I’d need you for that.”

Donna chuckled. Then she argued, “It wasn’t stealing! We paid for the merchandise!” 

Cameron hugged her knees to her chest, and rested her chin on her arm. “Remember the first time we took the network offline? For ‘routine maintenance,’ when we first started to really grow, and get tons of users? And then we had to put it back online, and you had to come back here at 10 that night because people were logging on but then they kept getting kicked off, and they were starting to call to complain? And you came and fixed it and then fell asleep here, and then woke up at 5 am and rushed home so that the girls wouldn’t think you’d left them that night?” 

Unsure of where Cameron could be going with this, Donna said, “…yeah?”

“I don’t know,” Cameron said. “I just can’t imagine doing this without you.”

It was everything that Donna had wanted to hear, even if preferably from Gordon, but hearing Cameron say it to her made Donna feel unexpectedly and pleasantly warm. She’d never dreamed that Cameron might feel that way, much less say it to her. Trying to stay calm, she said, “Well, I’m sure you’d be just fine, without my expertise.” She started to get up, turning away from Cameron to stretch her legs out in front of her. 

Cameron watched her stand up, and said, “Hey, it’s late. You know that if you’re too tired to drive, you can stay over.”

“I appreciate the offer,” Donna smiled at her. “But I’m okay, and I should get back.” She stretched her arms overhead. 

Cameron felt the same weird tinge of disappointment that she always felt when Donna went home at the end of the day. “Right,” she nodded. “See you tomorrow, then?”

“Yep,” Donna smiled. She walked to the door, and then stopped and turned to say, “Don’t stay up too late, okay?”

“I won’t,” Cameron rolled her eyes. 

Donna smiled at her. “‘Night, Cam.” She turned to face forward again, and walked out the door, and went out to her car, where she realized that her hands were shaking, and that her heart had started to beat fast and loud. 

Cameron listened as Donna started the car and drove off. She stretched her legs out in front of her, and then she turned on to her side, folding her arm under her head, and closed her eyes. She tried to imagine her life in California, wondered if Donna would still come to her house late at night and sit on her bed in that future. Without even realizing it, Cameron thought, I hope so. I hope so, I hope so, I hope so, as she started to fall asleep. 

#again i feel like this could be better? #but that is how everything starts to feel 19 days into daily writing project tbh! #femslash february #femslash february 2021 #fan fiction #cameron howe #donna clark #donna emerson

[justjessame]

Never Have I Ever (Chapter 1): The Game

I was sitting across from the devil himself. At least that’s what they’d all told me. All of my friends. All of my family. They all considered him Satan incarnate. I had my doubts.

“Rick the Prick has a sister.” He was studying me as I studied him. Here in his domain. Here where I’d been brought along with Daryl when he’d murdered Abraham and Glenn. Daryl, taken because of his temper, me for God knew what reason. Possibly just another dig at my older brother. I didn’t answer Negan. It wasn’t a question, and I felt that Rick’s confirmation of who I was to him pretty much covered it. “Bet you’re wondering why you’re here.”

“Mildly curious.” I answered, taking in the man sitting before me. He was more at ease here, in his apartment. The leather jacket gone, the red scarf tossed too. Just him, me, and that fucking bat still coated in Abe and Glenn’s brain matter and blood. “More curious about where Daryl is right now.”

Negan’s eyes narrowed as he considered what I was saying. “You and the redneck?” I smiled. Oh, he wanted to know if Daryl and I were a thing.

“Does it matter?” I asked, thinking that the best way to learn what this entire deal was would be to question him, subtly.

“Makes it funnier,” he shrugged and my eyebrow arched in annoyance. “He’s fine.” He waved off the topic of Daryl. “You’re not curious why you’re here?”

I tilted my head. Waiting. And we sat together in silence. I didn’t want to break it first. Not give him that power, the power to force me to jump to his commands. I wanted him to get that me and my people weren’t to be dismissed or trifled with. That we weren’t his playthings. That he wasn’t my boss, my god, or my master.

He sat back, the leather couch making a slight crunching noise that denim on leather makes. “Curious about good ole Daryl, but not about your own fate. That’s ballsy, princess.” I shrugged. “What if,” his hands tented into a V shape under his chin, watching me and contemplating his next words. “What if I brought you here for-” I catch his eyes flick toward the bed. And I snorted. Hard.

“Sex?” I laughed, long and hard. “What if you brought me here to fuck? Oh that IS hilarious. Are you hard up, Negan? Have to take women hostage so they can come play in your bed?”

He watched me laugh and it was a real true laughing fit. This terrible, evil man was trying to insinuate that he brought me, Eveyln Grimes, here to screw. Jesus, I hadn’t found something so funny in so long I felt almost hysterical. I got my shit under control as he waited, surprisingly patient, hands still tented.

“You done?” I nodded, feeling a hiccup build. “Trust me when I say I am NOT hard up.” I raised an eyebrow and grinned. “I’m not, sweetheart, in fact I’ll take you to meet my wives later.”

“Wives?” I snorted again, another laughing fit threatening to hit. “Dear God, I don’t know which scenario is more pathetic, a man with NO game, or a man who thinks he has TOO MUCH game.” I rolled my eyes and sat back in my chair. “Now I am curious. Why am I here, oh great and wondrous one?” I was holding back another eruption of giggles, but just barely.

His eyes narrowed. Clearly he was finding me more than a little irritating. Good. I wanted to piss him off. I wanted to make him see that I wasn’t just some girl he could crook his finger to and I’d come running. The fucking nerve of him. Even if there wasn’t a tiny voice reminding me that he’d just murdered two of our people, I wouldn’t show him fear.

“Tell me about yourself.” A command, loud and clear.

“No.” Just as loud, just as clear. My arms crossed over my chest and I got comfortable. He could put me wherever Daryl was, he could fucking kill me at this point, but he wasn’t going to get me to jump just because he said to.

A raised eyebrow and his hands moved to lay on top of his thighs. The movement forced my eyes down, to see that fucking bat sitting on the table between us. “You’re not being very fucking cooperative, princess.”

“I’m also not a fucking princess, but that fact doesn’t seem to bother you.” I tossed back. I hated being called ‘princess’ by anyone. My own father didn’t do it.

He was chewing on his words again. And I really wanted to see him lose it. The confidence, the coolness. I wanted him to be fucking irritated to the point I’d be shunted out of his presence and hopefully imprisoned near Daryl. Harder to get an escape planned if I didn’t know where he was.

“Let’s play a game.” I rolled my eyes, what were we twelve? “I’ll even let you pick.” He stood up and walked to a small bar I hadn’t noticed behind his sofa. He was fussing with the bottles, and I had a flash of an idea. Fuck, if I could get his ass so damn drunk that he didn’t know which end was up, then I could possibly get the hell of this room.

“Never Have I Ever.” I said, and he looked at me like I’d lost my mind.

“Never have you ever what?” Oh, he truly didn’t fucking know the game. “Played a game?”

I shook my head. “No, it IS a game. Grab a couple of shot glasses and whatever stupid nasty rotgut you’ve got piled over there and we’ll play it.” He smirked. “A drinking game?” Clearly he was taking in the fact that I’m barely five foot tall barefooted and just over a buck twenty pounds. Yes, underestimate me, Negan. Please.

I nodded and he grabbed a few bottles and juggled two glasses. Sitting them on the table between us, I waited until he’d re-seated himself. I explained the rules, and he nodded his understanding.

“You can even ask the first ‘never have I ever,’” I offered, thinking it would tell me more about where his mind was anyway. “But first we have to pour the drinks.” And so we did.

“Never have I ever been married.” He drank, clearly understanding, yet misinterpreting the rules. Look, if it got his ass drunk first, then I’d roll with the rule breaking. I didn’t take a drink. An eyebrow from him, and I rolled my eyes.

“Never have I ever been into science fiction.” Fuck it, let’s start easy. He drank and I snorted. Negan as a nerdy geek wasn’t something I was prepared for. “Trek or Wars?” I asked, knowing just enough lingo to get by.

He smirked. “Never have I ever gone to a renaissance fair.” He didn’t drink, but I did. “Hark who’s shaming.” I grinned. Ok, so we’re both nerds.

We kept up the easy lobs, I found out that he liked Trek better than Wars. That he was into classic rock, but wasn’t completely against newer music (before the world went to hell and creativity died). I found out that Negan was strangely normal. He’d taught PE in a high school. He learned that I hadn’t been in touch with my family for a few months prior to the outbreak. That I hadn’t known that Rick and Carl had survived until they showed up in Alexandria. He knew that I preferred mint green to pink, that my car had been a restored ‘67 Mustang and I missed the car more than I missed most people. It was time to go down to the scary ones. And we were both far too sober.

“Never have I ever raped someone.” I offered and he didn’t drink. That was a surprise, I guess.

“Why fuck someone who doesn’t want to? Why violate someone when there’s always a willing partner just down the way?” He offered, but there was a sharpness in his eyes. “I’d kill anyone here who tried it.” Well, that calmed some of my tension. “Never have I ever killed someone before this shit started.” I know what he meant, before the world went to shit. I knocked back another drink and this time his eyes went wide.

“What?” I asked, going for a nonchalant air, but it fell flat even to my own ears.

“Why?” He asked, and I was going to fight answering. It wasn’t his turn. But fuck it, why not?

I sighed. “My job, Negan, that’s why.” And he was still staring. “Allow me to introduce myself properly.” I stood up and at attention, ramrod straight. “Captain Evelyn Grimes.” I didn’t salute, he wasn’t my commanding officer. “I’d just taken a position in Washington when shit went to shit.”

He was staring at me as I sat back down. Looking at me like he’d never seen someone like me before, which he probably hadn’t. “Which branch?”

“Army.” I answered. “I liked that one quote from the poster, ‘Join the Army; travel to exotic, distant lands; meet exciting, unusual people and kill them’.” I shrugged. Could we be done now? He nodded to himself and I took it as a go. “Never have I ever been handcuffed.” I didn’t drink and neither did he. Weird, figured at least some woman would have done it to him at some point to get him at her mercy, if he hadn’t gotten on the wrong side of the law.

“Never have I ever-” Negan stared at me and I knew he was trying to decide the best route. “Given a lap dance.” Shit, I drank. His eyebrow raised. “Why, Miss Grimes, that’s a fucking surprise.”

Rolling my eyes, and swallowing past the burn of the dark liquor I’d shot down, I smirked at him. “If that surprised you, then you might not fucking survive the game.” Then taking stock of him, my grin grew. “Never have I ever had a lap dance.”

His dimples came out in full bloom as he took his own drink. “Doubt that surprises you much.” He offered, as he savored his drink. “Never have I ever flirted with a teacher.” I waited to see if he took a drink from his own glass, because I highly doubted he’d be able to stop himself. When he didn’t I rolled my eyes and took my own. “Damn, dirty little thing aren’t you?”

“I think you should have drank too,” I squinted at him. “Never tried to get a little Mrs. Robinson action in school?” He laughed, and it was the strangest thing I’d ever heard. A laugh from his mouth, his mocking hateful mouth, and it was almost musical.

“Nah, I preferred the sure bets.” I chuckled. Yeah, his ego wouldn’t have taken the hit of an older woman turning down his ass flat. “Did you only flirt?”

“It’s not your turn, Negan.” His eyes widened. Too bad, not his turn. “Never have I ever kissed someone that was my own gender.” Neither of us drank, damn it. I’d hoped, I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t get it.

“Never have I ever slept with a teacher.” Damn it. I took a drink. “Seriously, dirty little girl.” Were his eyes twinkling? Asshole. “It’s not my turn, but fuck if I don’t want to know more.”

“What’s to know? I like older men.” I shrugged. “Never have I ever had a threesome.” I hadn’t, I don’t like to share or be shared. Since he had WIVES I assumed he’d drink. When he didn’t, I was annoyed. “Seriously? You have a harem and you’ve never decided to double dip at one go?”

He shook his head. “I like to keep my focus on what I’m doing.” Getting yourself off, I supplied. “More than one target and my attention isn’t where it should be.” On yourself. “Never have I ever been caught fucking.” We both drank, and I had to laugh.

“You’re gonna get yourself hammered, Negan, asking those questions.” I raised an eyebrow, and considered my next. “Never have I ever watched someone fucking outside of porn.” He drank, I didn’t. Voyeurism wasn’t something I aspired to. I was smirking, certain that while he didn’t partake in threesomes, that he might expect entertainment from the wives.

“Not them.” He offered, clearly reading the smirk for the thought that it came from. “Just got lucky a few times.” He winked and I rolled my eyes. “Never have I ever been fucked for an audience.” Different from being caught, he wanted to know if I’d done it for fun. I drank and his eyebrow nearly left his face. “Damn, Captain Grimes, I may have underestimated you.”

I swallowed the sip and glared into my glass. “This shit is disgusting.” It was, but not because it was homemade or because it was bad quality. I just hated brown liquors. “Never have I ever-” I tilted my head to study him. “Fucked the enemy.” Neither of us drank. “Glad to know that I won’t be the first to shoot your ass down.” I muttered, and he laughed.

“Ah, sweetheart, I’m not the enemy.” I raised an eyebrow. “You just don’t KNOW me yet.” I snorted, loudly. “Never have I ever had sex with a stranger.” He didn’t drink, but I did. Shit. This was a horrible idea for a game. “Fuck, Evelyn, I think you’re a fucking package full of surprises aren’t you?”

I licked an errant drop of the burning alcohol from my bottom lip and saw his eyes focus on it. “Never have I ever kissed a stranger.” We both drank, and I was starting to feel the slight ease that comes with alcohol. The lightning of the tension that had built up from the moment I’d been forced to my knees in the dirt.

And it went, on and on, until I think we both felt far more friendly and happy. Not drunk, just pleasantly buzzed. “Never have I ever,” I studied him, thinking about the facts I’d learned so far, and smiled. “Fucked a student.” I didn’t drink, but he did. “Why Negan, aren’t you just a kinky little bastard.” I sat back in my seat and my grin grew. “So did she play naughty school girl and you were the randy professor?” He was watching my glee grow. “Oohh, did she wear the uniform? Or-” I closed my eyes and a laugh bubbled up, “you taught PE, was it a cheerleader uniform?” I opened my eyes to see him staring at me. I put on a pout and tilted my head as I twirled a lock of my hair around my finger. “Coach, I just don’t think I’m gonna be able to get the split just right, can I have a little extra help?” I’d made my voice a little breathless and I batted my eyelashes.

He snorted, and rolled his eyes. “She was an adult, asshole.” I laughed. “I’m not that fucking ridiculous.” I stared at him. “Never have I ever-” he bit his lip. “Been spanked, as an adult.” Thank goodness he added that in, because prior to his adulthood he’d no doubt worn a red ass as a constant. I drank, trying to take a smaller sip. Fuck, was one bottle empty already? And the other was surprisingly low. “Uh huh, drink it.” Shit. Fucker.

I swallowed the fully shot. Damn him. And his stupid fucking game. Wait, I picked this game, didn’t I? I was trying to think it through when he cleared this throat. “What?” I snapped, still picking through my memories of sitting down and this miserable game’s origin. I raised my eyes to his and he was smirking. “What?” I snapped again.

“Think you’re shitfaced, princess.” I glared. “Had a bit too much of your own medicine?”

“I’m not drunk.” I said, and I almost believed myself. “I’m NOT.” I admonished. And then I realized that he wasn't showing ANY of the signs of all the shots he’d taken. And he’d taken a fair few, but NOT nearly as many as me. “Never have I ever LIED during a game of ‘never have I ever’.” I glared at him as he started to laugh and took his own shot. Fucker. “You cheated.” I accused, feeling completely indignant that he’d dare to sully the sanctity of our game. I crossed my arms over my chest and sat there feeling so wronged.

“You are so fucking drunk, honey,” dimples and eyes fully loaded on this asshole across from me. “Think you should probably sleep that off.” I shot a look at his bed and felt my face flush. “Alone.” Ah, that’s unexpected.

“Fine.” I answered, standing up, and happy that I was more steady than my sluggish brain would have implied. “I’ll take the couch.” I hiccuped and sighed. Damn it. My wonderful plan, undone by this asshole.

Negan stood up, and took my arm. “Not fucking happening.” He walked me to the bed and pulled back the covers. “I may be a lot of fucking things, but I won’t let a lady take the couch.”

I rolled my eyes, and looked at the size of the bed. Thankful again that I wasn’t so drunk that I was seeing doubles. “Looks big enough to share, without touching.” I added, just to be clear.

He chuckled beside me. “Why, Miss Grimes, are you asking me to sleep with you?” I glared up at him, and he shocked me by brushing my hair out of my face. “Sleep. Sure.” And then he motioned to a door I hadn’t noticed. “Bathroom’s through there, if you need it.”

I did. I needed that bathroom more than I ever thought I’d need anything in my life. I rushed over and sighed at the sight of a toilet. I hadn’t realized just how badly I needed to go until he mentioned it. So closing the door behind me and rushing over, I took care of business. After I flushed, washed my hands, and took stock of myself in the mirror, I left the bathroom.

Negan was already in bed. His bed. And he was shirtless. And the sheets riding low enough to see that he had a happy trail low down on his stomach and my mouth went dry.  Shit. Who knew he looked like THAT under his clothes? Damn it. I shot a look at the couch.

“Evelyn.” Fuck, why hadn’t I noticed how deep his voice was? “Come to bed.” Shit. Why did that sound so fucking appealing?

I squared my shoulders and gave myself an internal pep talk. Reminding myself that I was Captain Evelyn Grimes, for fuck’s sake. I did NOT give in to my basic, primal urges anymore. Not on a whim. Not without thought and serious pro/con lists weighing the options. I kept the internal dialogue up until I reached the empty side of the bed, and kicked off my shoes to climb in.

“You’re not wearing all that shit to bed are you?” His damn voice drug me from my debate. “I’m not gonna make a fucking move, princess, I want you to be FULLY aware when we finally fuck.”

I raised an eyebrow, but shrugged at the fact that sleeping fully clothed when I had options was a stupid move. Comfort, especially after drinking around two fucking bottles of booze that I hated the taste of, would be key to waking up and not wanting to die in the morning light. Unbuttoning my jeans, I was unzipping the zipper when I heard him shift slightly on the bed. Looking up, I saw his eyes locked on my hand. Oh, so he wanted a show? I took my time lowering the zipper, biting my lip to keep from laughing when I saw his Adam’s apple bob from his swallow. I opened the sides, tugging first one side, then the other down my hips. Keeping my eyes on him, I shimmied out of them and was very happy that I’d worn the one pair of pretty panties that had been clean in my small pile of clothes. I was bent over, my loose v-neck t-shirt hanging open so he could have a nice view down into the v of my cleavage. I heard him swallow this time. Victory.

When I stood up, he’d pulled the blankets back further, keeping himself covered, but giving me ample room to climb into the bed. I cleared my throat and his eyes met mine. “Thank you.” I laid back on the pillow on the side of the bed he’d left for me. “Night, Negan.”

“Night, Evelyn.” His voice sounded as raw as my nerves felt. Fuck, thank God I’d drank my weight in shitty booze, I thought as the drink pulled me under to sleep. Otherwise, sleep would be the furthest from my mind.

#negan x ofc #The Walking Dead #eventual smut #implied sex #never have i ever

[belphegor1982]

I'm just imagining a cross-over of two of your interests - Bertie Wooster hanging out with Jonathan Carnahan. I think they would get along well!

:3 

(BERTIE AND THE CARNAHAN SIBS WOULD BE BUDS. More on that later.)

I’d heard of Jeeves and Wooster a bit but never really got into it until last summer, when I basically fell in love with Bertie Wooster, and since The Mummy is one of those few fandoms that’s always in the back of my mind just waiting for an excuse for me to fall back in, I realised at some point that the characters of both fandoms are pretty close in age, or at least the same generation. (And then TM/TMR took over my brain and I put Wodehouse aside for a while.) Evelyn must be about 25 in the first film; there’s 8 years between Rachel Weisz and John Hannah, and she’s two years younger than Brendan Fraser, so in my head the characters’ ages in the first film go thus: Evy, 25; Rick, 27; Jon, 31 (because a 5/6 years’ difference is more fun to play with than 8 years). Which would make Bertie exactly Rick’s age and (again, in my head), Jeeves 6 years older than Bertie.

I was just throwing ideas together and summing up what might come out as vignettes one day in different characters’ points of view, but it got long, so I’m putting it under a cut ^^’ It’s mostly headcanon stuff, anyway.

So. The Carnahans are a moderately respectable family, even if a lot of the upper crust turned their backs on John Carnahan once he married Salwa al-Masri, and Jonathan and Evelyn (respectively 13 and 7) are deemed suitable playmates for 9 year old Bertie Wooster. Bertie is a little baffled by the tiny force of nature that is Evelyn Carnahan, who despite being a tiny slip of a girl with lots of curly hair walks with purpose and self-confidence. (And she can read almost better than he does.) They have themselves a little adventure, and the sibs conclude that Bertie Wooster is a good fellow. As for Bertie, he’s also looking forward to further lessons in picking locks, climbing down drainpipes, and other exciting endeavours Jonathan seems to know a lot about.

At some point he hears Aunt Agatha make… derogatory comments about the siblings and especially their mother, who is a very nice lady, and resolves to keep being friends, because aunts can in fact be wrong, no matter how scary they are.

When Bertie’s parents die, the siblings find a muted sunshine beam that doesn’t look like their Bertie. Jonathan sets out to cheer him up with Shenanigans, and before they know it all three have taken a tumble into the duck pond of Brinkley Court. It’s a warm summer, so they lie on the grass and wait for their clothes to dry, and Evy talks about Duat and the Weighing of Souls while the boys listen. It sounds beautiful and terrible and probably shouldn’t make Bertie feel better, but it does, a bit. Aunt Dahlia is a little horrified at the state of their clothes, though.

Bertie attends Eton, with Jonathan a few years above him, so they don’t actually see much of each other at school. When the war rolls in, Jonathan doesn’t enlist right away (he tries to finish his degree first - and fails) and so spends almost two years (early 1917 to late 1918) on the Western Front. Bertie, as expected of a young man of his class and education, joins up as soon as he turns 18, but just before he’s deployed he’s hit by the Spanish Flu and spends the last months of the war recuperating and stationed in the South of England. He and the Carnahans write to each other as regularly as they can.

When Evy’s and Jonathan’s parents die in a plane crash, they receive a long letter from Bertie. A lot of words are crossed out and corrected, and it’s meandering and sometimes a little nonsensical, but unlike most letters of condolences they received so far it was plainly written by someone who is 1) kind to the very core of his being, and 2) intimately familiar with that kind of grief.

At some point, Aunt Dahlia reasons that since Bertie and the Carnahan girl get along so well, she might make a fine match, and she tries to push them together. Bertie is awkward and low-key terrified, Evy is nerdy and nervous and absolutely unwilling to seriously consider marrying anyone. She ends up swearing solemnly that she’ll never marry Bertie, which he is considerably relieved about, and they part as friends before she and Jonathan leave for Egypt.

But where is Jeeves, you may ask? Well, he enters the picture just after the above paragraph. Which means that one day, a few months after the events of TM, Bertie tells Jeeves about this childhood friend of his who just got married to an American fellow and will be coming for tea to introduce him to Bertie, along with her brother, simply spiffing people, really, can’t wait for you to meet them, old thing.

…Jeeves is not impressed. Mrs O’Connell seems agreeable enough, prim and proper and quite an authority in her field, but her husband’s tie is a little too loose and it’s clear he has no idea how to wear a suit properly. As for her brother, he’s a foppish cad who makes Jeeves itch to count the silver spoons the second he walks out the door. 

Evy, recognising a fellow scholar from unlikely background, had a splendid time talking with him and Bertie, but Rick and Jonathan think Jeeves is stuffy and snobbish.

I think they’re all going to have a little adventure together, possibly with a slight supernatural twist, which will make everyone reconsider bad first impressions:

• From Jeeves’ perspective, Mr O’Connell clearly has more common sense than most of Mr Wooster’s friends and family, which is a refreshing change. As for his deplorable fashion sense (or lack thereof), allowances may be made considering the man’s history. (Though Jeeves privately thinks Mr O’Connell might benefit from having a proper gentleman’s gentleman to guide him down the path of sartorial competence.)

• Jeeves also mellows a little with regard to the Carnahan siblings, especially Jonathan (because he and Evelyn actually got on well enough). It’s transparent that both of them are genuinely fond of Mr Wooster, just as much as he is of them, and - unlike a number of his acquaintances - are just as quick to defend him and come to his rescue as they are to put him into what he calls “the soup” in the first place. 

• It’s also what endears Jeeves to Evy and Jonathan, actually: the lengths this frightfully intelligent man is willing to go to protect the young master and make his life pleasant. They’re both familiar with the concept of service in a way Rick isn’t, and they recognise how Jeeves excels at his job.

• Plus (personal headcanon here) Jonathan, not being adverse to putting the occasional toe - or foot - or his entire person - out of what is legal for two chaps to do together, didn’t miss the way Bertie’s eyes shine when Jeeves is in sight like he’s never seen them shine, how enthusiastic his descriptions of Jeeves’ brilliance, how he’s splendid and grand and a paragon and such a perfect gentleman’s gentleman. Whether Jeeves returns the sentiment, Jonathan has no idea, but he hopes so. Call him sentimental.

• (Rick also noticed, and he’s fairly sure Jeeves does return the sentiment. Not because he knows Bertie, or Jeeves for that matter, but because he saw enough of the world to know what love looks like. He doesn’t say anything, though, because it’s none of his damn business.)

So that’s it for the mo’! I wrote about 800 words of the first vignette, from Bertie’s PoV, before my mind focused on TM and its characters almost exclusively and I lost what little of Wodehouse style I had. Here’s the first paragraph, for anyone still reading this :o)

I don’t know what it is about getting on in years, but I find as they pass that one tends to look back on one’s childhood days with a somewhat fonder eye than one experienced while actually living them. St Whatsit’s summer, halcyon days, as the Bard wrote. Not that I have reached the point my nieces, if ever they should set foot in old Blighty again, might start calling me “aged relative”, as I am sometimes wont to greet my dear old aunt Dahlia with, but some of the misadventures of my mildly misspent youth do seem a lot funnier now than they did at the time. I suppose it’s the same for any and all misadventures, really, since faithful readers might recall that some of the more recent situations this Wooster found himself in are far more ridiculous than letting oneself be trussed up and mock-mummified.

Promising, what? :D Hope I can make something of it.

Thank you for giving me an excuse to be ridiculously wordy ♥

#the mummy #the mummy films #jeeves and wooster #ask reply #Mummy headcanons #sammysdewysensitiveeyes

[porkchop-ao3]

Reciprocity

Here is something I wrote for Tailor Rick and Hairstylist Rick. After Rick Prime put the idea in his head, Tailor wants to try topping someone, but he wants someone he really trusts... Hairstylist is more than willing. This is mostly smut, but there are some feels involved, Tailor opens up a little, and there’s mention of panic attacks. I find it very hard to keep things purely emotion/angst free when writing about Tailor, especially when Hairstylist is involved. I love this pairing so much... 

Let me know what you think! I hope you enjoy it :)

-

“Can I ask you something?” Tailor suddenly looked up from his sketchbook to look at Stylist, he was lounging on the sofa nearby, reading one of Tailor's vintage fashion magazines. He looked up, his eyes wide and curious.

“You can ask, I don't know if I'll have an answer,” he replied. Usually when he'd hang out at Tailor's studio, it'd be silence for most of the day. He liked that, it was a comfortable silence, they appreciated each other's company but didn't feel the need to converse with one another. The question had surprised him.

“There's a guy who I… I slept with once,” Tailor started, putting his pencil down and giving Stylist his full attention. “And now he wants to- to get together again but this time, switch roles.”

“He wants you to top him?” Stylist questioned, snorting without meaning to. He tried to cover it up, but Tailor didn't seem offended.

“I know, bizarre, right?” Tailor scoffed with a roll of his eyes.

“Alright, so what're you asking, if you should do it?”

“No. I'm not going to do it, I know that. He wasn't that fun the first time round, he's not worth the hassle,” Tailor shrugged.

“Charming.”

“However, I asked myself why I've never been interested in doing that. I mean, I've done it a few times but never with a man, it had always been with my…” Tailor trailed off, letting the sentence drop dead, but Stylist knew who he was talking about. “Hm, I suppose that's a reason in itself,” he muttered.

“Different strokes for different folks. I can go either way,” Stylist shrugged.

“You like bottoming?” Tailor asked, he seemed surprised by this.

“Sure, sometimes.”

“Hmmm.”

“Why?”

“I feel as though I might like to try it. Though, certainly not with that guy. It's been a long time since I topped anyone, I mean years, so I'm not sure if I'll be… well, I'm out of practice,” Tailor admitted, looking back down at his sketch.

“You're worried you won't be any good?” Stylist smirked in amusement, he wasn't used to Tailor admitting any kind of incapability. Tailor narrowed his eyes at him but let it slide.

“I never liked the idea of giving anal. My wife would ask me and I'd… I'd oblige. But it's rather an unpleasant concept, don't you think?”

“Nope,” Stylist laughed.

“Really? You don't see at all why it might be unpleasant?” Tailor cocked a brow and watched as Stylist sat up, placing the magazine down next to him.

“Of course, I know exactly what you're getting at. But that's not a problem when your partner knows what he's doing, is it?” Stylist smiled, looking Tailor up and down suggestively.

“I suppose. Do you know what you're doing?” Tailor asked with an edge to his tone.

“I've never had any complaints,” He grinned. Tailor rolled his eyes and looked away. “So what, you wanna give this a go?” Stylist moved suddenly, twisting around and kneeling on the sofa, bending over and pointing his ass towards Tailor, he gave it a firm smack.

“Please,” Tailor drawled in irritation, not even looking up. “Have some dignity.”

“You didn't answer me.”

“Yes,” Tailor hissed.

“You know, I don't know how to feel about you asking me, of all people,” Stylist got up and approached Tailor, slowly making his way around the table.

“Why's that?” Tailor eyed him with suspicion, looking him up and down.

“Well it's for either one of two reasons. A; you don't really care for my opinion of you, so you picked me to test out your topping skills cause you don't mind giving me bad sex,” he started, sitting up on Tailor's desk, mighty close to him. “Or B; you just trust me that much, you aren't scared to make a fool of yourself in front of me and you wouldn't let aaanyone else see you when you're not at the top of your game,” he ended with a cheeky little smile. Tailor's face remained deadpan throughout his speech, trying desperately hard not to react.

Stylist scooted across the table, pushing Tailor's things out of the way and bringing his leg over, so he was sitting directly in front of him with his legs hanging down either side of his chair.

“I'm gonna go with B,” he finished, licking his lips and hunching forwards, taking Tailor's face in his hands so he could kiss him. As unimpressed as he was, Tailor kissed back; he never could resist. His hands made their way to Stylist's thighs, sliding up as far as he dared. Breaking the kiss, Stylist whispered; “what if I come over tonight?”

“Tonight?” Tailor repeated, sighing softly as his heart rate increased.

“Plans?”

“No… I can do tonight. But come to the house in France, Beth has friends over for dinner tonight,” Tailor said after a pause, realising how ridiculous that sentence would be if he was speaking to anyone else; anyone without a portal gun.

“Mm, I like that house. Let's do it in the conservatory.”

“You mean that big, see-through, glass room?” Tailor chuckled.

“Well, it's not as if you're overlooked by neighbours,” Stylist shrugged.

“Good point.”

And that was that.

-

Tailor had set up the room for them, he'd pulled out the futon that lived in the conservatory and made their bed with lots of cushions and blankets. It wasn't as though the room was cold, the early evening sun was shining through the glass roof and had a sort of greenhouse effect, so it was warmer than the rest of the house. But the futon was a little lumpy, so he piled the blankets up to make it a little more comfortable for them. The conservatory was complete floor to ceiling glass and looked out onto the patio, and then the garden. The house had a lot of land, and nothing could be seen from all directions, so he wasn't nervous about being seen.

He pulled off his suit jacket and hung it on the back of a nearby armchair, then removed his tie and opened up the top few buttons of his shirt; he was feeling warm. He'd poured himself a glass of whisky and was nursing that as he waited for Stylist to show up. Tailor didn't want to admit that he felt nervous, but he did. He sighed and swept a hand over his hair, sitting down in the armchair and looking out over his garden. The gardeners hadn't been doing a very good job, he noted, some of the bushes out there looked a little overgrown. He'd have to have some words before he headed back to London.

“Look at you, surveying your land with a glass of whisky on the arm of your chair. Where's your pipe and slippers?” Tailor hadn't heard the portal open, perhaps it'd been in another room, but Stylist surprised him a little and his heart was back to thumping. He finished off his whiskey with one gulp and placed the glass on the floor by his feet so it wouldn't get knocked off, then rose to his feet.

Getting a look at Stylist nearly killed him. He looked hot, seriously hot. He was dressed down in a plain white t-shirt and a pair of acid wash cropped jeans, some hot pink flip-flops. His hair wasn't styled like it normally was. It was brushed messily over to one side and looked damp, like he'd just got out of the shower. Tailor was tempted to call the whole thing off and have him bend him over the arm of this chair and pound his ass until he couldn't remember his own name.

“You okay?” Stylist asked when he didn't get a greeting, just a long stare. Tailor approached him, unbuttoning his shirt further down until it was totally open; Stylist feasted his eyes on the exposed flesh and quirked a brow with interest.

Tailor reached him, hooking his fingers in the front of the waistband of Stylist's jeans; he tugged him forwards by his hips and kissed him roughly. The other man groaned in surprise, reaching and holding onto the open edges of Tailor's shirt as his mouth was utterly assaulted. He hadn't been kissed by Tailor with this much fire since the first time they hooked up, and it was off the back of a heated argument. His cock immediately jumped to life in his pants.

Stylist was pulled towards the bed, and when Tailor broke the kiss to sit down, he immediately climbed on top of him, straddling him. He pulled his own shirt off and dragged a hand through his unruly hair to get it out of his face, he clearly didn't realise how incredible he looked when he did that, but Tailor practically sobbed. Tailor's shirt was completely discarded next, and Stylist ran his hands all over his chest, playing with his nipples and feeling every flex of mildly defined muscle under his skin. Tailor's chest was rising and falling quickly, and his cock was firm where it pressed against Stylist's own bulge.

“So you wanna fuck me tonight then, hmm?” Stylist whispered, pushing Tailor down onto his back and sliding forwards so his ass was against his cock. He rubbed up against him, getting him used to the idea. He moaned quietly, holding onto Stylist's thighs.

“Y-y-yeah,” He breathed, kicking himself for his stutter. He usually had a decent grip on it.

Stylist moaned, leaning back with his hands on Tailor's knees, grinding his ass down on his cock, feeling its presence more and more as he worked him up.

“How'd you like to do it?” He asked, looking him straight in the eye. “You want me on top, like this?”

Tailor shook his head. “No, I want to be on top.”

Stylist smirked and turned around, straddling him the opposite way so he could bend over and present his ass to him. “What about doggy style? That way you can push my face in the sheets if I get too loud,” he said playfully, swaying his ass from side to side.

Tailor sat up, stroking his hands over his ass exploratively. He pulled at the jeans, trying to get them down. Stylist chuckled and helped him out, stripping down to his briefs – real tight, small ones that Tailor'd never seen him in – and settling back down in his lap, looking over his shoulder at him.

“I-I don't know, I...” Tailor shook his head, bringing his hands around to Stylist's front, touching his bulge and stroking it. He knew what he was doing with that, he wasn't going to embarrass himself. That underwear was far too small to properly contain his erection, and they were tented away from his body, making it easy for Tailor to slip his hand inside. Stylist sighed and leaned back against him, Tailor could feel the dampness of his hair against his shoulder and looked down his body to watch his hand pleasure him.

“Fuck,” Stylist sighed, his hips swaying forward and back into his hand. Tailor noted his position, him kneeling over his lap, leaning back into his shoulder, it was almost like he was getting a lap dance from him.

Tailor jerked his cock for a while, but he was stalling and he knew it. He had to stop being a little bitch sooner or later, so eventually he let go of Stylist's cock and took his hips in his hands, rolling him off of him and onto his back beside him on the bed. He climbed into the middle of the futon, positioning himself kneeling between Stylist's legs, who was looking up at him with his legs spread wide and his cock poking out from the top of his briefs. Tailor licked his lips and reached for the waistband; Stylist lifted his legs vertical so that Tailor could pull the briefs all the way down, discarding them behind him.

Spreading his legs wide again, Stylist gave him a cheeky smirk, revealing what was between his legs. Tailor finally saw it, the base of a butt plug peeking out from behind his balls and striking fear into his heart in a way he hadn't been expecting. In his head he'd expected to be able to ease himself into it, use his fingers on him like he had done a couple of times in the past during blow jobs, he knew what he liked with that. He'd had some practice. But now, he presumed that Stylist had done this with good intentions of making Tailor's life easier, he'd taken care of preparing himself completely, so they could move right into having sex without having to worry about it. If he thought about it long enough, Tailor might even have felt touched, but in the moment he just felt annoyed.

Tailor didn't like surprises. He liked to plan things out and execute them in the way he'd practiced in his head. When anything was changed beyond his control, it threw him off. For some bizarre reason, Tailor felt the creeping, clawing sensation of an oncoming panic attack. What on earth? This was no time for one of those, and what was the point of it? He was having sex! Sure, it was a little different to their usual sex but he knew Stylist, he was comfortable with him every other time they'd been in the bedroom together. What was this?

He cleared his throat for some reason, a distraction of some kind; he wasn't sure if he was trying to distract himself or Stylist. He took a moment, sitting back on his heels and staring down at the space between them on the futon, breathing as steadily as he could through his nose as he began to feel shaky and out of it, like he did when he hadn't eaten in a while.

“Tailor?” Stylist's voice was soft with concern and he felt his face heat up in embarrassment.

“Y-you don't mess around, hm? All ready for me,” Tailor said, his voice was quiet and monotonous and he forced himself to look him in the eye.

“Should I not have done this?” Stylist questioned, sensing that something was amiss. He knew that Tailor had certain quirks, his mind seemed to work a little differently than he expected sometimes. Every now and then he'd say or do something that seemed to bother him, and Stylist felt like he didn't always know him enough to understand why.

“It's fine,” Tailor shook his head, sliding his hand down the inside of Stylist's thigh towards the toy, his fingertips brushing over it before he fondled his balls.

“Are you alright?”

“I just need–” Tailor closed his eyes, not seeming to know what to say. Something bad was going on in his head and Stylist didn't have a clue what it was. He sat up, placing his hands on Tailor's thighs and waiting. “I feel anxious.”

Stylist's brows shot up. He was not expecting him to admit to something like that.

“Why?” he asked, knowing it was a dumb question.

“I don't know! If I knew, I could stop it.”

“We don't have to do this, baby, don't force yourself.”

“Or maybe I do know. I know why but it's so silly!” Tailor's brow came down in annoyance and he looked over to the side, out the window.

“It's not silly, whatever it is.”

“It is. It's because the last time I fucked someone like this, I was still married and I thought everything was hunky bloody dory. That's pathetic,” his face was red, and Stylist's pulse quickened at the mention of his wife. Tailor had never gone into detail about how his marriage had ended, but Stylist knew that she had hurt him very deeply with her unfaithfulness.

“What are you scared of, history repeating itself? What happened with your wife happening again just 'cause you do this?” Stylist wasn't a therapist, he was kind of winging it, but he wanted to help.

“No… that wouldn't make sense. Logically I know that's stupid. Logically, I want to do this,” Tailor turned his head back, not looking Stylist in the eye but looking at him.

“Doesn't have to be logical to make you feel like shit.”

They were quiet for a while. Not that it mattered, but Stylist had lost his erection and so had Tailor.

“Maybe I'm… I don't know. Maybe that was the last good thing about my marriage and if I do this, it won't be unique anymore,” Tailor finally said.

“And why's that a bad thing?”

“Is it? I don't know. I guess it's not,” Tailor looked up at him, his eyes a little wider than normal.

“So this is okay, right? You can do this and nothing bad is gonna happen.”

“Yeah but…”

“Go on.”

“If I can fuck someone like this, and that's not just something I did with her… then what else about that relationship isn't unique? The way I can let someone completely fucking take over my life, my mind?”

“You mean like… Fall in love?” Stylist's lips curled up a little at the edges.

“I mean like give them the potential to fucking destroy me, rip out my soul,” Tailor was speaking through clenched teeth now.

“Yeah, love.”

“I don't– yeah.” Tailor shook his head, his eyes distant as they stared at the mattress.

“Richard,” Stylist whispered, making Tailor's mouth twitch. “I want you to forget about her for tonight, just think about me. Put all of your attention on me, every bit.”

“Self centred.”

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “I’m more important than her now.”

“That's not difficult to achieve,” Tailor muttered.

“So don't let her screw up our night,” Stylist wrapped his hand around the back of Tailor's neck, pulling him in gently to kiss him.

He laid back against the mattress, bringing Tailor with him, he reached for his trousers, unbuttoning them and reaching his hand inside, finding his cock and stroking him back to hardness. It took a little while, his mind was still obviously elsewhere, but soon he was moaning softly and pressing his hips forward. Hearing him and feeling him in his hand was enough to make Stylist's own cock grow again, and he let go of Tailor to push his trousers further down, they were discarded completely with some help. He held onto his ass and pulled him flush to him, Tailor naturally began to grind when their cocks touched, rubbing them together.

“I want you to fuck me,” Stylist broke the kiss and whispered in Tailor's ear, hearing him groan in response. “I don't care if it doesn't work out or it ends up not being your thing, I wanna try.”

“Fuck,” Tailor sighed. Moving and sitting up, kneeling between Stylist's legs again. His face was flushed and his perfectly styled pompadour was loosening up, pieces of hair falling forwards into his face.

Tailor plucked the bottle of lube he'd left on the arm of the futon sofa and dropped it beside him as he looked back down between Stylist's legs. He didn't give himself enough time to work himself up, he reached for the butt plug and gently rocked it back and forth for a moment, watching Stylist's cock twitch and hearing his shaky breath pick up. He then gently eased it out, watching his tight hole stretch around the widest point. Stylist moaned, seeming to subconsciously grip the toy, like he didn't want it removing. Tailor opened his mouth to tell him; don't worry, you won't be empty for long, or something equally as embarrassing. Luckily he caught his tongue in time.

The toy glistened with lube where he placed it down on the bed, and Tailor licked his lips as he covered his cock in a generous helping, jerking himself a little more than he needed to to distribute it.

“Are you ready?” He asked.

Stylist smiled up at him. “I am. Are you?”

Tailor paused, then nodded, scooting forwards so their hips were close, he held himself up with his hands either side of Stylist's shoulders. He looked down at him for a moment, seeing the patient warmth in his green eyes, and quickly averted his gaze. He took his cock in his hand, watching as he guided it to Stylist's opening; he moaned even at the sensation of the head of it pressing against him, and he hadn't even penetrated. It was a little tricky – he was tight! – but eventually he managed to get the head in and he gasped, his toes curling at the almost too hot, tight, glorious sensation.

Stylist bit his lip, humming quietly in satisfaction at his ass being stretched; he let Tailor have his moment but he was itching for more of it, deeper, he wanted to be filled up completely.

It'd been so long since Tailor had fucked someone he'd forgotten what it felt like. He remembered that it felt good, sometimes he found himself missing the way pussy felt, despite barely remembering it. Though, it wasn't worth the hassle, going out and getting some just to remind himself. But never mind that, all Tailor knew was that Stylist's ass felt incredible and he pushed himself deeper, indulging in the way his cock was squeezed and surrounded by delicious, slippery warmth.

“Jesus Christ…” he muttered, closing his eyes as he buried himself as deep as he could go. Stylist let out a little laugh that wasn't quite girly enough to be a giggle, but it was pretty close.

Tailor knew right from the start that he was in trouble. It felt too good, too intense, he was going to cum quickly, he just knew it. His cock was used to being stroked by a hand or sucked by a mouth, it didn't get an awful lot of intense stimulation, his ass was where the real action always happened. This was a huge step up from anything his body had grown accustomed to, he told himself there was no shame in it and rather than struggle with this information, he opened his eyes and looked directly at Stylist. He didn't like admitting to things, but since he'd been doing that more often lately, he couldn't deny how much easier it had made things for him.

“I'm afraid I don't think I'm going to last long,” he started, and Stylist only grinned. “Don't worry, there's a blow job in it for you.”

“Cum whenever you want, baby, don't hold back on my account. We can do this as many times as you like, you'll have plenty of pr-practice,” he replied in a low, suggestive tone. He didn't sound in the least bit disappointed, or like he was mocking him.

Tailor immediately felt more confident and pulled his hips back slowly. He tested the water with some slower pushes, getting used to the motion of it. He felt like a bloody virgin again, but he soon fell into a rhythm, it was like riding a bike. He moved his hands to the top of Stylist's thighs, holding onto him so he could drive himself deeper, quicker. Stylist sat up on his elbows, his breaths coming loud and fast as Tailor's cock struck his prostate.

This might have been a big deal for Tailor, but it was also a big deal for Stylist. He wouldn't deny that he had a special place in his heart for Tailor, he knew that he was a difficult man to get close to and he didn't like to push his luck, but he felt as though he was getting somewhere. Every time Tailor surprised him with a suggestion, or admitted something to him, or let him get away with something that he knew damn well would get other Ricks a scornful response… Tailor took up a little more space in his chest. He didn't live in fantasy land, though, he knew it was very unlikely that they'd end up anything more than what they were now. But that was the thing, Stylist found that he didn't mind. He was content to be whatever Tailor wanted him to be, if it meant he was someone of importance in his life.

“Fuck, fuck…” Tailor grunted, pounding into him quickly now, his jaw was clenched tightly and his hands were too. Stylist loved it, dropping back down against the futon and crying out loudly, shamelessly, letting Tailor know just how good he felt. His cock was laying against his stomach, drooling precum as his prostate was milked relentlessly. He didn't touch it, not wanting to distract himself from how Tailor felt inside him. He could cum from this alone, anyway, given enough time and encouragement.

He knew that it wasn't going to happen tonight though, when Tailor's face shifted into that loose, carefree, open mouthed expression of pure pleasure that Stylist always saw when he was about to orgasm.

“Cum inside me, baby. I know you're close. Just do it for me,” Stylist crooned, sliding his hands over his own body, letting Tailor watch him as he dragged his fingers through the precum on his stomach, smearing it before he played with his own nipples.

“Oh God. It feels so fucking good, I don't wanna cum but I'm–” Tailor cut himself off, his eyes scrunching shut and his brow mashing down. He let out a groan that sounded different to his usual orgasms, it was longer, louder, like he had less control over it. His thrusts became rougher and messier, Stylist felt things become wetter and if he hadn't guessed already, he knew for sure Tailor was cumming. Stylist moaned, gratified at the sight and sound of him, knowing he was the one being filled with cum for a change. He almost felt high.

Tailor made a sound that was almost like a sob and abruptly pulled out, his cock becoming unbearably sensitive very quickly. He was still dripping cum as he did, his body still reeling from waves of pleasure, it was the most intense orgasm he'd had in a long time. His breathing was extremely laboured and he needed more than just a minute to come back down to earth. Stylist was whispering to him, he couldn't hear what he was saying and he didn't ask him to repeat it, but he let him sit up and pepper his chest in kisses. His body was buzzing, the sensation of a tongue against his nipple had his spent cock jumping, pulling a jerky gasp from him.

“Bend over,” Tailor heard him that time, and grunted in confusion in response. “Bend over for me,” Stylist repeated, withdrawing his legs from either side of him and moving.

Tailor, still feeling malleable in the afterglow, moved onto all fours as he twisted around to present his ass to Stylist, who was sliding the butt plug back into himself. Tailor cursed under his breath, letting his head hang down between his shoulders, staring at the wet spot they'd left on the blanket. He felt something wet and hot nestling between his ass cheeks and he didn't need much imagination to know what it was. Stylist rutted against him, he wasn't fucking him, but sliding his cock between the cleft of his backside quickly and purposefully. Tailor guessed he wouldn't need to give him that blow job. That was nice, he leaned his chest down against the bed and let Stylist do what he needed to do, listening to his heavy breaths.

It surprised him how quickly it was all over, he felt like he'd only been fucking him for a minute or two before his own orgasm, he was expecting it to take awhile for Stylist to reach his own peak. He must've lasted longer than he thought, because Stylist only took about thirty seconds to finish messily over his ass. Any other time, Tailor would've been pissed about being used in such a way, and being ejaculated onto like an old sock or something. This time, though, he kind of liked it. Especially when Stylist muttered something complimentary about his ass, then bent down to lap away the cum that had dribbled between his cheeks.

“Fuck, yes,” Tailor sighed, his body going rigid as Stylist tongued his asshole, sending shock waves and tingles all the way down his cock. He'd have to be there for a while to get him hard again, but that wasn't the goal.

Tailor saw the butt plug being dropped onto the bed next to him again, this time it was streaked with cum – his cum – from being inside Stylist. He certainly wasn't as eager as him to use his tongue, however. He felt the blanket being used to wipe away the rest of the cum on his ass, then he moved, helping Stylist to pull the top, cum-stained blanket off of the bed and toss it on the floor along with the butt plug. He wasn't thrilled with the idea of leaving it there to fester, but he tried to push it out of his mind. He was knackered.

“I hope to God you liked that so we can do it again,” Stylist sighed as he laid down on his front, bending his knee and hiking his leg up so his upper body was turned a little. He peered back at Tailor where he was sitting cross-legged on the other end of the bed. Tailor glanced at him, letting his eyes trail down to the curve of his ass and where he could see his balls peeking out.

Tailor laid down next to him, on his back and staring through the glass roof. It was almost totally dark outside now.

“Did it look like I liked it?” He asked.

Stylist took a breath. He wanted to reach out and touch him, rest his head on his chest or something, but he didn't. “Yeah, it did.”

“So you needn't worry,” Tailor shrugged, something close to a smile on the edge of his mouth.

“Okay. Fuck me again tonight?”

It caught Tailor off guard and he snorted. How unflattering. “Again?”

“Yeah.”

“I don't know, let me rest.”

“Alright,” he said, scooting closer to Tailor and kissing his shoulder. Tailor looked at him from the corner of his eye. He felt like he should say something else, or Stylist should. He didn't know what, but it felt like there was something hanging in the air other than the smell of sex. Stylist felt it too.

“Richard, I think I lo-”

“Not that.” Tailor interrupted Stylist, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

“Huh?”

“If you're going to speak, say something else.”

Stylist sighed, kissing his shoulder again. So, not yet. He'd gone in too soon. That was okay.

“Richard?” Stylist started, Tailor hummed in acknowledgement, though there was a warning to the sound. “Do you mind me calling you Richard?”

After a pause, Tailor shook his head. “You can call me that. When we're alone.”

Stylist smiled and brushed his hand up and down Tailor's arm affectionately.

“Is there anything you'd like to be called?” Tailor asked, he'd never given it much thought. He never really used his name, but he wouldn't mind some sort of distinction from other Ricks.

“Daddy,” He said without a pause, and Tailor nearly picked up a pillow to smother him with. He rolled over onto his side, showing his back to him. Stylist laughed and scooted up behind him, using the opportunity to spoon him.

“Get off,” Tailor grumbled.

“You can call me what you want, I'm not picky,”

“‘Annoying Hairdresser’ is too much of a mouthful.”

“Last time I checked, you didn't mind having a mouthful of me,” Stylist said cheekily, sliding his hand down Tailor's front, playing with his groomed pubic hair. “Just keep calling me Rick, if you want any chance of me responding. Though, sweetie could work too. Or darling. I like the way you say that.”

Tailor grunted in response.

“I'm going to the bathroom, want me to get you a drink or something while I'm up?” Stylist pushed away from Tailor, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I'm okay, thank you,” Tailor murmured, feeling the mattress shift as he got up and left. Tailor immediately felt cold now that the sun had gone down and he didn't have Stylist's body heat.

He pretended that was why he wanted him to come back quickly.

#rick and morty #rick sanchez #rickcest #fanfiction #tailor rick #hairstylist rick #my oc #oc rick

[hoodoo12]

A Second Summons

Demon Rick is insidious. He was first brought to this plane here. This is becoming a series.

SFW, but minor language and some unsavory descriptions

⁂

There was never any flash of light or noise to herald its arrival. It was difficult to draw a breath for a moment, because the air tended to get a little displaced, but it was nothing that lasted long enough to be a concern.

The candle flames, like canaries in a coal mine, were your indicators of relative safety. When each of them grew again as oxygen returned, you took a breath too.

You’d called the same demon. Knowing its name made it less taxing to bring the ritual to the objective of summoning him, and less taxing was helpful right now.

It crouched in the middle of the circle, as it had the last time it was called to this earthly realm. On all fours, it lifted its blazing eyes to you and lifted its lip in a silent snarl as its twin tails gave the same rattlesnake warning you’d heard before.

“Again?” it growled.

Its opening gambit was a surprise. You’d have expected it to gloat and make some snide comment on how you couldn’t get enough, how you couldn’t stop thinking of it, how you needed it . . .

Maybe you were expecting stereotypical human male preening and posturing.

And truthfully, it wouldn’t have been wrong.

The beast shifted its position as if restless or uncomfortable. Your gaze skipped over it and you realized that it did not look well. Its ribs were prominent. Skin was stretched over those bones, as well its hipbones. Its cheeks were sunken. Many of its talons were broken or split; on several digits they were missing altogether. Some of its fingers looked broken too, bent into unnatural positions. When it moved again, either unnerved or becoming agitated by your silence and your stare, the flickering light caught cracks in its horns that hadn’t been present before.

You also noticed that the symbols branded into its hide on its upper arms and abdomen were crossed with thin weeping wounds that could only have come from a whip or other talons.

It looked ill and beaten. It was nothing like the confident, dangerous beast you’d met last time.

“What do you want from me?!” it shrieked, startling you.

When you remained silent, trying to organize your words in your head, it wailed and thrashed in its confines and prostrated itself before you on the scarred wooden floor.

“Look what you’ve done! Look what you’ve wrought!” it screamed at you.

With its head down, you were able to see that its back from shoulders to waist had also been marked with the same type of wounds that decorated its front. There were also larger, more wicked injuries here, looking as though they were made to eradicate the arcane symbols on its skin. Those were crusty as if healing, but the thinner ones still wept ichor, and you could just barely see movement in them. You guessed there were maggots in the festering wounds, eating him.

“You’ve done this to me! You’ve stripped me of my power! You’ve made me prey! You used me and then sent me away to be tortured!”

You would have laughed at the irony and hypocrisy of its words, if it wasn’t so pitiful and in so much pain.

It lifted its golden eyes to you. They held no tears, because demons could not cry.

“You brought this on yourself,” you finally replied.

The demon hissed, but it seemed more in agony than anger.

“You knew the conditions. I was clear, and you agreed to them. I required your tongue; you decided to fuck me. That was never anything that I voiced.”

“You liked it!” it spit, but there was more than a hint of whine in its tone. It curled into itself, a little.

“Yes,” you admitted quietly. Then, even more quietly, as if the words were difficult to bring from your throat. “That’s why I called you back.”

Maybe you hadn’t been physically beaten, but since the night you’d summoned him, you’d been mildly nauseous and slept fitfully. Sunlight seemed dimmer, flatter, making every day like looking through a hazy filter. The nights were so black it was like a solid mass. Food had no flavor. Other people became chattering monkeys and you could barely stand to be near their insipid trivialities. There was a dull, constant ache in your lower belly, and you struggled against your baser instincts.

So you meticulously re-drew the circle and the correct symbols on your ritual floor. You’d completed it carefully, thoroughly, and didn’t hesitate to use the bone blade to slice open your forearm again, to drip your own blood into the circle, just like before.

As you did, that ache in your belly migrated downward, to your groin, where it was a combination of sweet expectation, and phantom pain.

The Demon Rick you’d laid with had been stripped of its power, like you’d predicted. The curse it voiced to you--that you’d never be satisfied with another--was true as well. It haunted your splintered dreams.

Something deep inside you compelled you to call him back. It was that steady, relentless urge that had you re-create the ritual. So here you were now, face to face with it again.

The beast before you stilled as it processed your statement. A new expression, one that bordered wonder, eased the lines on its face.

“You liked it,” it repeated, in a different tone. Marvel.

“Yes,” you agreed again.

The demon rolled its forked tongue in its mouth as it rolled this information in its mind. Finally, hesitantly, it said,

“I . . . I liked it too. When the Hellfiends whipped me, when they maimed me, when they set  biting worms on me to burrow into my flesh, when they repeatedly castrated me and fed me my genitals, when they skinned me and flayed my muscles . . . when they took their pleasure in the torture and in my body, there was always one hidden spot in my mind they could not reach.”

It paused, and dropped its voice to finish in a whisper, like it was shamed, “They couldn’t reach the thought of you. The thought of you . . .”

Its voice faded out without completing its sentence.

Stunned, you couldn’t answer.

Lifting its head again to look directly into your eyes, it continued. “They tried to scourge you from me. They could not.”

There was such pain. You could see it physically on the demon you’d summoned. You knew it suffered mentally, because you did too. You’d used it, it used you, and now you were both tainted, to use its word. It with the essence of your humanity; you with the quiddity of its demonic nature.

You were both outcasts now.

In your silence, it curled into a ball on the wooden floor. Its tails wrapped around itself, feline-like. It looked exhausted and pathetic.

You knew better than to be taken by a ruse. It was still dangerous, it would still revel in dragging you back to the nether region that it resided. It would trade you to its Masters to be free of the torture they’d dealt it, and gleefully laugh and join in tormenting you--

--wouldn’t it?

It admitted it enjoyed what you’d experienced together. It admitted it couldn’t renounce you. It’d been made impotent by the intimate contact it had with you; its power had been peeled away by beings more evil than it because it had abased itself taking mutual pleasure with you.

You shifted a little, in your position outside the circle.

That snapped its attention back to you.

“Don’t send me back!” it pleaded, as it had previously. This time there was a distraught quality to its deep voice. “Please, please, I beg you! Look--look! I am on my knees before you, do not send me away--”

It went beyond simply kneeling before you. It threw itself down, groveling, its hands caught behind its lower back to demonstrate there was no threat from them, its belly exposed, its legs spread. Its head tipped so far back that it had to be painful, offering you access to its throat.  It showcased vulnerability by presenting you each tender spot on its wounded body.

Continually stunned by this turn of events, you thought quickly. It could be a trick, but it was a risky one; the bone knife you’d used to open a vein could easily be used against it. You hurt, but it suffered. It suffered so much at the hands of its Masters that it was willing to die here, on the cold earthly realm, than be sent back to them.

“Rick,” you finally said, making your decision.

It cringed, but stayed exposed.

“Recite these words,” you ordered.

Although it had no clue what it may be repeating or what effect it may have, it meekly copied what you said. It didn’t take long for it to recognize what the ritual meant, however, and as it did its voice grew stronger and it spoke more clearly. It remained in the awkward position it contorted itself into while it obeyed, however.

When the moment came to provide blood, it did not hesitate. It further slashed open its abused chest, and collected the fresh ichor into the palm of its hand to smear over the drips you’d made inside the circle. You also directed it into drawing new sigils in specific spots on the floor.

By the time it was done, its strength had drained again. It looked weaker than before.

You took a deep breath. This was the moment of no return. Lifting your arm, holding your palm up but not crossing the chalk containment you’d created, you invited it to take your hand.

Its eyes flashed. In relief? In victory? You’d find out soon enough.

The beast lunged forward. You were expecting that, and held your ground. It hesitated for a split second as it reached the chalk, obviously expecting a barrier, but you hadn’t tricked it. Its hand cleared the circle and grabbed yours.

It looked astonished. The talons on its feet scrabbled for purchase on the floor to launch itself forward. It did, knocking you backward in its newly minted desire to break free of its confinement, but it collapsed, weak as a kitten as soon it left the small area you’d called it into.

You caught it and held it closely, even as the weight of it pressed you to the floor.

It opened its jaws and took you by the neck; you stiffened involuntarily because even if it were dying now, as its last act it seemed determined to kill you too.

But the sharpened teeth pressed against your skin never met. It held you like that, for a moment, as if to prove it could tear out your throat, then let go. Its tongue caressed away the imprint its teeth left on you. It whimpered something you couldn’t recognize as words, although you inferred their meaning: It was grateful.

It was hot and heavy, laying atop you. You were trapped between it and the floor, and you felt safe.

#fan fic #sfw #Rick Sanchez #Demon Rick #Rick/reader #a girl and her demon

[wikipedyke]

that time i did acid at a bassnectar show in atlantic city in april 2017

We took our tabs at 6:45ish on the boardwalk in front of the Guy Fieri restaurant, with its speakers blaring about “mac and cheese and an ice cold beer right now.” Walking up to convention center, a straight shot from the beach, we ran into a series of other bassheads. As we approached, a woman pushing a stroller sauntered in the opposite direction of the Convention Center, laughing and hollering, “they takin’ off people shoes. Y’all betta tuck that shit!” A few people turned around. It was 7:30ish when we got up to the doors. Security was packed. Too many people, super early in the night, so much drugs. The security staff had increased exponentially since last night. All the girls got through no problem, but Joey had the bag and had to be searched. Six excruciating minutes later, our dab pen was confiscated but at least Joey still got to come inside, with our joints still hidden in the backpack rain cover. I thumbed through my Kandi rosary as I came up. After sitting under some purple lights for a bit, we decided to wait out our come up outside in the smoking section. The sun was just about finished setting and a gradient of oranges, teals, blues, and navies appeared as night faded in. We sucked down cigarettes and looked around at all the ridiculous outfits of the people in front of us. Just before the peak hit we made our way inside, silly putty and bubbles in hand. CASPA was playing when we got settled again. We made our home in the northeastern corner of the right hand jumbotron. A couple standing in front of us let us play with their light stick and introduced themselves as “Vinny and Molly from the west coast”. Vinny had the most contented look on his face all night and Molly looked like drugs. The stick shone bright in yellows, reds, and oranges, a fire that burned white when you shook it. Behind Joey stood a dynamic duo, a large black man with a Bear fur spirit hood and a long haired white dude with a bionic arm. At one point in the night, I watched The Bear roll a blunt on a tiny rolling tray while dancing and jammin’ the fuck out, never missing a beat. Later in the night, The Bear handed us a blunt and told us to “pass that shit around,” rubbing our faces lovingly with his bear fur and making wookie noises. By the time Bassnectar came on, the crowd was Fucked Up. As the audience raged and the drugs flowed, so did the music. The putrid smell of cigarettes, sweat, and ass swirled around us while visions of LEDs and strobes and animation danced in our heads. The floor was slippery with spilt french fries and alcohol. I held myself up with The Stick. At one point I took down my hair and shook that shit out as hard as I could in my best Lorin homage. Thoughts raced through my mind like “they don’t want us to do this stuff, and that’s why we gotta!” and “this is my opportunity to let it all out.” We hollered and yelled, kicked and punched at the air, releasing as much tension as possible into the abyss of pumping bass and blinking lights. When the sensory overload became too strong, Rachel, Becca, and I took a moment to escape the pit. We sought out fresh air in the smoking section but it was dirty and scary and brown, like a bottle filled with used cigarettes and tar-infused water, like CRANK. We scurried back inside and took refuge in The Haven, a day care center full of fuchsia and orange Air Couches. An ambassador came over to check on us and offer us water as other festival goers recovered all around us. Do we look THAT fucked up? I asked myself. Before we could get permanently trapped there, we moved back towards the music room and sat against the back wall. A grown man with a long ponytail danced in front of us dressed as a fairy, his tulle cape floating around him and his antennae headband bounced freely as he bopped around. It was all too much when he flounced over to his friends, also bearing antennae and platform shoes. Finally we worked up the nerve to return to our friends, who were still deep in the thick of it. I remember wondering if people we dressed like that because this was an expression of their true inner self or because that’s how they thought they should dress. We passed another Fairy, a Cow, and a few Unicorns as we trekked across the concrete floor. Bassnectar was amazing from start to finish. “Yo, I’ve never been to a party like this,” he shouted into the mic, met by our cheers. After two encores, the convention center’s fluorescent lights finally came on. The whole crowd looked around with bewilderment. “What do we do now?” was on everyone’s faces. It seemed no one had a plan for escaping the convention center, not us and not anyone else. We wandered around looking for the exits. “OH GOD YES!! The door!” yelled a dude behind us. We shuffled aimlessly towards what we hoped were the stairs, pushing our way forward until a Basshead in front of us cried, “You’ve gone too far, turn back!!” It seemed we were all shuffling toward another wall. By the time we turned around and made it to the stairs, so had everyone else from the room. In a moment of terror, Joey and Rachel got separated from us. We couldn’t tell where they were or if they were together. Huddling around a tall pole, we hugged and cheered when we were reunited. Hollers and whoops rang out through the lobby as we finally crossed the threshold of the front door with a mild sense of “we’re okay! We’re out!”. Just a sea of fucked up people greeted us, spilling out over the sidewalk and swarming into the streets. “I’m walkin’ here!” I shouted as cabs moved toward us with no regard. A nearby dude filled in the rest of the monologue from the Rick and Morty episode for us, laughing and waving. We moved toward the beach with the rest of the crowd, unable to do much of anything else. “There’s no charge left, Morty! How are we gonna get home?” asked a Rick of the crowd, brandishing his device. His costume was on point, as was his impression. Ben, Jamie, and Tim appeared beside us at a crosswalk, sucking down nitrous balloons and lookin’ fucked up. “You want some? This is the hard level,” Tim said, offering a baloon to Rachel. She turned him down meekly and we scurried away as quickly as we could. At the next intersection, cars streamed past through the green light as we waited for our turn. “Cars don’t give a fuck about you,” Becca reminded us as an ambulance screamed by. A red jeep with eight or so passengers pulled up stopped in the middle of the intersection, despite the green light. They all laughed and pulled out their phones to take pictures of us, thousands of Bassheads spilling out everywhere and dressed all crazy. “Fuck you,” we shouted back, ensuring that we’d end up on someone’s Snapstory. Finally on the boardwalk, we tried to find a place to chill, away from the sober people and the fucked up people alike. Becca, Ty, Rachel and I were exhausted and mildly afraid, ready to escape to the safety of our hotel. Joey and Alyssa played in the sand while we formulated plan. My phone turned into a creature with a life of its own, difficult to look at and even harder to navigate. I wasn’t sure if the phone was broken or I was. We were all distracted and addled. At one point we all lay down on a concrete block, trying to decide if we should stay out in the Casino city or go home. “This is why we need to just go home,” someone called, before we could get trapped there. After several failed attempts to gather ourselves, we finally got Lyft to work. Our driver called to ask our location and if our destination was in Atlantic City. “Yes,” I knowingly lied as I sent him directions to the Red Roof Inn in Absecon, just outside the city limits. “At least we didn’t ask to go to Brooklyn,” I hissed to Becca with the phone still on. When we all finally piled in the car, all I wanted was to get out. I was so afraid he would realize we’d lied or see just how fucked up we were and boot us out as we drove through the projects.

At a stoplight, a woman beside us answered a cell phone. “You call Josh’s phone?” she asked. “I sure hope so,” responded Alyssa through the open window. The woman shot back a death glare, the light staying red for eternity. Everyone burst into laughter, even the driver. At long last the light turned and we sped off. We drove over the bridges and through the wetlands. “It’s probably not very healthy but it’s happy to be here,” chimed Alyssa. Driving through the cool night air, some of the burning intensity of trip waned. Pulling up to the hotel, a wave of relief washed through me. Inside, a Basshead was crawling on the furniture and another lit some incense on the hotel counter. Unaffected, we climbed into the elevator. Back in our rooms, we shed our sweat soaked clothes. Ice-cold Gatorade soothed our throats, sore from screaming and cheering and smoking. We gathered our weed and coloring supplies and met up in the other room. We lay in piles on the beds, scribbling in our coloring books and talking about everything. How dirty our rooms were, how dirty that set was, how fucked up everyone was. Eventually we decided it was time for weed, so we grabbed a joint and went down out back. In the elevator, a handful of other bassheads headed downstairs to do the same. “Where is that music coming from?” I asked looking around. We all laughed as one of them held up a speaker. No longer were Bassheads climbing all over the lobby, but a dude with long hair and a psychedelic tee shirt sat behind the front desk. Outside we chatted with the rotating cast of characters who came down to let off some steam. A squirrely dude sat down with a full rig and torch set up, telling us how he got it all inside and dabbed right in front of the staff. “I’m not really sure what this is,” he admitted, “if it’s CBD or THC.” We all abstained, except of course Joe. Squirrely Dude was buggin us out. Matt the Ketamine Kid came down to smoke. A girl stuck her head out the window of her room. “Y’all got any liquor?” We all just stared back incredulously and mumbled “no.” Matt asked if I could hold his cigarette while he ran upstairs. When he came back he had a girl in tow and a sweatshirt on. I handed him back his cigarette, a surprise that he discovered at least two more times. “Y’all have anything to drink that isn’t sugar?” he asked, wanting to keep his roll going. We all declined. Becca led the group in returning to our room, comforted by the weed and ready to lie down again. Back in our room we decided we could take a few dabs, anything to turn down the effects of the acid still raging in our minds. I must not have looked at the size of mine carefully. I dabbed myself out and stood up coughing, dibadubed, and scrubadubbed over to Becca, shuffling my small feet as I went in for a snuggle. Becca took Rachel and I back to our room, where we used the last of our energy to gather our belongings so we wouldn’t have to pack when we woke up to go home in a few hours. Rainbows clouded my vision as I tried to figure out what was happening. Big eyes stared back at me from the mirror while I took off my makeup and I quickly looked away. We turned on the TV to find a honey-baked ham being sliced. Cackling, we watched that infomercial and then two more. We clicked through the channels, passing ads for “Metal Garden Hoses” and late night political talk shows. We finally settled on the weather channel, it’s Doppler radar maps soothing with their repetitive motion, simple colors, and calming music. When the reports of Midwestern flooding and tornadoes became too much, we turned to a channel labeled “NO SERVICE” and watched the black screen fuzz back and forth. Finally, we turned off the TV and fell asleep as the sun rose, turning the sky over Atlantic City a pale pinky blue.

#acid #lsd #bassnectar #atlantic city #basslantic #drugs #fucked up #weed #joints #dabs #ketamine #molly #edm #original content #my writing #this is one of the things im most proud of writing

[rickstexaschick]

Rick’s Texas Chick: Chapter 18

Originally posted on AO3 at:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15183545/chapters/35513163

They thundered down the two lane road for several miles before he slowed and turned into a small drive surrounded on either side by tall trees.  Soon a wood frame house appeared, standing in the middle of what looked like a couple of acres.  A larger metal building stood further back on the property.  Even in the waning moonlight she could make out carcasses of motorcycles and parts scattered in the large yard between the house and what was probably a motorcycle workshop.  Dogs barked out in greeting from the darkness and came up to meet them as they rolled to a stop.  Harley cut the engine and parked the bike on its stand, then helped her off.  The dogs immediately began sniffing her over.

He ruffled their heads affectionately.  “Easy, boys.  Don’t go any- anywhere I plan to go.”  She giggled, patting the dogs.  He turned to her and took her hand.  “Come on, doll, let’s get you inside and warmed up.”  He winked at her and she followed him up the porch steps.  He opened the screen door and propped it open with his hip, then reached and turned the unlocked knob on the door and pushed it open, standing aside so she could go in first.

A low light shone from a lamp on a side table next to a comfortably saggy couch; a light throw blanket was folded and draped across its back.  A recliner sat at an angle to the couch, sharing the table and lamp with it.  A tv crouched in the corner.  On the opposite wall sat a large fireplace with a pile of kindling and crumpled up newspaper arranged inside it, waiting to be lit.  A small stack of freshly split logs stood beside it on the floor.  A large woven rug was on the floor in front of the fireplace.  She could imagine some fun evenings on that rug with him, lying together in front of a warm fire.

As if he read her mind, he closed the front door, leaving her beside it, and immediately went and knelt before the fireplace.  He rearranged some of the kindling, then taking a match from a large box on the mantle he struck it off the brick and reached in and set the newspaper alight.  The room immediately lit up with the soft glow of the flames and the silence was filled with the comforting sound of the fire licking away at the wood as the sap inside it began to pop and hiss.  Some smoke escaped the chimney and imbued the room with its subtle smell, reminiscent of cool Autumn nights and happier times from her childhood.

“Hmmmmm,” she said softly, closing her eyes, not realizing she’d made any sound.

He turned to her and grinned ruefully.  “House is old, doesn’t have a furnace.  Gotta-- have to heat it the old-fashioned way.”

“It’s wonderful,” she smiled back at him.

“Doll, why don’t you go check out the drinks situation in the kitchen.  Fix something for yourself and the same for me.”

Obediently she went into the kitchen, curious to see the rest of his house.  So far it was comfortably shabby chic; obviously he was a bachelor, but not a slob.

The kitchen was old, but it was clean and had updated appliances.  A light shone down from an alcove over the sink.  A worn kitchen table with four mismatched wooden chairs sat in a nearby nook, the old wood was scrubbed clean and bore the marks of years of use. She took off his jacket and hung it over a chair.  An old-fashioned wooden icebox sat along a wall with an assortment of drinks glasses on top.  Curious, she popped open a door and found a variety of alcohol inside.  She selected a cognac and poured some into two snifters, then brought them and the bottle back out to the den.

The lamp was turned off, but the room was well-lit by the fire and already warming up.  Harley stood up from placing another log in the fireplace and walked to her.  “Perfect.  Just what the doctor ordered for warming up on a cold night.”

“I’m a nurse practitioner,” she said in a teasing tone, her eyes glinting with good-humor as she tipped her snifter to clink lightly against his in a toast.  “Cheers.”  She took a sip, enjoying the smooth flavor as it burned its way down her throat.

“I know, Rick told me.  Speaking of,” he nodded over to the side table, “found those on the bed.”

She turned and inhaled sharply when she saw her purse and cell phone.  Obviously her Rick had brought them here.  Had he been looking for her?  Oh, Christ…  Looking up, her eyes darted around the room, as if she expected to see him step out from the shadows.  All her tipsiness from the alcohol and pleasant feelings from the bike ride drained away as fast as the color from her skin.

Harley went over and sat down in the middle of the couch, watching her quietly as her frantic thoughts played out on her face.

Shaking, she picked up her cell phone and saw that there was a text message waiting for her.  Showing more bravery than she felt, she opened it and read it.

“Babe. I told Harley to take you out and show you a good time.  Looks like he succeeded.  See you back home.  R.”  Sighing audibly with obvious relief, she put her phone back on the table.

“Come here, doll,” Harley said softly.  “I told you--said it’d be all right.”  Nevertheless, he’d understood that she wasn’t going to believe him, or at least be all right about in her own mind, until she saw for herself.  Years living with an abusive husband will do that to you.

He held his left hand out to her in invitation and she came and took it and sat down next to him, still shaking.  She pulled off her boots and curled her legs up underneath her, then leaned back into the crook of his arm.  He could feel her racing heart beat.  Gently, he snuggled her up to him more closely, lightly tracing his fingers up and down her arm.  Lifting his booted right foot, he casually placed it on the worn coffee table, stretching the leg out with tired ease and exhaling in a low, contented manner.  He took a sip of cognac then closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the couch, continuing the slow play of his fingertips along her arm.

She sipped her brandy and watched the fire quietly, resting her head against his chest.  His heartbeat was slow and soothing.  The brandy worked its magic, calming and warming her up inside, and the touch of his hand was sensual, stirring.  The fire crackled and popped, sending sparks shooting up into the chimney.  The mood in the room was relaxed, unpressured, and time stretched out.

Eventually, she broke the silence.  “You know,” she began, speaking quietly but with a mildly teasing tone to her voice, “if you fall asleep on me, it would be a great waste of a good motorcycle ride.”

He snorted, still with his eyes closed and his head resting against the back of the couch.  Inhaling deeply, he started laughing in a low chuckle.  “Aw, doll, that’s…that’s classic.”  Still laughing, he opened his eyes and sat up a bit.  He looked down at her and grinned, then leaned in to give her a deep kiss.  Pulling away slightly, he looked at her, his eyes smoldering with lust.  “And you’re right, we don’t want to waste the good work done by that ride, now, do we?” He whispered.

He finished off his cognac and hid a smile when he saw that she’d already finished hers.  He placed both glasses on the coffee table, then turned and took her in his arms.

“You're beautiful, doll.  When I first saw you -- saw you tonight, the first thing I thought was how I wanted to take you for a spin that would end up with us back here making love down on that rug in front of a roaring fire.”  He stared into her eyes, holding her with his piercing blue gaze.  He enjoyed watching the reaction he caused in her.  Her breathing had quickened, causing her breasts to heave slightly, and her pupils were dilated with desire.  She licked her lips lightly as a small shudder of anticipation ran through her.

He leaned in and kissed her softly, taking his time and slowly warming her back up.  He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand and exhaled softly onto her mouth before gently pressing his lips against hers.  He was in no rush.  His kisses were infinitely slow and lingering, his lips soft and undemanding.  Restless, she moved against him, threading her fingers into his hair, and whimpering with need.  She ran a hand across his chest, then down his abdomen to his crotch.  Even restrained by the heavy material, she could tell that his cock was huge and she traced her fingers over his jeans and cupped him.  He groaned into her mouth, slightly pulling away and placed one large hand gently over hers and stayed her movements.

“I want you, doll, want to make love to you all night,” he whispered against her lips, his voice rough and low. “I need-- need to go slow for you.  Make you ready for me…  Be patient, honey…”  She moaned in response, whether with need or disappointment she didn’t know.  

Softly, he shushed her, barely pulling away from her mouth so that his breath would play against her lips, then slowly he began to kiss her again.  He held her face with one large hand, his thumb softly stroking her cheek.  His other hand cupped one breast, then slipped inside her blouse and bra to roll and pinch her nipple between two fingers.  She whimpered against his mouth and he captured the sound.  Still kneading her breast, he gently pressed his tongue inside her mouth, running it lightly against hers, then teased her lips with the tip.  Whispering her name, telling her how beautiful she was, how much he wanted her...  He trailed his lips softly down her neck and nuzzled the base of her throat.  He nipped and kissed her lightly, enjoying her response as she shifted against him, her breaths coming in deep sighs.  The feel of the rough, unshaven skin of his face sent shivers up and down her spine.

He unbuttoned her blouse and she eagerly took it off, followed by her bra.  Her movements became rushed, urgent.  She pulled his shirt off, suddenly hungry for more of him.  She straddled him, kissing him, and pressed herself against him, arching her back and grinding down onto him.  He chuckled against her throat, then took one of her nipples in his mouth, sucking gently, then with more force.  It was like a lightening bolt through her body and she gasped, stopping her frantic movements and stilled against his mouth, moaning.  She sagged into him, lost in the sensation of his mouth on her breast.

He held her round ass in his hands, slowly caressing her cheeks.  His lips lingered on her sweet rack.  He suckled and kissed on first one breast, then the other, slowly trailing his mouth back and forth across her skin.  Whispering softly, he reached down and stroked his fingers over the crotch of her jeans, rubbing the hard seam up against her to roll it across her sensitive nub.  He nipped her lightly with his teeth, pulling and sucking her nipples harder.  Her sighs became cries of pleasure-pain.

“Oh, Rick, please, I want you!  Please…” She squirmed against him, whimpering, pleading.

He laughed.  “Let’s relocate, ok doll?”  He cupped her ass in his hands, still kissing her deeply, then stood up from the couch and carried her around to the floor and set her down. She hurriedly undid her jeans and he pulled them down along with her panties.  She stepped out of them and kicked them away while simultaneously reaching out to undo his jeans, her fingers fumbling in her haste.

“I got this, honey,” he laughed.  He undid the button and zipper and she pulled his jeans down.  A small gasp escaped her when she saw how big he was.

”It’ll be under control, honey,” he whispered.  “I won’t hurt you.”  He reached out and caressed her cheek, then brought her hand up to hold him.  She stroked him up and down, then bent and took him in her mouth, softly sucking.  His hips bucked at the unexpected action, and he hissed and gently stopped her.  Things weren’t going to be in control for long if she continued that.

He motioned for her to lie down on the floor and he joined her.  He took her in his arms again, kissing her deeply, probing her mouth with his tongue.  He reached down between her legs to her swollen lips.  She was soaking wet, throbbing, and he wanted to climb on top of her and fuck her hard.  Instead he kissed and nuzzled her breasts while lightly stroking her clit between his thumb and forefinger.  He pressed his palm against her and slipped his remaining fingers up inside her.  Without any warning she came, pushing into him and crying out.  He felt a gush of wetness as she spasmed around his hand.

“Ri-i-i-ck..!”  Her voiced trailed off into whimpers and she pumped her hips into his hand.  He slowly stroked her through her orgasm, wringing every last bit of it out of her.

“Good doll, that’s the way, good girl.  You’re so wet... I can’t wait any—Hold on, honey.”  He coated himself with her juices, sliding his hand up and down his throbbing cock.  He positioned himself between her legs and pulled her to him so that he was pressed against her opening. Gritting his teeth in an effort to go slowly, he gradually pushed inside her.  Her walls were tight, hot, and she moaned as he gently moved in and out of her, going deeper each time until he completely filled her and was balls deep inside.  She cried out in pain and tensed underneath him.  He kissed her, spoke softly, waiting so she could adjust.  He knew he was bigger than her Rick.  

“Oh God, you’re so tight, doll.  So wet and hot... You feel so good, honey...”  His words trailed off as he breathed deeply, struggling for control.  Waiting, kissing her mouth, trailing his lips down her throat to her breasts, then sucking her nipples.  She sighed and clinched around him slightly, that was his signal.  Gently, he began to move inside her, stroking in a slow, steady rhythm.  Her moans filled his ears, climbing into cries of pleasure as her walls spasmed and she came in a white hot orgasm that seemed to go on forever.  He stroked through her release, relishing the feel of her hot walls clinching him.  He lifted her hips and pulled her to him, his fingers digging bruises into her skin as he held her tight.  She wrapped her legs around his waist and cried out as he increased his rhythm until he was driving into her with deep thrusts.  His breathing came in harsh grunts, punctuating his movements.  Her cries became one long, keening wail and she arched beneath him, thrashing her head from side to side, lost in the intensity of the feelings building inside her.  They came together, crying out each other’s name.

Still deep inside her, he sat back on his heels lifting her up against him and held her close while he gently lifted her up and down on him as he finished.  She clung to him and whimpered, too sensitive to take anymore of him.  He held her tight as their breathing slowed, then he laid them down together on the rug in front of the fire.

A log shifted in the fireplace, sending a shower of sparks spinning up into the chimney and out into the night.  

tbc

#Rick and Morty #Rick Sanchez #Rick/Reader #Harley Rick #Rickdicted #Rick's Texas Chick

[swankymikehanlon-blog]

The Losers: Always and Forever

Chapter One  Chapter Two(Part One)  Chapter Two(Part Two)

7 teenagers, of different high school backgrounds, would rather die than become a breakfast club 2.0. At least, that was the thought initially.

Words: 37,693

Warnings: None

Chapter 3: I Still Believe

Tuesday, September 26, 10:23 a.m

“STANLEY MOTHERFUCKING URIS!” 

Stan’s head banged the desk above him and small muffled groan fell from his lips. Richie Tozier strolled into the vacant classroom, boots clanking along the worn down marble. Stan got out from under the desk, rubbing his temple as he glared at Richie. 

“So, what were you doing under the table, giving ghost head?” Richie jumped up on the desk in front of Stan, randomly pulling out an apple from the chest pocket of his jacket and taking an obnoxiously loud bite. His feet kicked the air, closely to Stan’s face in a teasing manner.

“No, I was looking for something.” Stan got up from the floor, tucking the chair back in it’s place. Richie took another bite as Stan leaned against the opposite table.

“So I’m guessing this is our new place since we can’t continue our rituals behind the school.” Richie propelled himself off the desk as he hurled the apple into the black trashcan the sat next to the open door. He strolled to the whiteboard, picking up a blue marker and began to write more than inappropriate things on the board. 

Stan snorted as he stood next to Richie. His fingers draped over the metal bar which held more markers. Since the door was open, the thought of any authority walking in paranoid the shit out of Stan.

“Hey Stan, look it’s your dick!” Stan’s attention was drawn towards the doodle of a small limp ‘Rick and Morty’ pickle. Stan rolled his eyes as he rubbed his palm over the drawing, smudging it completely.

“My masterpiece.” Richie’s shoulders shrugged, dramatically, as Stan took the marker and drew the sketch of an odd...duck...with glassess?

“If that’s supposed to be me, I’m not even mad about it.” Stan smiled as he gave the duck a leather jacket.

“So are you gonna wear glasses from now on or are you just getting paid to look the opposite of cool?” Richie mocked a shocked expression and released a surprised scoff. Stan stepped back from his masterpiece and admired it, complimenting himself on the detail he put into the jacket, placing the pins of Richie’s jacket into their respective places.

“Everyday, I get prouder and prouder of you, my prodigy.” Richie put his hand in the air and waited for a high five that would come after a few minutes of awkward silence. They both sat there, reading the amount of profanity that was written on the board, courtesy of Richie’s creative hand. 

“I got detention again.” Stan’s face palm echoed through the classroom and made Richie scrunch his face.

Tuesday, September 26, 10:30 a.m

Ben had a hop in his step, a bright glow on his cheeks as he walked down the mildly crowded hallway. There wasn’t a particular pinpoint of his sudden burst of happiness but it seemed to spread to everyone as he greeted them with a toothy grin. His face was beaming with something Derry High, Derry in general, hadn’t seen in a while. True happiness. As he walked past the gym he heard a faint whistle and soft rumbles of bodies whacking the floor. Ben stopped, curiosity and concern molding his facial features as he looked through the door window. 

Inside the gym there was a group of boys and the P.E teacher. Two boys were fighting each other on a thick mat, as the others watched with studying eyes. Ben absentmindedly opened the gym door and walked in, now a few feet away from the commotion. He only realized he was in the gym when Mr. DeVou snapped his fingers.

“Ben, what are you doing here?” Ben swallowed the lump in his throat shock and confusion coating his face. The rest of the boys looked at him weirdly and Ben felt a blush rise over his cheeks. 

“Oh, um, I-I’m sorry, I-I don’t-”

“Do you wanna try out?” Ben looked at Mr. DeVou with even more confusion. He didn’t even know what he was doing here, let alone something like ‘try out’. 

“Try out what? Sir...” Ben pressed his fingers into the straps of his backpack, anxiety creeping up his spine. He tried not to notice the whispers coming from the boys standing behind Mr. DeVou but the way they looked at each other and at him with apparent discuss made him want to jump out a window.

“Well, this is Wrestling tryout’s son, you wanna try?” Ben opened his mouth in an an ‘O’ shape as he puzzled the pieces together. The mat plus two boys fighting each other made sense. But Ben grew hot in the open gym and excused himself, leaving a snickering group of boys and a disappointing Mr. DeVou. Ben came out of the gym with a grim face. He came into school happy, glad to be there, now all he wanted to was cry in his bed. 

He walked to the bathroom where the insecurities got the best of him. His face was beet root red, tears streaming down the sides of his face. He didn’t know why he was so emotional. Like his happiness, he couldn’t quite pinpoint the origin. Maybe it was the whispers, the looks, the secret pointing at the gut the spilled over the khaki shorts he wore. Maybe it was all three, and maybe the main reason was because he was just Ben. Ben Hanscom, the fat-ass that roams the halls looking for love like the Hunch-Back of Notre-Dam. He hated the names and taunts that had been giving to him. He hated that he agreed with them even more. 

Tuesday, September 26, 11:00 a.m

 Mike picked at his lunch, ham sandwich looking ever so appetizing. His friends laughed at some stupid joke someone had told. They all sat at one table, even though their where only six chairs, some sacrificed their legs and ate standing up. Mike had never had to sand up, he’d kill them if they made him.  After all, he is their captain, and everything he says, they do. But lately, Mike wasn’t feeling his whole roll as the self-entitled jock that everyone thought he was.

“Mikey, you haven’t spoke one word today, you doing alright?” Kenny, a guy straight out of ‘Grease’ the movie said through a mouthful of overly chewed food. Mike rolled his eyes as Kenny giggled, spewing a few chucks of mystery meat on the table.

“Gross, Kenny.” 

“Anyway, Mike, you sure you okay, I mean you barely touched your food.” Chris nudged Mike’s leg with his own as he pointed to the stale tray of sopposedly edible food.

“I never eat the ham sandwiches, and I’m a vegan, remember.” Mike flicked a piece of ham at Kenny’s face but it was deflected by his hand. His friends dismissed the topic as they started talking about Friday’s game. They were going to go up against a school called Hawkins High, a high school that wasn’t even in their district. Mike heard they were good, but not as good as his team.

“We’re totally gonna pawn their asses!” Kenny managed to scruff even more food down as he fist pumped the table. Hoots and hollers erupted from the rowdy football players as they continued to eat. Mike drifted out from the conversation, cafeteria tray pushed away completely as his looked over his healing fist. 

They were purple and blue, discoloration around the outlines of his knuckles and did in fact hurt like a bitch. He had to be delicate with his hands for however long, which was difficult since football required your hands for everything. As he toyed felt the mismatching colors Eddie walked into the cafeteria with a metal lunch box in hand. His small footsteps would sound like pin drops if the room was silent, but for now they were just one of the many sounds of lunch B.

He passed by Mike’s table, heart beat picking up Mike watched him. It felt like forever when he got to the empty table. Sure enough his face was red, hands definitely a little clammy. Even though Bill rarely talked all Eddie wanted was for Bill to be sitting right in front of him, engaging in the comfortable silence of eating lunch.

Eddie opened his lunch box, taking out a container filled with fruit and opened it, odor of mandarins filling the air and wafting into his nose. He hadn’t notice that someone had finally sat in front of him, watching him eat the baby oranges with content. 

“Hey Eds.” 

Eddie chocked on one mandarin, citrus hitting the back of his throat and burning. Eddie slammed his fork down, startling himself and Mike in the process. Mike reached over to pat Eddie’s shoulder but Eddie leaned back, almost falling over the stool that he sat on.

“Mi-MIKE! H-HI!” Eddie’s voice was unnecessarily loud and high which made Mike chuckle. Eddie felt tears gather in his eyes, due to the burning sensation of his throat and because he just choked on a fucking mandarin in front of Mike Hanlon. Mike waited moments, hands plunged in the pockets of his varsity jacket, smile plastered on his attractive features.

“I have a question, If that’s fine with you...” Rather than ask what the whole ordeal that just occurred, Mike changed the subject, which Eddie was grateful for. Eddie nodded his head for Mike to go on, throat recovering from the brutal assault of the harsh juice. It was most likely going to be sore for a little while but Eddie didn’t really pay mind to that. He somehow turned off the switch that helped him listen and dumbly stared at Mike’s mouth, specifically the way they moved slow then fast all in one second.

“So are you?” Eddie blinked, unsure of Mike just asked. They slowly opened, wide, once Eddie realized Mike was asking him something very important. On a whim Eddie said ‘Sure’. Mike’s mouth broke into a full grin, teeth and all as he stood up. 

“Great, I’ll pick you up after my game, unless you wanna come see? Or did you already plan to go?” Eddie was 100% confused. What just happened, why was Mike gonna pick him up, he doesn’t go to football games, what is happening. 

“Um, pick me up?...”

“Great, do you mind if I get your number, I can send you the details.” Mike walked over to Eddie’s side and pulled out his phone. It was cased in a protective phone case, color black with gold accents around the rim of the camera. Eddie was in a haze, still confused and plane out bewildered when he stated his number out of the blue.

“Cool. Can’t wait for Friday.” Mike smiled once more before he joined his friends in the middle of cafeteria and disappeared in the heap of large boys. Eddie let out a huge gust of air that he hadn’t realized he had been holding in. Did he just get asked on a date. They only logical thing that made sense for ‘I’ll pick you up after my game’ was a date. Eddie’s mood quickly went through the five stages of grief, but all stages were denial.

Once Mike was back at his table, Kenny and Chris hyped him up, asking questions and making kissy noises.

“MIKEY BOY’S GOT A CRUSH! HE’S IN LOVE-”

“Can it Kenny.” Mike took a hold of Chris’s water bottle and took a gigantic gulp, before throwing it at Kenny’s temple. 

“For a nice guy Hanlon, you sure do love throwing stuff.”

Tuesday, September 26, 12:57 p.m

Beverly was bored out of her mind. Her class had a substitute, an old lady who seemed to always forgot what grade she was teaching and somehow the year they were in. Luckily the substitute plans were basically to watch the rest of the documentary over human evolution they had began long time ago. It was obvious no one was paying attention, by the tired look son their faces or the direction of their eyes towards their laps indicated that they didn’t care. It went the same for Bev, though she wasn’t tired nor typing away at her phone. She was rather tapping her nails on the wooden desk, music from deep inside her head drowning out the audio of the documentary.

It was one of her favorites, the only song that seemed to play at Ophelia’s when she worked. Oh yes, Ophelia’s, the hidden dinning gem in downtown Derry. Yesterday, her first shift of the week had took a turn, for the better. Mike Hanlon had randomly walked in fro directions but simply stepped for one of the best vegan burgers. It was a surprise to see another teenager in the dinner, rarely had a younger person like Beverly walked in. Initially Mike hadn’t walked in for food, but he did leave with some, ordering another vegan burger to go. 

She recalls talking about this week’s game against Hawkins High, a school that had only been mentioned to her once, through a friend from middle school. Jenny? Jene? June? Something that started with a J, she knew that for sure.

As the substitute snores filled the classroom, Beverly’s stomach grumbled, roaring like Godzilla in her ears. She had eaten lunch, if you count peanuts and a Dr Pepper as food. But that had always been the lunch she took, either that, or bags filled with protein nuts or granola bars. She hadn’t always been fond of eating lunch, weird, yes, but she had been a dinner person. Always having at least three plates full of food for herself, curtosey of Ophelia’s employee discount. Discount meaning completely free. It was quite a curios thing that Beverly never seemed to gain weight after eating three greasy hamburgers. 

Maybe she burned it off during gym, running those miles every Thursday did help. She had always been a fast runner, always ahead of everyone in her class, surprising most of the jerks in there. She’s outraced a couple of them more than once, shutting them up for a good while. There’s a group of girls in the class that praise her every time she does and it really shocks her to realize she has a mini fan club. Once she was asked to sign a girls ‘Equal Right’s’ shirt. She gladly did, commenting on the amazing shirt as well. The bell rung, dismissing her out of her own thoughts, forcing her to get up and stretch out the uncomfortable build up in her spine.

Walking out of the class, she fell in step with students, brushing against speeding freshmen to get to their classes. She didn’t have a third period, credits practically achieved all in her junior year, so when the warning bell sounded, she wasn’t alarmed. Walking pass the library she caught site of someone who looked very familiar. Ben sat in the middle desk, alone, as he skimmed over a rustic looking book. He looked calm, at peace. Staring at him for a second longer, Beverly contemplated going into the library but decided against it as she caught sight of Richie exiting the school through the back doors.

“Hey Rich!” Beverly followed after Richie as they made it outside. Richie skidded to a stop as he turned around and greeted Beverly with a solemn smile. He uttered a ‘hey’ and turned around again, making his way around the building. Beverly sighed, feeling obligated to follow Richie, though at the moment Richie wanted her to be anyone else. 

“Where ya’goin?” Beverly watched as Richie shuffled onto his motorcycle. Classic Richie. 

“To bang your sister.” Beverly rolled her eyes, internally cheesing at the joke Richie made, jokes which he usually made. For the moment, it seemed Richie didn’t hold any resentment towards her and she felt glad, but she knew Richie was hurting. Every sad smile directed towards her, ever shift of eyes she was around, it was clear she hurt Richie. Right in the heart.

“Ha. Ha. Funny.” Beverly stood closer to Richie now, happiness growing larger now. Richie noticed the closeness and started the engine, fist gripping the break hard, feet digging into the pavement.

“Listen Bev, I know all we had was F.W.B, but I don’t think I’m ready to talk one on one like friends, okay. See you around.” Richie sped away, right in front of Beverly, stabbing the small amount of happiness that radiated through her once full heart. ‘That was a complete bust’. She spoke out loud to no one but herself. She didn’t want to blame herself, she really didn’t but in all honesty the reason she felt like crap was because she ended things like it was crap. Her and Richie weren’t crap, they weren’t even close to it. Although it had been a physical relationship only, Beverly knows that it was the closest thing to intimate Richie had gotten in a while. And to end it out of the blue made her feel like the worst kind of human being. 

Leaning against the brick wall, she popped a piece of bubble gum into her mouth, feeling the rays of heat from the sun hit her freckled face. She stood there for a moment, tasting the flavor of rich bubblegum before walking back inside. 

Tuesday, September 26, 2:03 p.m

Bill sat on the stool, paint brush carefully sweeping across the canvas with a light blue streak. He was thinking, carefully, tongue etched on the outskirts of his mouth, so gently as he pressed into the canvas and let go. It caused a drip effect, exactly what he wanted. Well, what he wanted at the moment, he couldn’t really tell where his painting would go. Right now it could turn into an ocean, with waves that ripple like marbles over a glossy floor. Or he could paint a brisk morning in the woods with snow covering each and individual tree. 

He hadn’t decided what he was doing, he never did. It was always improve with his paintings, whatever music played or whatever he felt would guide him to create masterpieces. He had a headphone in one ear and a paintbrush in the other. The clear palette hung around his thumb and laid on his forearm as he took the white paint and smeared it with the blue, creating a milky soft sky color. He switched the paint brush in his hand to the one from his hear and began highlighting the edges of the canvas. 

It was his free period, but he wasn’t alone, many other art seniors came into the room and painted, speaking to no one. He had been coming here since freshman year, being intimidated by the skilled seniors from the time. But having a detailed and creative hand from a young age earned him respect. Today it had been lonelier than usual, it was just him and two other students, who got their things and left, now only leaving Bill in the quiet classroom. 

The canvas now covered in thin and thick lines of soft blue, inking the first draft of his painting. He made the choice of painting snow as he dipped his paint brush in the white and creating the outline of clumps of snow. His dominant hand had freckled of paint scattered everywhere, as well as his overalls. His overalls had already been stained countless of times by many primary colors, but now it was painted with light blue dots. He only noticed he got some on his face when someone spoke to him.

“You have some on your face.” The voice scared Bill, making him almost drop the palette on the floor. It was Stan, an amused expression on his face. Bill looked at Stan for a solid minute before looking away, shyly as he put the brush down and tried to brush the drying paint off. Stan lifted his hand, feeling it freeze int he middle of the air, slowly going back to it’s place besides his thigh, but he found himself reach over and rubbing the paint off. He noticed the reddening of Bill’s soft cheeks, imagining his own cheeks, as he pulled his hand away. Stan felt what he just did was stupid, hating himself for making the gesture of rubbing paint off of a boy’s face.

“Uh, Bye.” Stan exited the classroom, leaving a confused, but in love intrigued Bill. His face felt hot, especially the spot where Stan’s cold hands touched. He trashed the painting he was working on before Stan came in and began to paint the figure of a boy. He had curly hair, and a face of an angel. It seemed to only be minutes for his artwork to be finished. It was full of colors, reds, blues, oranges, yellows, you name it. He drew a literal angel that resembled a boy too much. He sat there, admiring the work that seemed to come to life every time he moved. He memorized every detail that found its way on the canvas and fell in love. He drew Stan, a boy he had just met. He drew a boy he really liked. 

Tuesday, September 26, 3:23 p.m

Mike hated that this particular day was hotter than hell. He also hated the fact that some dumbass got the whole team in trouble. Currently they were being punished, running suicides down and back the field. The worst running exercise activity ever, don’t even try to argue. His feet burned through the fabric of his Nike’s, toes digging in the tip of the shoes. He was one of the few left that kept going, most of them throwing up last night’s dinner on the grassy ground. 

He continued, used to the extreme punishment ordered by Coach. He was almost done, final run just a few feet away. Coach’s whistle blew and Mike felt his feet trip over themselves, causing him to fall to the ground. Laughs came from the sidelines, Kenny’s obnoxious laugh making Mike’s ears bleed.

“HANLON IS DOWN FOR THE COUNT!” Chris runs over and lays on the ground next to Mike and pretends to do a referee slam. Mike playfully kicks at Chris’s side as he gets up and rubs the grass off his shirt. Coach laughs as they jog back, others following suit. 

“Boys, what do we have this we-”

“HAWKIN’S GONNA GT THEY’ASSES BEAT!” Kenny jumps on another players his, piggy back riding him as others yell in agreement. Coach only sighed and nodded as he folded his arms around each other. Mike smirked as Kenny jumped on another unsuspecting person, pulling both of them down.

“Jesus, Kenny, can you not be a total Alex for a second?” Alex was a senior that used to go to Derry. He was basically Kenny but 10x worse. He was the class clown, everyone either loved him or hated him, there was no in between. Mike remembered the rivalry between Kenny and Alex in junior year to be the funniest, attention hog of the school. So when Alex’s father got moved to Minnesota, of all places, for a job offer, Kenny declared himself the winner. 

“Yes, we are, but doesn’t mean there work won’t be done.” Everyone including Mike groaned but listened to what else coach had to say. Mike drifted off to another place though. Earlier at Lunch he had asked Eddie to a movie. It really wasn’t his intention, he only wanted to ask how Eddie’s day was going. But when Eddie looked like he was in his own little world, Mike got a chance to look at all the little things he hadn’t seen before. How he had faint freckles under his eyes, lips had lines that resembled tree ringlets due to dryness. But he also noticed how he really wanted to hang out with Eddie, outside of school. So the words came out of his mouth before he could stop.

“So you and Eddie huh?” Chris wrapped his arm around Mike’s shoulders, leading them to the locker room. Mike snorted as he opened the door and let himself in. 

“It’s not a date.” Mike made his way to his locker as Chris followed, in the process of mocking Mike.

“Would you like to go to the movies with me? It’ll be totally platonic, I’ll only stare at your lips and think of your neck as the good part of the movie starts.” Chris imitated Mike, spot on. Mike took off his shirt and threw it at Chris who laughed as he caught it. 

“So what, he’s cute. Doesn’t mean I wanna get in his pants.” Mike opened his locker and took out deodorant.

“Hold on, is that woman’s deodorant?” 

“It smells nice okay.” Mike took out his regular school shirt and put it in as Chris walked away, throwing the workout shirt into the locker over his head. It wasn’t a date, no way. Mike was just being nice, Eddie was a cool person, sweet, charismatic, kind... 

“Shit.” 

It was a date. He concluded that as he walked out and typed the information out in text. He sent it with out a thought, eyes bulging at the comment he added;

Wear whatever you’d like, you look great in everything ;)

What kind of text message was that. Mike wanted to punch himself in the face. This was now definitely a date, the winky face just confirmed it. As if his presence didn’t give Eddie a heart attack the text would. Well, now that the deed had been done, all that was left was to go through with it. 

Tuesday, September 26, 3:59 p.m

“Listen man, cut me some slack, you know I’m not a bad kid.” Richie stood against the gas station counter, hands pressed against the newspaper covered surface. He came to the cash register, a soda and chips was all he wanted to buy. Plus a pack of of new cigs, but that was minor detail.

“You don’t have enough money to buy all three, you can either buy the chips and drink or the cigarettes.” The man behind the counter counted the money in the cash register, not really paying attention to Richie’s slik hand. Pretending to yawn, Richie reached behind his head and into his shirt, dropping the pack of cigarettes along his spine and to the crack of ass. Thank god his shirt was tucked in, otherwise the cigarettes would have fallen straight to the floor.

“You know what, fine, I’ll take the ships and soda.” Richie pulled out a five dollar bill and handed it to the man, grimacing when it was yanked away from his hand. Smiling a smile too sweet, Richie walked out quickly, relieved when the usual alarms didn’t go off. OPening the soda, he took a sip, nodding his head to a song he began to sing. 

“Oh, I still believe.” Mimicking the instrumental saxophone part in Tim Capello’s iconic song ‘I Still Believe’. Now standing in front of his motorcycle, Richie placed the soda on the seat and dug out the cartoon box from his shirt. 

“We need all the hope. WE CAN GET!” Richie belted out, shame just a word to him. He didn’t care that people stared at him as they filled their cars with gas. He actually pointed to them as he sang the verse over and over again, scaring a couple of them as he voiced a saxophone yet again. Drinking the soda in one go, he let out a loud burp and stuffed the chips in his pocket jacket before starting his motorcycle and driving home. 

His house was empty, parents gone, off to work or off to an affair. Most likely the second one, Richie has seen hickies on his parents necks before and he knew for a fact that they didn’t give them to each other. But he didn’t really care, nothing would be different, he already lived alone. Throwing the cigarettes across the kitchen counter he took off his boots, struggling a little bit, but sighing as he free his feet. Plugging his phone into the kitchen speaker, he played his music, blasting it through the house. It was Gorrilaz, bass acting as if there was a party. 

Drumming along, he walked over to the living room, picking up random laundry here and there. Going to the laundry room he threw them in a basket that was over-filled with dirty clothes, mostly Richie’s. He rolled his eyes, remembering that he had to do the laundry soon because no one else ever did. The song changed so something he hadn’t ever heard of but quickly loved it as it played longer. Toying with the pins on his jacket, Richie walked back to the kitchen and pressed his torso against the flat, cold, surface of the island. His face was cooled by it and he slowly fell asleep. 

Tuesday, September 26, 4:15 p.m

Ben was the last out of his class, second to last being some random girl who fell asleep and was only awoken when Ben nudged her. She muttered a thank you as she walked out of class, slightly still out of it. Ben said goodbye to Mrs. Kepp and walked the empty halls. The students of Derry high always seemed to lave school quickly, never made an effort to stay and chat with friends. As Ben was reaching the door to freedom, Mr. DeVou spoke up from out of the blue.

“Ben!” He turned around to see Mr. DeVou walking towards him with excitement. Ben sighed, ready to be told off from what happened earlier in the day.

“So you wanna try out for the team?”

“The what sir?” Ben wasn’t expecting what Mr. DeVou had asked. He was obviously talking about the wrestling team but the question shocked Ben to no end. Mr. DeVou? Wants someone like Ben? To wrestle? What kind of universe-

“Yeah, you seem like you’d be a good fit!” Ben looked at Mr. DeVou with a questioning brow. Ben thought about it, wrestling did sound fun. But the more he thought about it, the more he thought it was a bad idea.

“Oh Mr. DeVou, i don’t think I’d be good-”

“You never know son, not unless you try. The next tryout is Thursday, will I see you there?” Mr. DeVou said in a voice that only meant ‘Be There or else’. With a single sigh Ben said ‘Sure’ and was left in the hallway alone. He now sat in the drivers seat of his jeep, engine on, hands clasped around the wheel, yet the car hadn’t moved for a complete ten minutes.

“What did I get myself into.” Ben dropped his head on the steering wheel, temple hitting the middle of the wheel, a honk following. His head stayed there for a good minute before he pulled out the driveway and drove home.

Tuesday, September 26, 4:30 p.m

Beverly turned on her closet lite, kicking off her shoes and unbuttoning her jeans. Yawning, she un-tucked her collared shirt and hung it up, grabbing her work outfit. Shrugging her jeans off, she sat on her bed, feeling of tiredness reaching her eyes. Her shift didn’t start until 5:30, but Ophelia’s was nearly 20 minutes away and there was always traffic around five so she technically had to leave around 4:50. There was always a bus that dropped off after school activities kids and it would take her to Ophelia’s since it was on the way of their bus drop off.

Pulling on her outfit, she went over to her vanity and touched up her face. Picking a light red she applied it to her chapped lips, accidentally over lining her natural lips. Fixing it with her pinkie her phone buzzed. She picked it up, smiling at her friends text.

Wanna go to Friday’s game and make fun of Hawkins?

She typed back a thumbs up emoji and finished checking herself out in the mirror. Taking out her wallet from her bag she attached a leather piece of string around the punched in metal hole to make a make-shift wristlet. Running a hand through her short hair she jumped down the stairs, putting on her heels that laid on the last step. 

She heard the engine of her father’s rickety car and felt her shoulders drop down. She tried to make her way to the front without having to interact with him but he mt her at the door.

“Hello Bevvy.” His voice was low, smelled like complete shit and beer. She had to refrain herself from clamping her nose with her fingers.

“Hi dad. I’m on my way to work, I’m gonna be late.” Thinking he was going to grab her arm she quickly walked down the street and stood by the pole, hiding herself from her father’s stare. She wasn’t sure if her father still stood outside but she didn’t care as the bus strolled up and released the kids of the street. If he was watching her he should have lost her in the crowd of kids. Sitting in the farthest seat down from the driver she made eye contact with her father, who was still standing outside. Sinking into her seat she closed her eyes and waited to be taken to Ophelia’s. 

Tuesday, September 26, 5:10 p.m 

Bill took the painting home, hiding it from his parents as he passed them on his way to his room. He would die if they saw what he had drew, the way the lips of Stan were drawn so delicate, or the flowers in his hair. It may just be a painting, but his parents were very observant. Bill wasn’t ready for them to question him yet. Gerogie followed, asking what it was, repiditley.

“What’ya paint, what’ya paint, what’ya paint-”

“Georgie.”  Bill laid the painting on his bed, making sure Georgie would go up and grab it. This was a daily thing, whenever Bill brought home a painting or a sketch, Georgie would pester him and try to see what he drew.

“But Bill, I wanna see!” Georgie tried to slap Bill’s hand out of the way but Bill was faster and picked him up off the ground before he could. 

“Nice t-t-try, but n-no.” Bill carried Georgie into his room, throwing him onto the plush bed filled of stuff animals. Bill walked out, accidentally stepping on a lego turtle and yelling in pain. Georgie zoomed passed him and onto Bills bed. Bill raced behind him but was too late and was mortified to see Georgie staring at the painting of Stan. Bill closed his room door, hands out in front of him to brace them against Georgie’s mouth if he outed him.

“He’s beautiful.” Georgie angled his head to get a better look and all Bill could do was sigh. Taking a hold of the painting ge opened the closet and placed it deep in the corners of it, where other personal drawings laid dormant.

“You cant tell mom or dad.” Bill walked over to his bed and fell down on the comforter along with Georgie who found his way on top of Bill’s chest. With a small voice Georgie asked “Why not?”

“Because th-they don’t l-l-like it when I d-d-draw stuff like th-that.” Bill suddenly got sad, overwhelming sensation of his parents finding the painting plaguing his mind. Georgie lifted his head and looked at Bill directly in his eyes. Georgie’s eyes held wonder, curiosity, acceptance. Something his parent’s eyes didn’t hold.

“How can they not like something so beautiful?” Georgie now sat up, arms crossed over each other in slight frustration. Bill smiled sadly and pulled Georgie to lay next to him. Waiting a moment, trying to come up with a good response he shrugged and said 

“I d-d-don’t know Georgie. Georgie, I don’t know.” Bill caressed the side of Georgie’s face as they laid there in peaceful silence. 

Tuesday, September 26, 6:30 p.m

Stan ate in silence, the only sound he made was technically not even him, it was the clanking of his spoon on the dinner plate. His mother and father ate in silence as well, occasionally looking at each other and looking away. This was the only constant thing his family did. Eat in silence and act like their family is the perfect, normal family. They weren’t, they weren’t even a family. They just happened to three people living under the same household. Sometimes Stan thought his parents were divorced and lived under the same roof for the sake of him. But it always hurt him to know that they chose to live like this. They chose to live hostile, cold.

“Have you been practicing Stan?” His father cut deep into the rotisserie chicken his mother had bought at the store yesterday. Hey ate one piece, scuffing it down with a drink of cranberry juice, Stan’s least favorite drink. His mother finished her salad, something she always did before she engaged in her actual meal. Stan nodded, slowly, hoping to convince the man of the house. He hadn’t been practicing, he couldn’t recall the last time he opened the thick Torah. His father didn’t say anything more and went back to the eating, fork stabbing the plate entirely now. 

“I’m not that hungry anymore, and I have a lot of homework, may I be excused?” Stan let go of his utensils, skidding the chair out from under the table. He waited for his parent’s approval and got up when his father nodded. He nodded, showing a sign of respect towards him and gave his mother a chaste kiss on the temple. She didn’t react, she never does, and continued to eat corn off the plate in dainty bites. Opening his bedroom door was like opening the gates of the north pole. It was always so chilling in his room, the temperature never went higher than a 70. It was a miracle he never got sick. Closing the door behind him, Stan crawled on his bed and pulled out his phone. Obviously he didn’t have homework, he just needed an excuse to get away from his parents. 

Opening his phone with his thumbprint he clicked on the Spotify icon. Before he could press play on a song he noticed a blue marking on the inside of his palm. He examined it, picking carefully at the dried paint. He remembered what happened at school, how his fingers brushed over Bill’s face, transferring the solid color to his own skin, and running away as if Bill burned him. Smiling he pressed his hand to his own face, closed his eyes, and thought about the sky and its clouds. 

While Stan daydreamed, Eddie sat on his bed, crossed legged, freaking out over a text message. His mother was still working, so he was currently alone. Which in a way was better than having to explain to his mother why he was going on a date with a football player. Yes, it was a date, it was confirmed. Well the actual text message never said the four letter word, but from the winky face and the perfectly put together compliment, Eddie could tell that it was one. It was only Tuesday and Eddie had already raided his closet in search for something nice to wear. He had to admit, he never did have the best fashion sense, always either wearing shorts that seemed to short or graphic tee’s that a mother of 6 would always wear.

He finally may of found something decent, a grey sweater, really more of a cardigan, but a cover nothing less. Throwing it on his bed he searched for a shirt, deciding a simple white t-shirt would be the best. Grabbing a pair of jeans he didn’t even know he had, he tried the whole ensemble on, surprising himself with how good the outfit looked. He looked presentable, minus the frustrated style his hair wore. This was the outfit, hands down. He looked good in it, at east he thought he looked good in it. Would Mike think it look good? 

Groaning, Eddie plummeted to the bed, face hitting the sheets first. He laid there for a little bit, reminiscing on all the events that lead up to Mike asking him out to the movies. They had talked before detention, he had helped him in Chemistry before. Once, Mike helped him carry his history project to the classroom, getting a tardy slip but muttering a ‘It was worth it’ for only Eddie to hear. The longest time he and Mike ever talked was yesterday, along with the rest of the losers club. The Losers Club. What a great name, a solid, a-1 name. Lifting his head to breathe, Eddie took his phone and looked back at the text message Mike sent hours ago. He didn’t respond, to afraid to send something that would look desperate. But he did realize leaving him on read was  really rude so he typed out a ‘Great!’ and sent it without second thought. 

Right after he sent, the three grey dots appeared and went away, all in one second. Eddie paused, bile rising in his throat at the sight of Mike texting. Did he come off to strong, was the exclamation mark too much. When Eddie was about to throw his phone into the wall, Mike sent back a winky face. A. Fucking. Winky face. The whole bane of Eddie’s problems was smiling at him on a digital screen. Mike was going to kill Eddie, no doubt. But what if Eddie sent a winky face back...

Tagged: @shittystorms @asteroidbill @finnwollfhards @hazedlover @chirpchirpstanley @rose-minds 

Hey, I’m a horrible person and haven’t updated in forever. In all honesty, I was loosing inspiration in this fic, but now that I’m writing it again, It’s coming back. I’m not gonna say when the next update is because I don’t trust myself with due dates. :) 

#it 2017 #the losers club #the losers:always and forever #mike hanlon #eddie kaspbrak #richie tozier #stan uris #bill denbrough #beverly marsh #ben hanscom #kasplon #hanbrak #meddie #stenbrough #benverly #beverie

[black-wolf066]

Can You Not Be ‘That’ Dad!

Has the thing been done yet?! Please tell me the thing hasn’t been done yet!! If the thing has been done… well… here, have another. [FF.Net link]

@bleebug said:

“Imagine Henry trying to explain internet memes to Killian.”

Ever since I stumbled upon this, I’ve been cracking myself up with the mental imagery. But since seeing @bleebug in a bit of a funk, I figured I would try my hand at doing this as a prompt in the hopes that it would cheer you up, even if for only a moment. It might not be the “face journey” you were looking for, but I hope it helps.

[Part 2] is a continuation piece if interested

Can You Not Be ‘That’ Dad!

Words: 1477

Rating: pg-13 to be safe, but mostly fluffy

Summary: “Imagine Henry trying to explain internet memes to Killian” “Or in which Henry comes to regret his decision, tenfold.” with an added bonus of Wish Hook at the end.

The tap, tap, tapping of thumbs against a glass screen and the occasional snicker filtering into his ears from the living room, drew Killian’s curiosity as he halted his laundry folding and moved to investigate.

Sprawled out on the sofa, with one leg thrown over the back, sat Henry with his talking phone (”Cellphone, babe. It’s a cellphone. Or you can just call it a ‘phone’.” he can hear Emma correcting in his mind) glued to his hand. With a tilt of his head as the lad chortled once more, he cleared his throat loudly and bit back the grin as he watched the distracted teenager jump back into the world of awareness. 

“What’s got you so amused, my boy?”

“Uh…” Henry muttered unintelligibly as he moved to sit up. “I… don’t really know how to explain it to you.” At Killian’s raised brow, Henry rolled his eyes. “It’s not that I don’t want to explain it to you, I just don’t know how to get you to understand. I mean come on, dad; it’s been almost three years since we gave you a smart phone and you still call it ‘the talking phone’ or the TV ‘the moving picture box’.”

“Why don’t you try me?” Killian challenged as he sat down next to the sixteen year old.

They squinted at each other for only a moment, with Henry weighing the pros and cons to the situation, before finally sighing and handing over the phone.

“Sorry lad, I think I hit something.” Killian stated sheepishly as the image disappeared to be replaced with something new. “What’s ‘big mood’?” he asked curiously just as Henry snatched it back.

“No, that wasn’t the picture I wanted to show you.” Henry grumbled as he swiped his finger across the screen to get the right picture back, “I’ll try my best to explain memes to you, but I’m not explaining that.” at the suggestive waggle of Killian’s eyebrows, Henry deadpanned. “No, not that either. Get your head out of the gutter, dad.”

When the phone was returned, Killian took it and stared at the side by side picture in confusion, not quite understanding what it was he was supposed to be looking at. He vaguely recognized the first image, the familiar red and white ball at the bottom similar to the one in the game Henry had been playing a while ago. What had he called it, ‘Pockie Go’ or had it been ‘Poke Go’? Whatever the blasted thing was, it was in the photo, with the rest of the image containing a black boot with a purple cartoon snake at the opening. In the second image (that was equally as confusing to him) was a cartoon man with a yellow checkered shirt.

“First, what am I looking at?” he questioned with a raised brow as he turned the screen to show Henry. “Second, what’s a meme?”

“That,” Henry started as he pointed to the picture. “Is a meme. It’s the classic ‘There’s a snake in my boot’ from the Toy Story movie.”

Killian tried desperately to school his features as he hummed and nodded, not at all getting it but not wanting to give the lad a reason to prove his earlier point.

But Henry knew the man better than that as he snorted and asked. “I thought mom made you watch the Toy Story with her? It was one of her favorites of the Pixar movies… well that and Monsters Inc.”

“I’m afraid we’re still working our way through the list of movies and TV shows you two insisted I watch…” he stated with a shrug. “Why don’t we start with what a meme is, shall we?”

(***)

Henry was just making his way down the street to Granny’s, his phone in hand, as he tapped on Killian’s name and began typing out a message.

H: heading to the diner to pick up something before we go sailing, what do you want?

He was just making his way up the steps when his phone dinged a response. Pushing through the door and making his way to the counter, he opened the text and snorted at the picture of a meowing kitten with the caption “If I can’t haz cheezeburger, I settlz forz a toona sammich” in bold white lettering.

H: good one dad, you’re getting the hang of it.

(***)

“Henry, you mind explaining why I just got ‘Rick Rolled’ by a centuries old pirate?” David grumbled at him the moment he entered the farm house.

Henry braced himself as Neal barreled into him, scooping his excited three-year-old uncle up into his arms and snorting at the disgruntled expression on his grandfather’s face and the overly amused one from his grandmother.

“Not a clue.” He stated innocently, putting the best poker face he could manage as he kissed his grandma’s cheek in greeting.

“Why do I find that hard to believe?” he grumbled again.

“Alright, Charming, this is our date night. Don’t ruin it by interrogating our grandson who was kind enough to babysit tonight.”

It was as they were getting ready to leave, that his grandfather’s phone dinged, and he watched in amusement as his pirate step-father trolled David once again.

“Henry, get him to stop!”

“Charming, it’s not his fault you keep falling for it!”

(***)

At first, Henry had found the whole thing hilarious. He had been extremely impressed with how well the pirate grasped the concept of memes, and he found it entirely too funny to stop him from taking it up a notch farther and trolling Regina, Zelena or David every chance the man got. Even Emma encouraged it as often as possible; her and Snow finding the whole thing equally as amusing as he did.

But that had been before his dad decided to turn the trolling onto him, often sending him lewd memes while out on a date with Violet, to the point he often had to break the rule and turn the bloody thing off for how much it buzzed in his back pocket.

Killian was turning into ‘that’ kind of dad; the one toeing the line and dipping into the wrong side of embarrassing.

His phone dinged, he groaned, and his mother laughed.

“You gonna look at that?”

He lifted his head up to mildly glare at her, before burying his face once more into the crook of his arm; griping all the while. “No, no I am not gonna look at it. You two are the worst!”

(***)

The bar his adoptive mother had owned for the better part of the year was filled to the brim with people as they celebrated the breaking of the curse. Henry had his wife and daughter back, Killian ‘Rogers’ Jones had Alice back, and Drizella’s and Gothel’s plans had once again been thwarted.

He happily sat back with his beer and watched as Ella and Lucy mingled with the others; watched the easy smiles between his mother and the man he had come to view as his step-father’s twin; only to grow curious as to what the two were looking at on the screen of Rogers’ cell.

The violent buzzing at his thigh, halted his curiosity as he moved his own phone out of his pocket, his curiosity turning to suspicion when he saw he had a text from Rogers. He eyed them from across the crowded room, both pointedly ignoring him as they talked to Alice and Tiana at the bar.

Bracing himself, he opened the text.

R: Your mother saw this and we agreed that it reminded us of you.

He opened the Youtube link, the title of the video seeming innocent enough until the familiar song and video began to play.

“Seriously!” he asked with exasperation the moment he stalked over to their crowded corner of the counter.  “No one uses the ‘Rick Roll’ anymore.”

“Still got you, didn’t it?” Rogers stated simply.

“No,” he pointed his finger up at him and shook his head. “I got enough of this from dad back at home, do not start this too.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Rogers asked innocently.

“No.” he repeated with a glare of conviction. “I’m not doing this.”

“Speaking of my other half, mind giving me his number?”

“So you two can conspire against me? No.”

As Henry walked off in search of Ella and Lucy with Rogers following behind him; Tiana and Alice glanced curiously to see Regina texting on her phone with a wide, wicked, grin.

“Who are you talking to?” Alice questioned.

Regina snorted at the response of her text and placed the device back in her pocket as she replied. “Just giving Captain Guyliner in Storybrooke his twin’s number.” Refilling their glasses and clinking them together in cheers; she stated. “Just sit back, girls, and enjoy a little something I call ‘well deserved payback’.”

#captain cobra #killian jones #henry mills #ouat humor #once upon a time #ouat ff #featuring everyone #and #wish realm hook #alice/tilly #at the end

[rorykillmore]

okay here is a (late) christmas present for @saintvivec!! he left the prompt up to me and i thought about various rp dynamics for awhile and then decided to do something... special to honor the fact that we’ve been in lost hell for the past few months. i was too intimidated to try to write locke so the idea was “sawyer comes to denny and interacts with some of my roster” so here is. sawyer encountering several dc girls and generally going to hell. it’s sawyer after all!

eps, you’re one of my oldest online friends and i’m very grateful to have had that endured for so long. i know things haven’t always been easy for you but i am genuinely proud of the progress you’ve made and the strides you’ve taken to be more comfortable and confident in yourself. even when shit’s rough for you you’re always willing to engage me and try to make me smile and check to make sure i’m okay too, and i really do appreciate that. thanks for always being there and for always having the ability to make me laugh. i’m really glad we’ve found a new thing to share and enjoy together and hopefully this fic is a good tribute to that!!

“You know, if you went ahead and let me die,” Sawyer tries, not even sure whether it’s meant to be taunting or sincere. “I wouldn’t tell.”

“Son of a --” He groans, rolling over where he was unceremoniously dropped, not quite making sense of his surroundings. It’s cold. It shouldn’t be cold. He’s living on a goddamn tropical island -- the least they can give him is nice weather, when it’s not fucking pouring.

“Sir?” An unfamiliar voice gets his attention.  “...Are you okay?”

Sawyer opens his eyes. Standing over him is --

-- He snorts.

Some chick in a Superman get-up.

“What is it, Halloween already?” He makes the quip almost automatically, and then remembers himself and freezes.  He doesn’t know her face. She wasn’t on the plane. That means -- 

“Whoa! Hey, relax,” the woman protests as Sawyer scrambles to sit up. “Looks like you just got here. I can help you.”

Just got here. Then it clicks.  The snow on the ground. The distinct sound of nearby traffic. The buildings towering around him.

He’s not on the island anymore.

He wracks his brain, trying to think of the last thing he can remember. What he should be feeling - what any normal person would be feeling, in this situation - is relief. He just got out of hell -- so to speak. He’s free. 

Except, assuming he’s back on the mainland, there’s nothing for him out here any more than there ever was. Nothing but a vendetta he’s clung to for most of his life, one he’s not even sure it’s possible to pursue anymore.

He thinks of the poor fuck he shot in cold blood back in Australia, and grimaces.

He isn’t free. Never was.

“Where the hell am I?” he growls, still eyeing Cape and Skirt dubiously.

She tilts her head.  “New York City. 2017 -- if that matters.”

It does matter, ‘cause last Sawyer heard it was 2004.  He pulls himself to his feet gruffly. “You pullin’ my leg, Captain America?” Either that or he’s dealing with time travel, which is a possibility he’s just not prepared to face.

“Uh. No.” Her brow furrows for a moment. “And it’s -- Supergirl.”

Sawyer snorts again. “Of course it is.”

He doesn’t ask her anything else - partly because he’s afraid of the answers, and partly because he’d rather find them himself - before he starts walking away. 

“Wait,” Super-whatsherface calls after him. “I should probably explain a few things --”

“Save it,” Sawyer insists without slowing or turning around. 

“But -- where are you even going to go?”

The truth is, he doesn’t really have an answer to that question, but it’s not like he cares what happens to him anyways. He’ll figure something out, one way or another. He always does.

Readjusting to constant luxuries like electricity and running water and no food shortages whatsoever is harder than he would’ve expected. Sawyer supposes he might strike most people as the type who likes to live in luxury, but island life had suited him in a strange sort of way. The ever-changing status quo (which he’d gotten pretty good at working in his favor), the frequent opportunities for excitement (risking his life) -- not to mention all the spare time he’d had to read on the beach.

Here in this... other world (why the hell not), it’s back to business. He supposes that means back to conning, because that’s what he does best by now, however much he might hate himself for becoming the mirror image of the man he’s always hated. He goes out often, especially visiting that meeting place in New York to scan his prospects.

Also, because it takes his mind off things. People. 

Sawyer isn’t used to having people to miss. Not that that’s what’s happening, it’s just -- he keeps catching himself thinking about them. Kate, Jack, Jin, Michael -- he guesses he spent the most time with them, so it makes sense.

But he even wonders about other things, like how Claire and her baby are doing, or whether anyone’s bothering to keep an eye on Hurley now that Libby’s gone.

He just has to get used to being alone again, he tells himself (he’s not sure when he stopped being that -- alone. It feels dangerous).

But it’s a problem that can be solved at least temporarily by hitting up a bar, so that’s what he does. He just doesn’t expect to nearly trip over something on his way in the door.

-- Something? Someone?

“Watch where the hell you’re going,” the whatever-it-is snaps at him, and Sawyer just kind of stares at it for a moment.

It’s a raccoon.

"Did you just talk?” he grunts, not even sure why he’s so surprised at this point.

“Blind and deaf,” the raccoon sneers. “Well in that case, I guess I’ll have to excuse your stupidity.”

Sawyer wonders whether he can get away with kicking this asshole across the bar. “Keep walking, Jesse.”

This actually brings the raccoon up short. His ears twitch in a nonplussed sort of way. “Jesse?”

He hates it when people don’t get his references, and then actually have the nerve to comment on it anyway. “Jesse Coon,” he tries. Still nothing. “The raccoon? -- It’s from a book.”

“He’s not a raccoon,” a voice from behind them cuts in. Sawyer glances over to see an edgy looking brunette in her mid-twenties staring at him.  

“What are you, his girlfriend?” he retorts.

“Ha.” The not-raccoon snorts. “Drinking buddy, more like.”

“So, basically his therapist,” the woman adds, and the not-raccoon proceeds to flip her off.

Sawyer snorts, hoping it veils his wariness. Upon first impression, these people strike him as -- well, sort of like him. Which means they’re probably not the type he’s gonna get along with.  “I take it that’s what you’re here for,” he gripes, talking about the drinking, not the therapy.

“Well, we ain’t here to square dance.” Ranger Rick still sounds annoyed, but maybe that’s just his general state of being.

His lady friend glances over at the stage, currently empty of any live entertainment. “Not for some people’s lack of trying.”

They’re regulars, then, he’s guessing. But the prospect of alcohol is enough to make them worth tolerating for a few minutes at least, so he takes a seat and order his drink. 

Dorothy and Toto aren’t far behind him, though for a few minutes they keep to themselves as they knock back a couple of shots. That suits Sawyer just fine.

And then the woman suddenly decides he’s worth engaging. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“Name’s Sawyer, sweetheart,” he gives her a non-sarcastic answer reluctantly, if only because she looks mildly annoyed at being called ‘sweetheart’. “What about you and your furry friend?”

“Rocket,” the latter says as disdainfully as possible.

His ‘drinking buddy’ gives Sawyer a sharp sort of smile. “Silver Banshee.”

She looks mildly put out when Sawyer’s only response is, “What?”

“It’s just the name she puts on the business cards.” Rocket rolls his eyes. “Metaphorically speaking.”

This piques Sawyer’s interest a little, but he makes sure not to look it, taking a slow sip of his drink before he says anything else.  “And what kinda ‘business’ are you two in?”

“We’re bounty hunters,”  Silver-fucking-Banshee tells him as matter of factly as anything else. “Don’t suppose you know anyone who needs tracking down?”

“Or roughed up a little, free of charge?” Rocket adds flippantly.

Sawyer’s expression twists into a kind of grim smile. Hell. If only they knew.

“Sorry, kiddos. Not in this world.” He pauses then. He’s not sure why he does, but this... there’s something about these two assholes. Or maybe not about them, specifically, but -- hunting people. He’s gotten awfully hooked on that.

“You hiring?” he asks, half-joking, not even sure he means it.

Then he realizes he’s a little too interested in the answer.

Working every now and again with Rocket and Siobhan, it doesn’t take Sawyer very long to get caught in the line of fire... and, well, he’d have been lying to himself if he’d said that wasn’t part of what he was after, on the very fringes of his thoughts

Han and Chewie drag him to a metahuman doctor --

( “I ain’t a goddamn metahuman,” Sawyer protests. “Whatever that means.”

“Neither am I, technically.” Siobhan shrugs. “The important thing is, you don’t need medical insurance.

Which, alright, fair.)

-- and Sawyer does his best to look at least remotely invested until they’re out of earshot.

Then he tells Dr. Caitlin Snow, “Look. Don’t bother.”

Her brow furrows.  “Excuse me?”

“I don’t need nobody fussin’ over me. I’ll take my chances.”

“You were shot in the shoulder,” Dr. Snow tells him, so frank and deadpan and ‘are you some kind of goddamn idiot’ that Sawyer almost has to smile. “You’re bleeding out.”

“And your bedside manner is impeccable. Five stars!” Maybe if he’s obnoxious enough, she won’t feel much like saving his life.

Dr. Snow proceeds to drench his shoulder in alcohol, and Sawyer can’t tell if it’s in direct retaliation or if she’s just ignoring him and proceeding with her treatment. It stings like hell, though, and he hisses loudly.

“Son of a bitch.”

“Hold still.” Without missing a beat, she starts dressing the wound.

There’s not much point in protesting now, so Sawyer does.  “Why’re you even helping me?” he can’t help pushing regardless. “You don’t seem to like me very much.”

Dr. Snow meets his eyes for a brief moment.  “I just don’t trust your friends very much.”

“Then why are you helping them?”

“Hippocratic oath?”

Right. That. Her and Jack would probably get along.

“You know, if you went ahead and let me die,” Sawyer tries, not even sure whether it’s meant to be taunting or sincere. “I wouldn’t tell.”

She blinks, and Sawyer actually fancies she looks shocked for a moment.

“I’m gonna go ahead and stitch you up.” 

Well, she has resolve, he’ll give her that. He watches her with a frown.  “What, no anesthetic?” 

In a simple movement, Dr. Snow presses her hand to his shoulder, and Sawyer braces himself for pain -- but all that comes is a sudden sensation of controlled cold, just enough to make the ache from the bullet wound feel numbed.

Of course, he thinks, trying not to feel even remotely grateful. No one in this goddamn place is normal.

It’s the simple things that keep him entertained while he’s recovering.

Like when he’s sitting in a coffee shop, minding his own business (well, so to speak, he’s got a cheap knock-off of a diamond ring on hand and is ready to use it) when some pretty blonde walks past dressed in clothes that look expensive, if surprisingly vintage. Sawyer sizes her up for a couple of moments and decides she’ll work just fine. 

He plants the ring on the ground - not too far from his table and in her line of sight - as she’s getting her coffee. It looks real enough to fool an every day admirer (Sawyer knows how to choose his fakes), but it’s worth maybe thirty or forty dollars at most.

Thankfully, it catches her eye as she turns -- this always works better when he doesn’t have to point anything out to the mark. He doesn’t watch her bend to pick it up, busying himself in his newspaper.

“Excuse me,” she says, turning to him. “You didn’t drop this, did you?”

Sawyer lowers the paper, glances at the ring, and gives her a brief smirk. “Well, I’m flattered you think I’m the fancy jewelry type.”

“I’m gonna take that as a no.”

Leaning a little closer regardless, he considers the ring as if he’s never seen it before. “Damn, though,” he comments. “Rock looks expensive. May I?”

She watches him with an unreadable expression. “I thought you just implied you weren’t the fancy jewelry type.”

“I implied I was flattered you assumed as much while I’m sittin’ here drinkin’ ninety-nine cent coffee.” He eases a little rogueish charm into the conversation, just to see if she’ll respond. She smiles at him, just a little, and hands over the ring. Sawyer takes his time looking it over, and then, when the moment’s right, idly lets out a low whistle.

“You some kind of appraiser?” she asks, still watching him. 

“Can’t take much credit for that. I have a friend who works over at Greenwich, on Trinity. Shame this fell out of someone’s pocket.” He shakes his head slowly. “Or finger. It’s a beautiful ring.”

The woman leans against his table. “How much?”

Well, there’s the golden question, and a lot quicker than Sawyer expected it. “How much is it worth?” He tries to sound a little dubious, because it takes an interesting kind of person to leap right to wanting to make a profit - usually marks need a little subtle coaxing towards that - but hell, he’s not gonna argue with her.

“By your rough estimate.”

Sawyer regards the ring again. Then he shrugs. “Couldn’t say for sure without taking it in, but -- couple thousand, maybe. At least.”

“Really?”

“Well, like I said --”

The woman laughs, and Sawyer pauses.

“So you were gonna swindle me out of at least a thousand dollars,” she nods to the ring, casual as anything. “For that.”

It’s not that nobody’s ever caught on before, but she’s awfully damn direct. Still, she has no proof that he planted the ring, so he plays dumb. “Swindle you --”

“I mean, you must think I’m an idiot. A pigeon drop? Really?”

She even knows the name of the goddamn con, so the game’s pretty much up. Still, Sawyer’s never been one not to go down swinging.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he tells her, insolent and not even trying for convincing.

She laughs again, and Sawyer isn’t sure whether he should feel annoyed or not. It’s probably better than her trying to turn him in, as far as immediate reactions go.

“Glad I could entertain you,” he snarks at her dryly. What is he, some kinda street magician?

“Yeah. You really made my day.”

“Well, I guess that’s a better scenario than the one where I piss off some superhero with x-ray vision.”

The woman considers that for a moment with a look in her eyes that Sawyer doesn’t quite appreciate.  “So hard to find anyone normal around here, isn’t it?” She holds out a hand. “Sara. Thanks for trying to rob my blind.”

“Sawyer,” he tells her, shaking her hand as sarcastically as possible. “Thanks for being an asshole about it.”

“No problem. You seemed like you could use a taste of your own medicine.”

Well, that’s fair enough. 

“You sure know your basic cons.” Sawyer can’t help but me mildly interested. “Where’d you pick that up?”

He doesn’t expect a straight answer (it’s no good for banter, for one thing), and sure enough, Sara just shrugs. “Here and there.” 

“Well, if you ain’t too busy bein’ mysterious, I could buy you a coffee. Make up for almost scamming the hell out of you.” It’s not exactly an offer made out of the kindness of his heart, but he figures she’s worth scoping out in case he ever has to work a two-man con.

Sara’s lips twitch. “I have somewhere to be, but... maybe some other time.” She glances at the door and back. “Us normal people have to stick together, after all.”

He probably should be suspicious, because all of this still seems a little too funny to her, but he gives her a sarcastic smirk back. “Yeah. See you around.”

She leaves, and he’s left sipping his coffee. Old habits die hard, he supposes -- or never at all. He could spend ten years in this world, he bets, and it still wouldn’t be enough to change a person like him.

Even though -- well, damn. He’d gone without thinking about the island for almost fifteen minutes.

At least this place has no shortage of distractions. He’s thinking it’s about time he made use of that.

#this fuckin went places #also i made myself sad writing sawyer and i shouldve expected that #belated merry christmas friend!! #fic #saintvivec #christmas gifts

[the-zodiacs-written-in-the-stars]

Chapter 2: Michael Maguire

“Just a little shorter, okay?”, grunted Mike gruffly.

His older sister gave him a pointed glare as she held the buzzer in her hand. “Why you don’t just go to a hairdresser for this is completely beyond me. I’m a literature professor, I’m not---oh.”

“...Oh?”, echoed Mike slightly nervous.

“I’m just saying that you are literally dating a billionaire”, grumbled his sister.

“What was that ‘oh’, Melanie”, demanded Mike to know tensely.

Melanie pursed her lips and grabbed her phone to snap a picture. 2It’s not as bad as it looks and I might be able to fix it, but you should have just gone to someone professional.”

“Oh god, what did you do to my hair? Matt will leave me”, grunted Mike wide-eyed.

Melanie rolled her blue-green eyes at him in a very pointed manner. “Sure. Because your lush, black hair was the only reason why he was dating you.”

Mike squinted at her, glaring back at her with the same blue-green eyes. “No. But my bad decision-making is one of the main things he keeps complaining about, Mel. Now fix this somehow.”

“I told you to go to a salon”, warned Melanie one last time.

Rick had been cackling at him all morning long and it had not helped improve his mood at all. And it did so not get better when the two partners entered the Saint John’s Pub. Jessica behind the bar literally broke out into laughter the moment Mike was within her sight.

“Jamie! Jamie, come oput! You have to see this. Mike lost a bet to Rick!”, exclaimed Jessica.

Mike glared darkly at the bartender as he and Rick sat down in front of her. Rick grinned broadly, nudging Mike with a sharp elbow just as Jamie came out of the kitchen. The cook looked way too cute again. His reddish-brown curls were tied together in the back of his neck though it was too short to hold so a few strands kept slipping out and framing his face prettily. His freckles seemed more prominent when he was blushing like right now.

“W--What happeneed to your hair?”, asked Jamie surprised.

“My sister”, glowered Mike with a deadpan. “My sister happened to my hair.”

“You look like you have a midlife-crisis, mi hermano”, chuckled Rick, clapping him on the shoulder. [trans: my brother]

“First of all”, grunted Mike, glaring at his best friend. “I’m 28. This is not the middle of my life, you bag of dicks. And secondly, it’s... not that bad.”

He turned downright pleading eyes on Jamie, hoping the Irish man would have some mercy on him. Jamie’s dark-green eyes softened

“Well, no. It actually looks kinda good, the undercut suits you”, smiled Jamie. “It’s just... unusual. I’ve only ever seen you in two states: Prim and proper short-cut and unruly, needs a trim mop.”

“You really do need to get a haircut regularly. By a professional”, agreed Rick.

“What’s the occasion anyway?”, asked Jamie curiously, leaning against the bar. “You only ever get a haircut when Mattie has something big planned.”

Mike rolled his eyes. “A double-date. With some big business partner and her boyfriend. I am so looking forward to it.”

“You’re such a bad liar”, snorted Jamie fondly.

Mike smiled faintly. Jamie always managed to lift his mood. It was why he had first fallen for the Irish man, because Jamie was always there and kind and caring. Also gorgeous, lithe with strong arms and chest (Mike had seen Jamie without a shirt on before. It was a nice view. Very nice).

“Mattie and I will come around them them at... seven-ish? Keep a table for four free for us?”, requested Mike.

“We don’t make reservations”, snorted Jessica, throwing a towel at Mike.

“Not even for two billionairs sharing a business dinnner”, huffed Mike and rolled his eyes at her.

“Don’t think your fiance’s money gets you special treatment around here”, countered Jessica sternly.

There was a table saved for the four of them by the time they went out for dinner. Mike pulled his tie loose; he hated wearing a monkey-suit, but Matt had insisted. Though he loved Matt and Matt looked gorgeous in his own suit, so it was a bit of a compromise.

“Relax, amore”, whispered Matt gently, arms linked with Mike.

“Easier said than done”, grumbled Mike grumpily.

Laughing softly, Matt got on his tiptoes to kiss Mike, effectively soothing his fiance. Sighing, Mike relaxed at least a little. They met the other couple in front of the retaurant. He, a tall, lanky and awkward nerd adjusting his glasses and wearing clothes fit for a fifty year old, she the embodiment of a head-strong career woman. She smiled at them as she offered her hand to Mike.

“Sonia Gold. It’s a pleasure to meet you”, introduced the woman.

“Michael Maguire. And likewise, Miss Gold”, replied Mike politely as he shook her hand.

“Sander Hancock”, stated her boyfriend cortly, seizing Matt up as they shook hands.

“Matteo di Girasole”, said Matt, mimicking Sander’s way of introduction.

This evening was going to be so much fun. Mike conveyed that message to his lover with one hard look. Matt quirked his lip just a little, a fond spark in his bright eyes.

The two couples sat down and studied the menu in silence. Not that Mike and Matt couldn’t cite it with their eyes blindfolded by now. So after only a moment, Mike let his eyes wander. He paused when he spotted Jamie sitting on top of the bar, kicking his legs back and forth. His dark-red shirt hugged his arms and shoulders nicely. Mike grunted and elbowed Matt. Matt’s replying glare melted when he noticed why Mike had elbowed him. Jamie seemed to be engaged in a very animated conversation (read: ridiculous discussion) with his sister Jessica. Matt hummed in appreciation as he rested his chin on Mike’s shoulder.

“He looks good in red”, whispered Matt very softly. “I really like that shirt.”

“Mhmh”, grunted Mike in reply. “Know where it’d look even better?”

“He’s too lithe for that and too tall. It’d be too long and too tight at the same time on me”, grunted Matt with a deadpan.

“...I wasn’t talking about you, sunshine. I was talking about our bedroom floor”, grunted Mike with just the smallest, teasing grin.

“Oooh. Mh. Yes”, nodded Matt pleased, kissing Mike’s cheek.

“The two of you are ridiculously smitten.”

Matt and Mike blinked slowly before tearing their eyes off of Jamie and looking at their companions. Sonia had one eyebrow raised, an amused smile playing on her lips as she leaned back in her chair. She seemed pleased.

Mike knew what the point of this dinner was. Mainly, Sonia had not quite believed Matt’s claims during their first meeting, that Jamie was in fact not some sideline affair Matt’s fiance had no idea about. Mike smiled and wrapped one arm around Matt’s shoulders, drawing the half-Italian closer against himself.

“It’s hard not to. Have you seen that ass in those leather pants?”, asked Mike playfully, gesturing to the bar.

“...Sonia, if you could not”, sighed Sander in fond exasperation.

Sonia just grinned and dismissed him with wave of her hand. “But it is a nice ass. Just see for yourself, Sandy.”

Sander gave her a hard glare for the nickname before obediently checking said nice ass out himself. “...Did we really only come here to check the owner out?”

“No. The burgers. We mainly came here for the burgers”, hummed Sonia.

Mike grinned just a little bit. He had a feeling he could really get along with those two. Which, such a nice change from the stiffs Matt usually had to work with. Those made Mike wish for someone to rob the restaurant so he could get to work and sneak out with the colleagues.

And true to that prediction, the evening was actually rather nice. More like an outing with new friends than an actual business arrangement. As they left the restaurant to make their way back home, the two couples paused in surprise.

“Shooting stars. Beautiful, but... I didn’t read anything about a shower?”, mused Sonia softly.

“Oh, we have to make a wish!”, exclaimed Matt, tugging on Mike’s arm.

Both of them closed their eyes. It was a silly tradition that the Maguire siblings had always shared, ever since they were little, still living in London and sitting on their rooftop watching their first meteor shower. When they opened their eyes again, the sky was back to normal and the shooting stars were gone.

“Well, it was a please to meet you”, started Sander with a sharp nod.

“We should do this again”, suggested Matt brightly.

“I’d love to, darling”, agreed Sonia and pulled him close for a routine of kiss-right-kiss-left.

Sonia and Sander headed down the streets into the opposite direction and Matt and Mike wanted to go on their way too when a car pulled up right beside them.

“Did you sign the contract? Did it go without a hitch?”

Mike knew he should not be surprised, but he was still startled when Matt’s best friend slash personal assistant looked at them demandingly from the driver’s seat. Tatiana Tarasova was scary, to put it mildly. Sometimes, Mike was sure she could just materialize out of thin air.

“...How do you even know we’re here, Tanya?”, asked Mike stunned.

“I can read minds. It’s a Russian thing”, drawled Tanya with a serious deadpan before rolling her eyes. “I’m Matt’s assistant. I know his schedule.”

“Oh. Makes sense. Not as much sense as the mind reading, but...”, nodded Mike.

“Do you want to get in the car so I can drive you home, or do you want to walk? And will anyone answer my question?”, asked Tanya pointedly.

“It went well. She will come to the office for the official signing tomorrow morning”, replied Matt with a smile as they got into the car.

As soon as the couple sat on the backseats, Matt leaned contently against Mike and closed his eyes in sheer exhaustion. Mike smiled softly and kissed the top of his lover’s head gently.

By the time they finally got home, both were already half asleep. Mike yawned widely as he got his keys and phone out of his pockets. He paused when he felt something cold and found in his pocket. Slowly, he pulled his hand out and put the objects on the table. Keys, phone and... a marble? Frowning confused, Mike took the small, dark-blue marble and rolled it around between his fingers. It was made of glass, from the feel of it. Squinting, he took a closer look as he saw something enclosed inside the glass. Black letters. No. Numbers? He turned the marble until he could properly identify them. 69. Huh. Strange.

“Mikey? You coming to bed or do you want to sleep on the couch...?”

Shaking his head and putting the marble down, Mike turned toward their bedroom. “Coming, sunshine.”

Read here on AO3!

Previous Chapter <- || Masterpost || -> Next Chapter

#project: written in the stars #cancer: michael maguire #own story #story: written in the stars #Zodiac: Cancer #Zodiac Superheroes #Superheroes

[saintflandus]

Day is Gone: Part 8 - Not Without a Fight

Masterlist

Ship: Reader and Daryl 

Synopsis: After being rescued from Woodbury, you and Daryl come to realize there is more to your friendship than either of you are willing to admit.

Rating: M

Warnings: Language, Borderline Sexual Violence

Word Count: 3,296 words

A/N: Sorry it’s been a while since I last posted. As promised, here is part 8! I hope you enjoy it!

Your POV

You woke up in a dimly lit room tied to a chair facing Daryl. You looked around and saw nothing else. You were alone. “Daryl,” you whispered loudly. You didn’t want to attract anyone standing outside your room. “Daryl!”

He lifted his head up and looked at you. “Y/N,” he smiled.

“Don’t tell The Governor anything. You can’t trust him.”

He looked around the room. “Why would they put us in a room together?”

The Governor walked in. “Because, Daryl, if you don’t tell me what I need to know,” he walked over to you and grabbed a handful of your hair and pulled your head back, exposing your neck. He saw Daryl move uncomfortably in his chair as he watched The Governor get too close for comfort. “Where’s your camp?”

“Daryl, don’t!”

He yanked on your hair to shut you up. Daryl stared at you, not saying a word.

The Governor pulled the knife off his hip and placed the blade just above your breast where your shirt rested. “I’ll ask you one more time…Where is your group?”

“They escaped,” he said.

The Governor shook his head. With one swift movement of his knife, your shirt was cut open. Daryl shifted in his chair. The Governor’s hand found it’s way up your throat, cupping your chin. “It’s a shame he’ll have to watch,” he said.

“I’m going to kill you,” Daryl said.

He turned your chair so Daryl could see the both of you. “Not before I have my way with her.” The Governor kissed you roughly with his hand around your throat.

Daryl moved in his chair again, causing it to fall over. The Governor rolled his eyes and released you. He went to set him back up right; that’s when Daryl headbutted him square in the nose.  “Gah!” The Governor screamed, grabbing his nose. With his free hand, he punched him square in the jaw, busting his lip open. “You want her, you can have her. After the Walkers are done with her.”

He stormed out of the room to stop the bleeding. You turned your head and looked at Daryl who was spitting out blood. “Thank you. I was afraid he wouldn’t stop.”

“I don’t think he was going to,” Daryl replied. “Are you okay?”

“I think if I can get that whisky taste out of my mouth I will be fine,” you smiled.

Daryl wouldn’t look at you. “Good.”

“I drove by your group’s settlement today,” you said, “I’ve been looking for you since we left.”

He lifted his head and looked directly at you. “What about Mitch?”

You shook your head. “I think that’s done and over with.”

He smiled a weak smile and dropped his head.

“What?” You asked, mildly offended.

“You’re better without him,” he said shyly, “If he cared, you wouldn’t still be here.”

The Governor walked back in and cut your hands free. Mitch walked in and wrapped a jacket around you. Daryl looked at you, hair in his eyes. The pain filled his eyes; you could see he was worried about what they were going to do to you. You pulled your arm from Mitch’s grasp and ran to him. You knelt down and put your hands on his knees. “I’m going to get you out of here. Don’t worry about me, I’m going to be fine.” The Governor grabbed you by the arm and forced you to stand. “Daryl, don’t give him anything!” you exclaimed.

Mitch led you out of the room and closed the door behind you. “I’m so sorry,” he said.

You pulled your arm free and looked at him. “For what?”

“Daryl isn’t going to make it out of this. I begged for The Governor to let you go, and when I saw him come out of there with a bloody nose…”

“What is going to happen to him, Mitch?”

He didn’t answer. “Mitch!”

The door opened. “I’ve changed my mind,” The Governor said behind you.

Mitch’s eyes widened. “We made a deal! The archer for the girl!”

“Yeah. If it’s just him, that won’t make as big of a statement.”

The Governor grabbed you and started pushing you up the stairs. “Let go of me, you bastard!”

Daryl’s POV

“Let go of me, you bastard!” He heard her scream. “Mother fucker!” There was definitely a struggle happening outside of the door, and there was nothing he could do about it. He tried to free his hands from the rope binding them together, but it was no use. He felt the zipties on it. “Dammit,” he said under his breath.

He finally found her and got her back. Daryl looked around the room for anything to help release him. Soon, her voice had faded and she was gone. He kept pulling on the ropes and zip ties, trying to wear them down and break free, but it was no use. His head dropped as he accepted defeat. The Governor walked back in and sat in the chair across from him. “She’ll be more comfortable where she’s at now. We can talk more openly.”

Daryl glared at him. “What did you do to her?”

“Mitch had to run an errand for me, so I put her in a separate holding cell.”

He struggled against his restraints again. The Governor smiled and leaned in. “I’ll let her go if you tell me where your group is. I want to make sure they are not a threat to my settlement.”

“At the moment, they are, and if you don’t let her go, they’ll be an even bigger threat.”

The Governor stood up and walked around Daryl. “You know,” he began, “I am surprised. You’re picking a woman over your own brother.”

Daryl froze and looked over his shoulder at him. “Where’s Merle?”

“Contained. You'll see him later.”

A small man in glasses beckoned him to leave. He looked worried, and The Governor followed him out. Daryl was left to himself for the rest of the afternoon, eventually falling asleep due to boredom.

***

He was being led through a hallway blindfolded. He could hear a crowd of people as he got closer to wherever they were leading him. Daryl heard a door open as he was pushed through. The blindfold fell from his face. He squinted as he let his eyes adjust to the bright lights. He was surrounded by a large group of people. There was a cage at the other end of the makeshift arena full of Walkers. Next to the cage, chained by the ankle was Y/N. He froze in his tracks as he watched her struggle to free her leg. “Daryl!” she exclaimed as she continued to pull on the chain.

Daryl rushed to her side and grabbed the chain. He pulled, but his hands slipped and he fell into her. “They’re going to release those Walkers. Get me something to defend myself with.”

“I’m not leaving you chained up.”

Knives were thrown into the center. He rushed to grab them and then quickly returned to help her. The Governor silenced the crowd and beckoned his men to bring forth Merle and force him into the pit. “You wanted your brother, now you’ve got him.”

The town chants for Daryl and Merle’s death, but then The Governor raises his hands. “Merle, if you’re truly loyal to Woodbury, you’ll kill your brother.”

Daryl looked at Merle, who was shocked at the request. “You can’t ask me to do that,” Merle said.

The Governor sat back with his arms folded. “Merle,” Daryl started, “They’re going to kill both of us anyway. Look!” he pointed to the Walkers near Y/N.

Merle looked in that direction and then at the girl. He looked between Daryl and her. “Are you choosing her over me, brother?”

“What? Merle!”

“Okay, enough of this. Release them,” The Governor said.

The cage door opened and the Walkers slowly made their way out. Daryl looked back at his brother and then at Y/N. “Dammit,” he said, running to her side.

She was fending off two of the Walkers, holding one back while stabbing one in the head with the knife. He took one out with a swift punch to the temple, knocking it over. Its head landed on a rock, killing it instantly. He kicked the one she was holding back, pushing it to the ground. She knelt down and shoved her knife into the lock that was holding the chain on her leg. He stood in front of her as she tried to break free of her chain. Merle reluctantly walked over to help him as they fended off two more Walkers. Eventually, with the right amount of pressure and leverage, she was able to break the lock and free her foot from its grasp.  

Suddenly the area filled with smoke and there were gunshots. He grabbed Y/N’s hand and ran forward toward the shots. Rick and Maggie appeared through the smoke, beckoning the three of them to follow. Merle ran ahead and led them out of the city.

Your POV

The only thing you knew was that Daryl’s hand had a tight grip on your wrist. He was dragging you behind him as he followed his brother and Rick. You had forgotten for a moment that your family was still trapped in Woodbury, Once you reached the car that Glenn and Michonne were patiently waiting in. Glenn got out and stood in front of the door, blocking Merle from the car. “He’s not coming with us,”he said.

Daryl dropped your hand. “Of course he is.”

“I’m sorry, Daryl, but I can’t allow him to come back,” Rick added.

“Don’t ask me to leave him. I already did that once,” he replied, “I’ve spent all this time looking for my brother. I’m not leaving him behind again.”

Maggie walked over to Daryl and calmly added, “We can’t bring him. He’s caused too many problems in our group.”

Daryl looked at you and then back at the group. “Then I can’t come either.”

He turned to leave with Merle. “Daryl!” Rick called after him.

“Take care of Y/N and her family,” he said. Your heart skipped. Your family! “I swear if anything happens to her, you’ll have me to deal with.”

Before you knew it, Daryl and Merle disappeared into the forest. Rick punched the car door out of anger before opening it for you and Maggie to crawl into. You slid in and looked behind the car, hoping Daryl would come back, but as the car pulled away those chances diminished. You turned around and leaned your head on the seat and sighed. Maggie leaned over, “Mitch got your family out. The Governor had you heavily guarded after they separated you from Daryl, so he decided the best move was to get your family out first. They’re headed to the prison.”

“Mitch?”

She nodded. “He knew The Governor would go after them next, so he snuck them out while he was preoccupied.”

You smiled. Despite your current standings, he still was looking out for you. You leaned back and closed your eyes as the car made it’s way back to the prison. You thought of Daryl as he left with Merle. You grew upset with him the longer you thought about it. He abandoned you. You could feel the tears welling in your eyes, so you kept them closed as you hoped they wouldn’t spill over.

Daryl’s POV

The next morning, Daryl woke up, staring directly up at the sky. The guilt hit him hard. He left her behind; he abandoned his group - the people who have sacrificed the most for him since the world went to shit. The self loathing began to sink in as he continued to replay the night before.

“Get up,” Merle said.

He rolled over and grabbed his crossbow.

“It’s time to get movin’.”

Daryl dusted off his pants and slung his weapon over his shoulder. They continued trekking through the woods, unsure of what exactly they were looking for. He walked in silence, following Merle, letting his mind wander; it would always find its way back to her. The look of disappointment on her face stuck with him. He knew that he was letting her down, but he couldn’t leave his brother -- his family, his blood.

“Did you hear me?” Merle asked.

Daryl came out of his thoughts and looked at him. “No, sorry.”

“I said we need to find a car so we can get the hell out of here. We need to get as far away from The Governor as possible.”

He nodded and continued walking.

“You’re not still thinking of that girl, are you?” He grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him around.

“No,” he said softly as he jerked away from Merle. “Let’s find a car and get out of here.”

“You are,” he laughed, “there can’t be anything special about her other than just a nice piece of ass.”

Daryl gritted his teeth together and ignored Merle.

“Did you hit that?”

He could feel his anger welling inside him. “Knock it off, Merle.”

Merle threw his arm around Daryl’s shoulders. “You did! She seems to get around; you, Mitch. Do you think she’d throw me a bone?”

He pushed Merle off him. “I said knock it off!” He walked faster so he was yards ahead of him. Soon he reached the road and started heading West, far away from the direction of the prison. Merle’s laughter died away as he walked faster, leaving him a good distance behind Daryl.

Your POV

You had made it to the prison a few days ago and managed to make a new home a few cells down from Carol. You had a cell to yourself as your family and Mitch lived in the ones next to you. Mitch decided to give you some space, unsure where you stood since everything that had happened in the last few days. He would occasionally come check on you or see if you needed anything, but for the most part he kept his distance. You still felt guilty for how you left things with him the day of the attack, but you had apologized and said your peace.

Early that morning you woke up to Judith’s crying. Rick had gone on another one of his nightly walks around the prison, which left her unattended. You walked over to the crying child and picked her up. Cooing at the crying baby, you rocked her back and forth trying to calm her. Carol approached you with a bottle and smiled. “She seems to like you,” she said.

“I think she will like anyone who gives her a bottle.”

“She adored Daryl the same way she adores you, though. She was his ‘Lil Ass Kicker.’”

You ignored the last comment and handed the baby to Carol. “I should take my post for the morning. I signed up for Morning Watch today, that way Maggie and Glenn can rest in their own beds.”

You walked out of the prison and into the courtyard. The sun had risen; it was going to be hot today. You unbuttoned your shirt and held it in your hands. You tank top was already starting to stick to your sweaty body from the Summer Georgia Humidity. You climbed the stairs and found a sleeping Maggie and Glenn. You nudged them with your foot and motioned for them to go to bed. The left quickly, leaving you alone in the tower. You walked out on the terrace and leaned against the railing. You had a clear shot on all sides of the grounds and the perimeter.

The morning passed into the afternoon, and you were sitting with your feet propped up on the rail when Maggie walked up. “I can relieve you if you want.”

“No, it’s fine. You and Glenn had a rough night,” you said with a wink.

She smiled. You both were looking toward the woods, past the fence, when you noticed something odd. You grabbed the binoculars, but by the time you were able to focus on it, it was too late. The gunshot struck Axle square in the head, and that’s when the storm of bullets took over. You and Maggie ducked down and quickly made your way down the stairs of the tower. You ran to Carol as Maggie ran inside to grab the guns. She quickly distributed to everyone and the gunfire continued. You took your aim carefully as you began to pick off The Governor’s men. Each shot was gut wrenching, because you knew most of the men fighting. They were all good people brainwashed into serving this psychopath, but now was war. You needed to save your new family. You were so focused on your targets you didn’t hear the truck barrel through your fences and releasing Walkers in the yard.

Quickly, you closed the gate to your second wall of defense as you waited for the rest of your group to return: Hershel, Rick, and Glenn. You saw Rick running out from under a bridge, taking out as many Walkers as he could, trying to make his way to safety. You and Maggie watched helplessly as you watched him struggle. You picked off as many as you could with your rifle, but it wasn’t helping much with the horde. Just when you thought it was too late for Rick, you saw through your scope a crossbow bolt strike a Walker in the back of the head. Daryl and Merle walked out of the woods and continued to slay undead as they approached. They soon made their way to the gate as you opened it to let them in. Maggie hugged Rick and then Daryl, thankful for their safety. You stood back with Carol as you watched them let Glenn and Hershel in. Merle stood off to the side, watching the spectacle, stabbing Walkers through the fence.

Daryl sheepishly walked over to you. You stared at him, anger filling your eyes. Before he could get a single word out, you punched him square in the jaw and stormed into the jail. As you walked away, you knew you would forgive him eventually, but you needed to be infuriated with him for the moment. You sat on your bad and cleaned your gun. This and cleaning your knife was a great way for you to relieve stress. Everyone knew to leave you alone as you did this, however, Daryl wasn’t everyone. Within minutes, he was standing at your cell door leaning against the frame. “I’m sorry,” he said.

You looked up at him. His eyes peered straight into yours, pleading for you to forgive him. “How’s your jaw?”

He rubbed it. “Sore.”

“Good. Maybe next time you won’t throw a fit and leave.”

“I just needed to learn where my priorities were.”

You stopped what you were doing. “And did you?”

He nodded. “I did. I’m not going anywhere now.”

You smiled and went back to cleaning your gun. “Good. I’m up to 43 now,” you said.

“Well, I’m up to 44. Looks like we have a close race.”

Both of you knew that the other was lying, but this friendly competition helped to remind you of a much simpler and safer time. “Why did you come back?”

“Did you really think I was going to let you go?” he smiled and sat down next to you.

Your face flushed, remembering the time he spent wounded at your house. You had asked him the same question when he tried to leave. “Not without a fight,” you replied. You squeezed his hand and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you for getting me out of there. I owe you everything.”

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