#here i used you know me too well and broken machine

[rockettothestars222]

Summary : After the battle with Adam, Alastor disappeared. Everyone was sure he was dead, but you knew better than that. You find him injured and vulnerable in his broken down radio tower, and decide to give him a hand with his wounds.

Tags : GenderNeutral!reader, reader is shorter than Al, soft!Alastor, sorta, fluff, lots of fluff, hurt/comfort, Alastor is losing it

Notes : My first Tumblr one shot! Hopefully this isn’t too OOC, but writing a character who hides any sign of real emotion being vulnerable is difficult. Enjoy!

Word Count : 2,418

——————

You breathed, Hell’s fiery air stinging your lungs as you looked around at the death and destruction that surrounded you. You look back over your shoulder, Charlie’s quiet sniffles taking your attention. Lucifer was knelt in front of her, his hand brushing her cheek, a weak attempt at comforting her after her life’s dream was just destroyed. You frowned, your brow creasing together as you felt a hand on your shoulder. Looking up, your gaze me with Angel Dust’s.

“You did good out there,” he smiles down at you, an excited squeal coming from the pig in his opposite arms. You muster a strained grin, but his fades. “Still sucks though, huh?”

You nod, dropping your grin, “Yeah, still sucks. I can’t believe it’s all gone,” you look away from the arachnid, your eyes casting over the destroyed hotel once again. Angel nods, his arm drifting around your shoulder and giving you a squeeze, the best, and really the only, form of comfort he knows how to provide.

“We’ll rebuild it,” he squeezes you again, before releasing you and approaching Charlie and the rest of the group. You follow behind, though your gaze remains astray, scanning the battleground. Looking for any sign of someone alive. You know deep down who you were looking for.

Alastor, the overlord you’d grown to call a friend.

Not everyone would consider him that, but you were an optimist. You hoped he’d consider you the same. No one in Hell would be as kind as he had been to you without considering you some sort of friend. Or, well, as kind as an overlord like him could be. And everyone was convinced he was gone, but you weren’t that naive. Alastor, if faced with death or fleeing, would flee. He was snarky and a bit egotistical, sure, but he wasn’t an idiot.

“Uhm, hey, I’m going to get see if I can find any of my stuff out here. Maybe some of it is salvageable,” you call to the rest of the group, stepping closer to the mess that used to be your home. The ground cracked beneath you as you stepped across the rubble. Charlie, who’d seemingly made her peace with the tragedy that had occurred, looked to you, rising to her feet.

“Do you want any help?”

“No, no, I got it,” you were lying to your teeth, but you had to see if he was out there. She looked at you with sympathetic eyes, walking closer and wrapping you in a tight hug. Your arms wrap around her waist, squeezing her close.

“Be careful out there, okay? I don’t want you getting hurt on anything. We’re going to go and get something to eat, try and relax a bit before we start rebuilding tomorrow. Text me when you’re done, you can meet us out there, okay?” She pulls away from you, her hands still resting on your shoulders as yours fell to your sides.

“I’ll be careful, I promise,” you assure, smiling as the taller girl pulls away from you fully, waving you goodbye as she approaches the rest of the group. You watch as they leave, before turning back to the rubble, that strained smile of yours dropping. You rubbed your cheeks. How did Alastor do that all the time?

And with that, you were off, wandering as your eyes scanned the area, reminiscing as you came across bits and pieces of the place you’d called home for the past 6 months. Broken pieces of Sir Pentious’ old machinery make your brows furrow together, a feeling that you could only describe as grief swallowing your thoughts for a brief moment, your chest tightening. You stared at that machine for a good few minutes before tearing your gaze away, trying to look at anything else.

And there it was.

A good 30 feet from you was Alastor’s radio tower. Some of the windows broken, dented, and on its side, but for the most part it was still in tact. You began to walk towards it, without much thought. He’d spent a lot of time there before you’d all started preparing for the extermination. He was insistent it was the best part of the hotel.

The closer you got, the more hesitant you became. If the trail of blood in the dirt wasn’t off putting enough, the green glow that was emitting from tower surely was. But these two things sealed one thing in your mind: Alastor was alive. Of course he was, you’d known that. But that small strand of doubt was planted in your head by the others.

You walk around the broken and dented structure, before finding that the hatch inside was already open. You drew a final breath before pulling yourself up and inside. As you heaved yourself into the tower, you were met with something hard to look at. Alastor had his back turned to you, one arm over his chest, one arm helping him hold himself upright against the control panel of the tower. His overcoat had been thrown to the floor, it was a rare sight to see him without it. You frowned, pushing off of the floor and standing. You wanted to move closer, but weren’t sure you could do so without startling the overlord. If you’d managed to get this close without him noticing, you knew he must be very deep in thought.

“Alastor?” You tried, your voice soft. Even so, Alastor’s whole body stilled, his head turning sharply to look at you, his horns and shoulders growing two times their normal size. He had a wild look in his eye, but seemed to calm as he realized it was you, his body relaxing, and returning to its original position. His expression had turned sour, despite the constant smile.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he replied, his voice hoarse as he looked away. You frowned, stepping closer, avoiding the pools of blood on the ground.

“Alastor, we thought you were dead,” your voice was back to its normal volume.

The static sound, that was nearly a constant whenever Alastor was near, seemed to grow louder as his entire body span to face you, almost as if he were going to get angry, but he stumbled, both of his hands going back and gripping the control panel behind him. Now, you could see the giant gash across his chest, blood seeped into his shirt. Your eyes trailed from the bottom of his wound, up to meet his eyes. There was something behind them that you couldn’t quite place.

There was a beat of silence before you piped up again.

“He really got you, huh?” You point out the obvious, walking closer. Alastor tried to straighten himself, only using one hand to keep himself upright as the other found its way back to covering the wound.

“It is nothing that I can’t handle,” he assured, pressing his arm closer to his body. You stopped in front of him, looking into his eyes as you placed your hand on his. He wretched away, his rear pressing fully against the control panel, his hand sliding back. “Don’t.”

“Alastor,” you began, but he cut you off.

“Perhaps you misunderstood, I am FINE,” he growls, pushing himself away and walking around you, you turn to follow him with your eyes. “He may have hit me but I’m alive. Of COURSE I am. I mean, if I weren’t what would people think?”

Your brows furrowed, “what are you talking about, Al?”

“I have been a wonder to everyone since I manifested here, if I died for the princess of Hell and her low life sinners, I would be regarded as some,” he paused, clutching his chest as he turned away from you. “Altruist.”

He spat the word like it was the worst thing to ever leave his lips.

“I would be regarded at the ‘Oh so powerful Radio Demon who DIED for a chance at a redemption that isn’t even POSSIBLE.”

You walked closer to him, placing a hesitant hand on the small of his back. He glanced over his shoulder, and your expression softened.

“Alastor, no one is expecting you to die for us. All I want from you right now is. For you to let me help you,” you searched his face for any sign of agreement, but he was nearly impossible to read. A sigh escaped him. “You’re really hurt, Al.”

“I know,” he murmured, his ears flicking back as he turned to face you. He walked back towards the control panel, you trailing behind. You assumed him accepting that he was hurt was the closest thing you’d get to him saying, ‘I need help.’

“You should sit. It’ll be easier that way,” you looked up at Alastor, who was avoiding your gaze like the plague. You assumed he was ashamed of the situation he was in. He sat on the edge of the counter, snapping his fingers. A roll of bandages and pads of gauze appearing in your hands. You sat them down on the control panel beside him.

“I could have done this on my own, my dear,” he looks down at your hands as they reach for the buttons on his shirt, gently unbuttoning the first few.

“I’m sure you could have,” you murmur, though not fully paying attention to his words. You reached the last few buttons, pulling his shirt open. You could feel your face flushing as the his undershirt slipped off of his shoulders. It was a little unbelievable that the big bad Radio Demon was allowing this, but you supposed coming face to face with a second death was enough to allow a miracle.

Bending down slightly at your waist to reach better, you take some of the gauze, pressing it firmly to his wound. Alastor took a sharp inhale, his ears shifting back further than they already had been. Your frown grew deeper as you looked up at him, your free hand taking his, gently stroking your thumb across his skin.

“Alastor? Is this okay?” Your eyes scan his face, that somehow managed to display pain all while wearing that signature smile.

“It’s fine. I don’t want to hear a word about this when you’re done,” he winced, squeezing your hand as you began to wrap the bandages around the bottom half of his wound. You rolled your eyes, nodding.

“Not like anyone would believe me. I mean, you? Hurt? Impossible, right?” You pressed another piece of gauze to him, causing his claws to dig into your skin. It didn’t break, but it stung a bit. You tried your best not to show it — however hard that was — you didn’t want him to think that this, whatever this is, wasn’t okay.

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” he looked down at you, his brow creasing. You both fell silent, the crackling of radio static tickling your ears. You wrapped the rest of his wound in silence, your free hand grazing down the bandages, just barely making contact.

“You know,” you start, rising to your normal posture, finally removing your hand from his. “Letting someone help you doesn’t make you any less powerful.”

Another beat of silence as you grabbed the hem of his shirt, pulling it back up over his shoulders. His hands, in one swift motion, grabbed yours and pulled you between his legs, closer to his chest. You looked up at him, your eyes widening as they met his. Just inches away from your own was The Radio Demon’s face. His eyes were pitch black, red radio dials replacing his pupils. His neck was contorted, smile stretched further than you imagined could be comfortable.

“You. Don’t. Understand,” he growled, his breath hot against your face. You tried your best to remain composed, not looking away from him as his grip on you tightened. “You are not ME. You could not possibly imagine the position I am in because of that DAMNED hotel.”

“You’re right.”

Alastor’s grip loosened immensely, his neck snapping back to be in it’s anatomically correct shape. His eyes fluttered a few times before returning to normal, he looked almost confused by your agreement. He stayed silent, even his static flushing to barely a hum.

“Alastor, I don’t know what it’s like in your shoes right now. But if you ever wanted to TELL me what it’s like, I’d be here to listen,” you, gently, squeezed his hands in yours. Alastor’s eyes scanned every inch of your face, over and over and over. Looking for any sign that you were going to use this vulnerability against him. To hurt him. To knock him down from the tower he’d built for himself. But there was none. Your expression held nothing but genuineness.

He briefly considered telling you everything that was troubling him, briefly thought about scaring you away so he didn’t have to face you, and though still brief, his thoughts lingered on the consideration of pulling you closer and thanking you for treating him like he wasn’t the monster he knew he truly was. But he did none of those things. He didn’t have time to unbox what all of those thoughts said about him. He just smiled down at you, a real smile, his left hand caressing your face.

“Thank you for helping me, my dearest,” Alastor’s voice had returned to its normal chipper tone, but it didn’t seem as fake as usual. Not when it was directed at you. A grin of your own blossomed across your face as you placed your hand on his, leaning your cheek into his hand. You turned you face a bit, placing your lips against his palm for a short moment, all while never breaking eye contact. If you didn’t know better, you’d of sworn a light blush crossed Alastor’s cheeks.

“Anytime, Al.”

Alastor cleared his throat, his ears flicking back into an upright position as he pulled his hands away from you and pushed himself up and off of the control panel. He straightened his posture re-buttoning his bloody and tethered undershirt. You quickly grabbed his overcoat so he wouldn’t try to bend over and grab it himself, and ushered back over to him. He took it from your arms, putting it on and dusting it off as if that would mend its holes and cleanse it of the blood that stained it.

“Well, I should be going now,” Alastor approached you, taking your hand for a final time and placing a kiss to your knuckles. “You are truly a diamond in the rough, darling. I’ll be seeing you soon.”

“Wait, where are you—” but before you could complete that question, he disappeared in a flash of green light and dark smoke. You blinked, your face flushing as you recalled what had just happened. You were almost unsure it was real.

You’d have to tell Charlie the new hotel was going to need a radio tower.

#fanfic #alastor #writing #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel #hazbin angel dust #hazbin charlie #hazbin lucifer #hazbin sir pentious #hazbin vaggie #hazbin husk #hazbin fanfic #alastor x reader #alastor x you #comfort #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel x you #rockettothestars222

[huskersbooze]

Helloo! Can i Request an alastor x reader angst? (I love angst im sorry😭) where reader n alastor are good friends, but soon alastor starts catching feelings, he didn’t like that so he starts ignoring reader hoping it’ll go away, but when alastor realizes it doesn’t, he wanted to apologize for ignoring reader and maybe confessing, but he couldn’t cause he found out reader got redeemed into heaven? Please and thank you!!

A/N : Oh fuck yes I'm a sucker for angst. This is actually a really interesting concept! Completely opposite to my other fic where Reader ignores Al. Thank you for the ask <3

Alastor Doesn't Do Feelings

Alastor x Reader

Pairing : Alastor x F!Reader (M!Reader here, Gn!Reader here)

Warnings : Cusing(what do you expect? It's Hazbin Hotel)

Additional Tags : Angst, no use of (Y/n), use of dear/darling

Word count : 1.25k

It was never supposed to turn out this way. Alastor, the fucking Radio Demon, doesn't do feelings.

But here he was, finding himself getting flustered, his cheeks red, ears pinned back and his smile faltering.

And it was all because of you.

"-and so I told him to back the heck away, but I swear his brain can't seem to comprehend simple words! He-"

You went on and on about your day, but Alastor could only focus on the close proximity between the two of you and your hand came so close to brushing his every minute or so.

"Alastor! Freaking hell!" He snapped out of his trance when he heard you yell his name.

He cleared his throat, quickly gathering himself once more, "Yes, darling?"

"Were you even listening to me?"

"Of course, I was." Which, frankly, was a lie.

"Just go to bed, dipshit."

"I don't need sleep."

"Your brain is hijacked, Al." You try to give his ears a scratch. Alastor attempts a dodge but fails. "See? You can't even dodge a simple pet on the head."

"I let you do that."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night."

"Darling, you know I don't sleep."

"It was an expression, babe."

He knew you meant it as a joke, a light-humoured name you called him; like how he called you "dear" or "darling".

But he couldn't help the blush that found a way to his face.

"Alastor! You're doing it again!"

"I beg your pardon?" He snaps out from his trance.

"You're dozing off again. Are your radio parts radio-ing properly?"

"I'm not an actual radio, my dear."

"Well, you sure act like a broken down machine." You let out a giggle, him doing the same, but it ultimately sounded like he was buffering.

"You need help." You get up and give him another ruffle behind the ears, catching him off guard. "G'night, Al."

He doesn't respond.

He's too busy screaming internally.

-----

Alastor doesn't do feelings. Yet, here he was a broken mess because of you.

No, this was unacceptable. All he'd work for. His reputation. The danger it'd put you in.

He couldn't afford any of that gone — especially not you.

How was he to get rid of this weird churning he gets in his stomach when you near, though? How was he to stop loving you?

-----

Alastor doesn’t do feelings. He nearly did, once, because of you. But he’d found a way to stop it.

Or so, he thought.

“Good morning, Al.”

Out of everyone in the hotel, you were the one person he could tolerate. Despite your polar interests and behaviour, Alastor actually found it quite enjoyable to be by your side.

Sure, you rarely cursed, was so sweet and couldn’t bare the thought of killing, but Alastor never minded. You were the one person he looked forward to seeing everyday. He would usually only talk to you.

“Husker, may I have a word?” Yet, here Alastor was, completely ignoring your existence like you were some irrelevant imp a few rings down.

“Uh, sure, boss.” Husk sends you a questioning stare as you return the favour.

He didn’t actually have anything to say to him; it just hurt to see you. The feelings still lingered and he couldn’t do jackshit about it. 

Staying away from you was only supposed to get rid of his feelings, not intensify them.

“Alastor?” Yet, your voice captivated him in every way possible and his desire to be yours increased.

He simply left the room, and the two of you never spoke after that.

-----

“Alastor doesn’t do feelings, honey.”

“I know, Rosie! But we’re just friends and he knows that.” You take a sip from the tea Rosie prepared for you. “Though, lately, he’s been completely disregarding my presence like I’m the bane of his existence.”

“Don’t look too much into it! I’m sure it’s nothing. It’s just Alastor being Alastor.”

“But it’s not.” You sigh. “Something’s changed between us and I’m not sure what it is.”

“Well, did anything specific happen?”

“I.. I don’t know.” Your voice cracks at the agony. “I just.. Everything was fine that night. I just told him to sleep and the next morning it’s like I never existed.”

“Hm. That does sound odd.”

“Exactly! And I’m not sure what to do or if- if I’ve angered him- or- or maybe he’s sick of me-”

“Honey, breathe.” Rosie’s hand finds yours across the table as she rubs soothing circles on the back of your palm. “It’s in his nature to be sending mixed signals. Just give him time. He’ll come to terms with you eventually.”

“Are.. Are you sure?”

“You came to me for a reason.” She jokes, though her warm smile never left her face.

“Thank you, Rosie.”

-----

Alastor, your beloved strawberry pimp, doesn’t do feelings. He didn’t, he doesn’t and he won’t.

At least, that was before he realised he was catching feelings for you.

He’s tried so hard to ignore it. He’s done everything he could to ignore you, but despite his best efforts, you still found a way to float straight back into his mind.

“Alastor?”

“Yes, darling?” It took him a while to comprehend the fact he accidentally called Husk “darling”. His mind was just filled with thoughts of you.

“Uh.. anyways.” Husk cleared his throat. “You were close with the kid, right?”

“I suppose.” He shrugs, saying it as a matter of fact-ly. “Nothing serious.”

Alastor nearly flinched as he said it himself. 

Nothing serious.

But in fact, it was starting to get serious. He was in love with you, head-over-heels obsessed, but he couldn’t come to terms with the fact and decided to push you away.

Fuck. What was he thinking?

“Yes, well I just.. wanted to let ya’ know she’s-”

“In a minute, Husker.” He says, taking off and trying to find you. He had to apologize. He had to talk to you and explain himself. But then, that would mean he had to confess.

Confess. Alastor’s smile widened as he thought of the idea. Blush crept from his face all the way down to his neck and his tail was uncontrollably wagging under his coat.

He loved you.

Turns out, Alastor does, and will do feelings.

-----

“Husker, have you seen her?” After a whole day of looking around the hotel, he couldn’t seem to find you anywhere. 

“Her?” He asks, then immediately realising there could only be one her. “I was trying to tell you, boss. The kid.. The kid passed.”

“What?” His smile falters, eyes twitching, but still keeping his composure.

“Some drunk ass dude got hold of an angelic weapon from the last extermination. She was stabbed on her way back from cannibal town.”

The static in his ears were ringing louder by the second. This wasn’t supposed to happen. No, it wasn’t supposed to end like this. He was only supposed to get rid of his feelings, not you.

This whole plan backfired. It was a mistake. He kept what he hadn’t wanted, and lost what he desired.

-----

Alastor doesn’t do feelings.

He does, but only for you. He keeps his heart closed in hopes you’re still somewhere out there.

Any other demon who tries to get with him, ultimately gets turned down.

Alastor doesn’t do feelings, no; but he does feelings. He saves the romantic kind for you. The platonic ones, however, are open doors now because of you.

Alastor didn’t do feelings, but he does now — in hopes he gets redeemed and can find you in heaven.

———[ End. ]———

#hazbin hotel #hazbin #alastor #hazbin hotel season 1 #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor the radio demon #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin alastor #hazbinhotel #hazbin hotel 2024 #alastor hazbin #alastor altruist #alastor fluff #alastor headcanons #alastor x reader #alastor x you #radio demon #alastor angst #hazbin hotel rosie #angel reader #alastor has a tail #alastor has a heart

[moondirti]

8. VICES

CHAPTER EIGHT OF ANIMALIC | MIGUEL O'HARA X F!READER

↼ chapter seven / chapter nine ⇀

summary: a shower, a training session, and a blowjob

explicit (18+) | 5.8k words warnings: enemies to lovers, training arcs, unhinged smut, dubious consent, it's rough guys, blowjobs, handjobs, miguel o'hara is a strict (asshole) mentor, throat-fucking, choking, mentions of infidelity, mentions of starvation, homelessness notes: well. hope y'all still respect me after reading this

The cell doesn’t last long. 

You don’t know what you expected; the terms of your deal weren’t exactly negotiated in full. As a matter of fact, they hadn’t been discussed at all. You’d assumed Miguel agreed based on his reticence – as you’ve come to anticipate from him, a non-answer always means you have a point he’d rather not appreciate. But he’d added little else after the figurative pouring of your soul, his back turning towards you instead, fixing his hands on his waist. And it had stayed that way, up until you were escorted back to the laser enclosure, still as much a prisoner as anybody else.

So, perhaps you were wrong. You convinced yourself that it was okay, that you didn’t have any hope for your own redemption. You weren’t his problem to deal with anymore, not since you agreed to go home. He probably couldn’t see the potential in you, anyway. A string of excuses drawn upon one common line – self-degradation. Tamping yet another pipe dream destined to leave you evermore downtrodden. And that was okay. 

That is, until you were roused from sleep by the scarlet spider much later. It’d been light, a rest on the verge of consciousness, contorted into the most compressed position possible to make use of limited space. In truth, you’d been thankful for it – to be granted a break from the fruitless struggle and, finally, some cue towards your fate. But he led you away from the anomaly imprisonment sector – opposite from the go-home machine you thought would be your adjudicator.

Now, you’re here.

“Was ordered to pull something together from a spare recovery room,” Reilly crosses his arms, giving an approving nod to nothing at all. “‘Course s’not the biggest – not meant to be used for extended periods of time, but I could manage if I were you.” 

You don’t let yourself harbour a reaction, not before he leaves you to your own devices.  

Because, well – it’s perfect.

There’s not much to compare it to, naturally. You’d grown accustomed to sharing a dormitory back at college, cramped in shoebox square footage with your roommate. Then, when your earth had gone to shit, there were no houses left to revel in. The past year since your miraculous escape have found you homeless, huddled under awnings or atop park benches, and by that point, discomfort had found a permanent friend in you. 

Yet–

White asymmetric panelling hems the studio, broken up only by a triangular window that peeks out onto Nueva York’s cityscape. On your right, the wall recesses in to form a bed nook, where fitted sheets hug a thick mattress, two feather pillows stacked at one end. Opposite it hovers a multi-purpose desk, niche’s carrying reusable utensils, bowls, a lamp and a small first-aid kit. 

And it’s all you could want. Gorgeous. Not conventionally so, no; it’s plain and lacklustre with an air of futuristic frigidness. But it’s clean, and comes equipped with an air conditioning system that puts you in control of the temperature you sleep in. It’s a stationary point for you to return to,  no matter the day’s drag – a place to call yours if not home. 

Not to mention, there’s a flat door towards the back, too plain to have caught your attention until you actively look for it. It has no handle, opened with a slight push that releases a latch, and swings outwards. Given the size of the corner, you’re forced to take a step back – which, a more ungrateful version of yourself would’ve marked as a con, but you’re too caught up in the novelty of what you’re led into.

A bathroom. A private, unrestricted bathroom – with a toilet and a sink and a fucking shower. You’re unable to repress the grin that stretches your cheeks, absolutely ecstatic with the – however temporary – development. No more sneaking into gyms to use their bath facilities, fortunes splurged on soap over dinner. You can wash yourself whenever you see fit, not have to feel guilty about deluding expensive memberships or your own hunger. 

(Small blessings; that still-pious part of you succumbs to the sign. You’re being rewarded. You’re on the right track.) 

Immediately, you schedule your night. A shower, first – partly for your excitement, majorly for the necessity. You doubt there are laundry machines nearby, if there’s any at all, so soaking your clothes in the sink should have to do the trick. You have no others, and to ask for more would be testing the grace you’ve been granted so far. Besides, the sheets look sterile – to lay in them bare can’t be the worst option.

Wiggling your fingers, you plug the drain to fill the basin. The garments you shuck off quickly settle there too, crumpled in a way that only exposes all their worn-down qualities. Jagged rips in your jeans, caked gore on your shirt. It’s instinct to turn away once the grime bleeds into the water, dying the once-clear pool with the unsavoury colour of your recent exploits. Harder, however, is trying to ignore the dried slick on your panties, bashfully tucking them underneath everything else. 

Engrossed by the chore, you’re almost taken by surprise by the flash of your reflection in the half-body mirror. It comes suddenly, a shape in your peripheral that looks like it’s in the wrong place. An apparition in a horror flick – darkened, wrapped in bandages and dirt and set with heavy eyes from days of unrest. Your heart rate spikes, stuttering rapidly even as you realise that it is, indeed, you. 

Or – you and Wraith. Both, existing simultaneously. 

Because it is the image you’ve become familiar with. The slope of your cheeks, the curve at your waist. It’s off putting seeing her again after some time; you don’t think you’ve spared a glance for more than half a second since the day of the gala, when you’d sat crouched in front of yourself, swiping gloss on puckered lips. But it’s those same lips that purse back at you now, unchanged. You recognise it all so quickly.

None of it resonates. 

An ugly bruise mars your temple, a yellowing one at your ribs. Your skin is littered with silver scars, or purple, depending on recency, like the two points at your neck where fangs have made their mark. Stark, white gauze circles each arm, one below your shoulder, the other above your wrist. And you’re… less, than you had been – evidence found around your cheekbones, or across your collar. Your flesh sinks into the hollow planes behind bone. When was the last time you’d eaten? 

Wraith. This haunted, cursed figure. 

You breathe through the discouragement. You tell yourself that it’s okay, the words quickly becoming a new mantra. You won’t go as far as to say it’s ambition – but the new sense of purpose that courses through you works to drown it out. You have something to work towards, no longer an aimless soul wandering uncharted realms. Whatever happened, whatever happens – all of it doesn’t matter now that you’re finally setting things straight. 

Your enthusiasm is enough to tide you over, at least, and when you step in the shower, the final dregs of hatred drip away.

White noise accompanies the cleanse. You’re suspended, surrounded by the pitter patter of water splattering down on the tiled floor. It’s overwhelming – the system has been pre-programmed to a common preference, but you find that it’s too cold for you, turning it up to one that singes your exposed form instead. Your lungs tighten, unaccustomed to the steam that quickly replaces oxygen. Hair plasters to your ears. It’s good, though, an appreciated racket. You look for soap and can  focus only on that, the buzz of guilt that constantly occupies you drowned out in favour for more menial tasks.

Of course, that really only leaves room for one train of thought.

You wonder what he’s doing right now. Has he retired for the night, back to a warm home with a partner already drowsy, cushioned in their shared bed? He seems like a family man, the type to have a galley kitchen that breaks open to a dining room, four chairs tucked beneath glossy oak. One supplanted by a high chair, maybe, meant for a squealing babe; because he’s a dad, for sure. You’ve never known Miguel to be tender, but that’s towards you and your criminal disposition. There’s a sort of careful consideration he harbours – like stopping mid sentence, that moniker, Wraith, on his tongue, and opting for something less loathsome when you grimace. You imagine it honed in a gentler setting, fostered by children he adores. 

And his spouse– 

You squeeze a generous dollop of shampoo on your palm, working it into your scalp. 

What is his type, anyway? Dedicated individuals who prioritise discipline over all else? Certainly, he wouldn’t be married to another spider-person, not when their relationship jeopardises his mission’s motto. Someone homegrown, then, a childhood sweetheart who knew him before he became all that. Who continued to love every inch of him as sinew stretched to brawn, the civilian he once was falling out like a baby tooth, fangs spouting in its stead. Unconditionally, or something along the lines. 

You recognise the notion, how important it is for a hero like him. To be tasked with responsibilities beyond human ability, one has to become more. A martyr, a villain when need be. You don’t exactly blame his vendetta against you, but you’ve come to resent the man regardless. Doubtlessly, the sentiment is felt by others he’s put in their place.

So, someone who sees past all that. Miguel O’Hara, as he is behind the mask.

The provided bar of soap is small enough to wrap your hand around. You flip it a few times, lathering it until suds form. It’s unscented, so you imagine what it could be. Patchouli springs up, the most immediate smell in your memory. You have to squash it down, alongside the ache that gnaws your core.

Sulphur, pungent and sickening as it permeates your earth’s atmosphere. 

Ichor and its metallic aftermath, clinging to your tongue. 

The catalogue presented in the last year isn’t exactly pleasant. You push beyond it, settling on a vague cloud that accompanied your college roommate. Her lavender lotion, of which she bought in bulk. You’d smear it over your knuckles and knees prior to class, comforted by the balsamic undernotes. Light, fresh. Your peers would gravitate towards you, divinely feminine, resting their heads on your shoulder when lectures droned on for too long. 

(And you’re aware of how dead they all are, blown to ash because of you. 

You’ll ask for lavender products, perhaps, when you’re sent back.) 

Is it a prerequisite to being a hero – to be loved by someone from before, who sees you for who you are? You have no one, and you’re afraid of what it means for your salvation. The right thing, in your case, is eternal solitude. When it comes down to it, would you be able to accept that? 

Your gut sinks; the answer you come up with is selfish still. No. 

There’s a long way to go until that changes.

(Your skin prickles. The water sprays right through you.

You wait until you phase back in.)

With nothing left to do, you rinse off. You can feel the rot begin to grow on the sanctuary you’ve built, and with hope to return, you can’t have it destroyed just yet. 

Your room is cold when you exit, recycled air nipping your balmy skin. The towel – found folded under the sink for resident convenience – is shorter than you would like, barely enough to wrap around your bust. That is to say, it’s utterly useless at preserving heat. It occurs to you to stand in place and drip-dry, but going to bed damp is asking for a sickness that’ll knock you off course. 

You’re about to check the heater when you notice something strange, lumped by the entrance. 

For all intents and purposes, it looks like a trash bag. Slouched in a teardrop shape, tied off with an expert knot. The colouring is off though – not the plain charcoal you’d expect, but grungier, stroked with a varicoloured grain. It seems to shift, too, flicking between textures; red, yellow, grey with little inked words, as if cut straight from a newspaper. 

It’s so distinctive that you can discern who it’s from; a spider-person expressed in much the same manner. Hobie. 

It’d do well to approach it with hesitation. After all, you have no business with him. The most you’ve exchanged was a thanks, after he’d defended your plea the first time you’d been captured by the spider society. It seems so long ago now, but you recall the comfort his stance had provided, already scared out of your wits by the hoard of stylised people who claimed they were like you. He’d been the only one to see that. 

Sighing, you tear through the side, nails too soft to undo the top. The contents are remarkably plain. Leggings. T-shirts. Packs of underwear and a hairbrush. Long socks, meant for the boots he’d also thrown in. The only article that reflects his personal way of dress is a cardigan, patches haphazardly attached with yarn. In one slouchy pocket, a piece of parchment sticks out. 

(A housewarming gift. Figured you’d need it. 

– HB.)

And it doesn’t feel like charity, as opposed to Ben’s escorting you here. Rather, his genuinity registers through the scrawled handwriting; prompting a tired, thankful smile. 

You do need it. Not just the clothes, but the reminder that you’re not as alone as you might feel.

“You’re late.” 

His voice cracks the silence you’d been walking in up to this point, pitched with an irritation seemingly etched into his being. It takes you off guard – not for its husky quality, that which you’ve grown relatively accustomed to, nor his sudden appearance. No. It’s how he stands when he says it; brashly centre-stage, taking up half of the gym with presence alone. His eyebrow is quirked, lips pursed in an inquisitive line, and you have to cycle over the day’s happenings to land on the invariable conclusion that he, in fact, did not set a schedule for you to follow in the first place. 

“Wasn’t aware there was anything to be early to,” You hesitate, lingering at a bench near the doorway, keeping an eye on him as you lay your things down. The water bottle you’d pilfered from the cafeteria crinkles under your tense grip, condensation licking a frosty trail down your fingers. 

“Would I let you prance around HQ on your own?” 

“That’s being hopeful, but no.” Miguel makes no indication of where to stand, so you continue to amble awkwardly in his perimeter. “Just– A heads up would’ve been nice.”

“And were we given a heads up when The Spider showed up on Earth-15?” He pushes, maintaining the line of questioning that starts to itch at you. You shake your head, doing your best not to tip your chin downwards – with your hands wringing the fabric of your sweats, you already feel like a child, caught elbows deep in a figurative cookie jar. 

Tension plucks at the strings tethered to the both of you. He waits for you to come up with a retort, then sighs when you fail to.

“Part of being a hero is adjusting. Security isn’t in the books for them.” From the lesson, you hang on to his choice of language. Them. Not us. Again, you’re excluded, but it occurs to you that he seems to exclude himself too. “You didn’t expect me today. What were you going to do had that been the case?” 

To exercise sounds beyond stupid, even though your attire and location announce it as the truth. It felt the most logical place to start when you’d woken up this morning, but Miguel is verging on philosophical now, and that’s something you hadn’t planned on at all. You don’t tell him that, though, because it would be asking to be sent home.

“To strengthen my stamina.” 

“What for, exactly?” 

“If I’m going to go back to that wasteland of a world, then I need the power to tough it out.” You’re getting real sick of how incompetent he’s making you sound. “Transportation is entirely contingent on how far I can walk.” 

“Huh. That’s… dumb.” He says, arms crossing over his chest. They’re thick, built like tree trunks, with muscles bulging along their lengths instead of bark. How hypocritical, you think, repressing the shiver that crawls up your spine – it’s clear he works out himself. You’re only as dumb at the way he looks today; clad in those same grey sweats, a compression top sculpting every bit of him. Out of uniform –  like he’d been using the equipment before you got here. 

(Or, he’s dedicated the entire day to training you.) 

“If you have a better idea–”

“Think a few jumping jacks will make you a hero?” A smirk edges his lips.

Your stomach lurches – whether in anger or a more mortifying emotion, you don’t know. “Can you stop with the questions, big guy?” 

He cocks his head, countenance straightening to one more serious. It terrifies you a little, the carmine in his eye, how fast it glints, sharpened with a daring edge. “Okay, then.” Miguel’s stature slacks, an open invitation. “Show me what you’re made of.” 

You regret speaking up at all. 

“Like, on the treadmill, or…?” 

“Pin me down.” He adds, as if it’s the most normal command in the world. Granted, his mind is probably not as far gone as yours. “Three seconds, and you’ll have proved your point.” 

“That’s not–” Fair skids on your tongue. His potential reaction is simple to imagine (‘nothing is fair’), and it’s obnoxious at best. You’ve had your fill of the condescending jabs, wedged to a corner where you don’t belong, ineptitude assumed of you. If his intentions are to keep you there until you give up, then you won’t let them come to fruition.

He starts to shrug, but the dismissal is interrupted by your clumsy resolve. You collide into his abdomen, channelling all your energy into the impact, arms in an arch. It’s made to grapple him by the waist, leverage in overpowering him to the floor. The odds are stacked against you, though. Miguel – twice your size – anchors himself in half the time, hard as stone against the onslaught. And your stance isn’t wide enough, feet positioned in a way that robs you of the necessary stability.

Perhaps carelessly, you press on, pouring everything into your attempt. The sheer force behind your manoeuvre is palpable; you are a spider-person, after all, and your enhanced strength would be enough to put the average human to their grave. But your opponent is far from that – he’s the pinnacle of what you preach, the resistance he musters now an attestation to the fact. 

“Torpe.” 

Your ribs burn with exertion, body still recovering from the injuries you’ve accumulated as of late. In a fluid motion that belies his size, Miguel retaliates, seeing the futility in your struggle. His hands clamp down on your shoulders, warm and vaguely comforting for the second before he flips you off of him. You’re propelled backwards, his shove sending shockwaves through your frame. Your bones rattle when you smack against the wall. 

“That hurt,” You hiss, scrambling to a stand. 

“In case you didn’t know, grace is a prerequisite for this little spider-club.” He ribs, calling to your quip at the quarry. It would be enough to set you off on anyone else, but the humour isn’t lost on you. Not with him. 

“Did you just make a joke?” You start to pace circles around him, assessing the best angle of attack. His head turns to track you, forehead marked with lines from his lifted expression. “As I live and breathe. Miguel O’Hara made a fucking joke.”

“Symptom of imminent victory.” 

“Cocky bastard,” 

“You gonna keep talking?” 

“I recall asking you to stop the questions.” You run up behind him, hoping your footsteps are light enough to not call any attention to your advancement. It isn’t very successful – he catches on quick, pivoting to confront you head on. You’re ready for it though, ducking under his reach to slip to the other side. His back is open, the opportunity presenting itself, and you spring onto his broad back with little contemplation. 

Your arms instinctively wind around his neck, securing your hold, legs thrashing to follow suit. Transformed into a glorified backpack, you stubbornly cling onto him as he attempts to shake you off. 

“¡Qué mierda haces?”

With half your face buried in his hair, you don’t respond, focusing instead on using your weight to throw him off kilter. Or, you want to focus on it. 

But he smells like patchouli, the robust aroma laced in every lock. It’s potent, much more than usual; without the sweat that usually dilutes it, you’re hit full force with every idiosyncrasy. Damp soil, freshly turned earth – rich, like the verdant undergrowth of a forest. You’ve never noticed the touch of leather underlying his cologne, nor its nuanced spice. Now, they worm their way through your rationale, parasitic, eating away at tissue until they find a blooming incurve to settle in. 

Your gut; broiling in that specific way it does when he’s around. It sinks to your core, right where you’re pressed against him, stimulated by the frantic motions of his body. Miguel hooks onto your calves, prying them off, and it’s innocent enough to only make your sudden desire worse. 

“Get. Off." He emphasises, authority compounded into every syllable. His jerks steer you in various directions, spurring nausea that blends in with your desperation. The mix courses through your bloodstream, sickening and, along with your headlessness, allows the slightest weakness to seep into your stance – a crucial opening that he seizes without hesitation.

Your vision swims as you’re capsized, thrown off course and onto the unyielding embrace of the ground. Pain shoots down your spine, the oxygen knocked out of your lungs dissipating into air. It takes you longer than necessary to realise what had happened, gasping for breath until you land on the reality that he had just used your lust against you. But of course, he doesn’t know that. To him, you’d just faltered – a rookie mistake for the rookie you are. 

It’s harmless, then, when he straddles your chest upon impact, knees touching the ground on either side of your head. Pinned in place – a mounted butterfly, captured in the perennial moment of your shameful sin – you’re convinced you’ll die like this. Miguel’s crotch under your nose, rubbing your thighs together to rid yourself of the nagging pressure between them. Wanton for nothing, wanton for him.

And it’s not the first time, a bank of memories coming available at the familiar arrangement. When he’d finally detained you on 15, groyne cleaving your ass while he undid your restraints. That damned kiss, exploring the plush lips that currently curl with a complacent sneer. They’d been so soft, the impression of his fangs just barely grazing past. And how good those had felt, too; your arteries swollen, bloated with venom injected into your neck. Lethargic for hours afterward, unable to do anything to sate the response he’d triggered.

Now, you’re not as powerless. He’s on top of you, doused in some fragrance from heaven, blessed with a robustness you’re sure extends to every appendage. If he is married, how high would fucking him be on your list of transgressions? Surely, it can’t be your worst, though you hope you’re above it at this point. 

(But, if he wants this too–)

You look up at him, mouth parted. It isn’t a request so much as it is an assessment, tallying every suggestive hint he gives. There is none. Instead, he does much the same, catching your scrutiny before promptly looking away to calculate his options on an adjacent wall. 

(The logical part of you can already sense how dreadful this’ll turn out. You’re not thinking straight. 

You hope he succumbs to your debasement.) 

Your hips buck involuntarily, a rip release effect to your rising need. He takes it as a plea to get off; that which he defers to, dismounting your chest. 

No.

You stop him, left hand clamping down on his thigh. Slowly, he sits back, tipping his weight forward, onto the curve where your clavicle plunges to your throat. You can hardly move, diaphragm pinching in a bid for breath, and it’s okay for as long as he stays where he is. 

(Apollo, meet Dionysus.)

It’s gradual – deliberate – when your fingers meander on their trek to his waistband. You skim over his hips, pelvis protruding to border his V-line – which holds prominence, even under the layers of his sweats and boxers. Miguel does nothing; gives no shiver in encouragement, nor an order to stop. He just looks down on you, dissecting the fervour with which you touch him; a woman crazed. 

His shirt is stubborn in rolling up, elastic and tight against his form. You want to feel the way his flesh heats, defined abdomen rolling in eventual pleasure, but it’s a privilege you don’t have in this setting. You’re only able to pull it out from underneath his pants, allowing a sliver of skin to be exposed to your gluttonous gaze. Bronzed, gorgeously brown in contrast to the desaturated colours he’s chosen to don. Drool pools behind your tonsils.

The cords of his waistband unlace when you tug it with your pointer, hinged at the middle. Miguel makes a sound, the beginnings of a growl rolling up his throat. It’s to tease yourself, you want to say – because the fuzz of his happy trail leads down to a darkened bush, and the brief flash will forever be seared into your mind’s eye. Goodness fuck, if your yearning were any worse, that would have been enough to tip you over the edge. It’s been so long since you’ve wanted anything this bad. 

Pining wreaks a foreign mess on your systems. Toes curl within your boots. Lashes quiver with every ruminative blink. Your new panties are doubtlessly ruined, generic cotton soaked through with slick; you’d been so ashamed of it just last night, washing your previous pair in the sink. Now, all you can consider is how expertly he’d test you, calloused thumb running over your clit until he witnesses just how wet you can get. 

(Is it the length for which you’ve gone without this, deprived of your favourite vice? Before you’d discovered the stars, you’d pursued your most carnal desires, jumping from one hookup to the next. 

You didn’t suppose you'd missed it this much.) 

Maybe that’s why you go for him, out of anyone else. Because he’s immediate, the most prominent presence in your life. A convenient outlet, for all your bad blood. He doesn’t stop you, either, his pinky instead grazing your wrist, almost pushing for you to reach in.

If you do, things’ll change. When they had just settled. 

Your dynamic seemed okay to morph into what you needed it to be: mentor, and mentee. But this– 

This is so fucked. You would rather be anywhere else if not seated on his lap, and that’s a level of dysfunction you should be unsure about. Would he even let this progress? Beyond a one time thing, so that it doesn’t become a fixture you’ll always regret? 

(Does it matter?)

You dip into his boxers. 

(So, it is your lechery that negates your need for consideration. Call it thirst, or self-sabotage.)

Shit.

He’s thick, fucking pulsing on your palm, dry and heavy enough to cause considerable trouble when fishing him out. You’re at an adverse angle, twisting your arm to grip the base. Miguel’s hiss thins to a whispered curse, a muddle of Spanish and English that loses legibility as he shifts to help you. Hand swooping next to yours, he cups his balls, hoisting them out of the suffocating fabric. His cock follows suit, slapping his tummy upon release. 

It’s–

Angry. A blossoming shade of purple that grows more vibrant the lower you go, guided by two fat veins that branch along his frenulum. Huge, too – not the longest you’ve had in your mouth, but stocky enough for you to worry about it regardless. You run your nail up its length, doing the maths in your head. 

“Intimidated?” He says. It doesn’t register as proud as he probably intends for it to be, voice too  hoarse, broken by some unspoken lust. 

“Cocky bastard,” You murmur, holding your arm above you in the meantime. He takes a second to understand what your extended hand is for, bowed in a reverent-like appeal. And, even when he does, he pauses, gathering the saliva around his teeth. “Take that as a double entendre.”

He doesn’t laugh, spitting onto your palm, watching as you smear the natural lube around his mushroomed head. It melds with his pre-spend – that which pearls at the tip – forming a pearlescent marker for where your caress travels. Above the glans, rounding to coat down the body, and running out before you reach the root. 

It’s enough, though. Enough to provide momentum to your motions, jacking him off above your face. Up to this point, Miguel has eased his mass off of you, balanced on his haunches – but your ministrations have him losing that awareness, leaning further and further until he all but sits on your neck. His fingers latch onto your head, cradling your jaw in a similar fashion to how he treated your whiplash, each thumb at a cheekbone – waiting for the opportune moment to plunge into your mouth. 

It comes with the hypoxia, his choking straddle clotting the oxygen meant for your brain. What you can see – him mostly, meaty thighs and a lean torso, with a face that screws up with controlled precision – spots as secondary to black vision, your eyes bulging at the edges, struck with stationary blood. It’s opposite to smoke inhalation, that scratchy condition that only grew more uncomfortable the more you coughed. This is debilitating, the last dreg of stimulants you need to embrace your drunk efforts. You’re drowned in a pool where nothing matters except what’ll pull you out – life vest, a buoy, the hefty cock tapping your bottom lip. 

You unhinge your jaw the widest it can go, accounting for teeth and all. Hollow cheeks accommodate his size when he drives in, but your lips still stretch, aching at the corners where thin skin threatens to rip. Immediately, your tongue laps over the dense intrusion, mapping out the patches where he seems most sensitive. Below the head, along the ridge. Right between his veins, if you press down hard enough. Your usher more of it in, stuffing your gullet full of him. 

How does he manage to smell good here, too? Muskier, still, a heady ambrosia of masculinity.

His balls slap your chin, stopping you from swallowing any more. Miguel doesn’t take too favourably to that, however, bending your head to parallel his pelvis and pushing. Your neck aches, spinal plates prodding at where it inclines – the combination of that, the choking, and the swollen head that spears your tonsils makes for a deadly combination. You’ve been doing your damnedest not to gag, clenching your thumb in a fist, but the sound erupts from you regardless. A lewd, wet gluck – tears pool upon your lashes, caught by the thumbs still guiding your face. 

And Miguel groans.

“Mmmf–,”  His hips withdraw, giving you an instant’s respite, before snapping back forward. “Se siente tan bien.” 

“Hnmghh,” You attempt to reply. 

“Filthy fucking girl. So– mierda, always so goddamn stubborn,” He continues, accent curling with a raspy quality, smouldering at its core. “Never listens, never rests.”

You’re unsurprised to hear that what he really feels for you, exposed in this crude confessional, is just more indignation. 

(Does it matter? Does it really? 

He’s fucking your throat like cumming down it will reaffix the spiderverse.)

The gags drop rhythm, snowballing to become a chorus of the most salacious whines you can make, punched in tandem to his thrusts. Saliva coats your lips, bubbling when he withdraws, welcoming him back with the sight of you wrecked, glazed in salty liquids from multitudinous sources. 

You lose yourself to it, squeezing your eyes shut until he urges you to open them back up again, brushing the corner where your skin burns from crying. His brows are pinched, canyons of deliberation formed between them, regarding your debauched expression with something more than the base measures exchanged in the past half hour. 

He pulls out with a pop. You clasp around his dick’s circumference – rubbing over the tip, where his hole leaks a steady flow of prespend – and question him with a keen. You can’t exactly manage anything else.

“Where do you want it?” 

You frown, leading him back into your mouth. Where else?

It isn’t much longer until he carries out the promise. 

The sequence of events is more organised than anything else that’s happened today. You’ve come to recognise it, an expert in unravelling. He jostles your head back onto the floor, stabilising you for when his rear lifts, slanting his cock ninety degrees downward to ram straight into your mouth. You wince, incisors accidentally skimming the surface, which only prompts him deeper in. Your nose squishes onto the coarse hairs of his groyne, soaked with drool, and his balls tighten under your mandible, leaden in an indication of what’s to come. 

You want it, so bad you can hardly gulp in precious breath. Your pupils roll behind your lids. You want, you want.

And finally – for the first time, over the entirety of your relationship – Miguel O’Hara gives that to you. Readily.

He cums. Hard. In throbbing spurts that coat your oesophagus, your molars, the back of your tongue. It’s sweltering, viscous and thick enough to choke you again – you cough up the excess that doesn’t quite fit, sinuses screeching with the overexertion. You can’t gulp, not when he’s still buried in you, so you do your best not to suffocate as he rides through his orgasm. Rope after rope, until he releases you, excess drops splattering onto your nose.

Then, he tucks his softening dick back into his pants and moves off of you.

You swallow, left with a weeping cunt and a swift sobering up.

Miguel proffers a helping hand, meant to lift you off the floor. Swatting it away, you clamber onto your own, unsteady feet, collecting your abandoned things from the bench, and bolt out the door.

What the fuck did you just do?

chapter nine

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[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

[mangoisms]

circle k (back to you)

summary: in which you're just the graveyard shift employee at circle k bombarded by vigilantes.

━ chapter one: on my way to circle k

━ pairing: tim drake x f!reader

━ word count: 4.3k

━ warnings: none

━ masterlist

The Slurpee machine is broken again. 

It isn’t that big of an issue, not particularly world-ending, no, especially since you get regularly held at gunpoint (or knifepoint) and occasionally used as a hostage. 

But for you, working the night shift from eleven PM to seven AM, you kind of need the sugar boost. The Slurpees are easier on your stomach than the coffee is. Even if they do stain your mouth. 

You sigh, continuing to stare at the machine; it whirs and sputters strangely and you set aside the cup to shut it off. You’ll also need to file the paperwork for it to be fixed. That seriously blows. 

You get it unplugged just as the gust of wind hits. 

You stumble. Shelves groan in protest. Several rows of granola bars and trail mix are sent flying. 

Oh, great, who is it now—

You hear your name in a question, from a very familiar voice. 

You spit out a mouthful of your hair. “Flash?”

Sure enough, in the flesh, the Flash grins at you, blue lightning fading from his body. He spreads his arms as he exclaims your name again.

In a blink, he is there, arms wrapping around you, lifting you off the ground as he squeezes the life out of you. Another blink and you’re on the ground, looking at him, his hand on your shoulder. 

“Look at you, kid. It’s good to see you. I can’t believe you’re still working here.”

A stupid grin forms on your lips. “It’s not the same here without you eating up our inventory.”

He laughs. “I bet!”

You shake your head, fixing your hair and your shirt. Flash notices the state of the granola bars and trail mix, sends you an apologetic smile, and in the next blink, they are back on the shelves, neatly arranged. 

“So, what brings you here? If you can answer that.”

He waves a hand, flitting around, emptying the sausage grill and making himself several hot dogs. 

“One of the rogues got a little, shall we say, ambitious and wanted to try his luck here. Just trying to snatch him up before Batman finds out.”

“Let me guess—Trickster?”

He points a hot dog loaded with mustard and ketchup at you. “Bingo.”

“It’s dripping.”

“Aw, shit.” He shoves the rest of the hot dog in his mouth, grabs a napkin, and starts dabbing at the spot of mustard on his suit. 

You watch him, amused, but also morbidly fascinated as usual at seeing him eat so much. When he finishes the hot dogs, he goes for the pizza. It makes sense when you think about it, that a guy who can run faster than the speed of light should need to eat so much, but it’s been a while since you’ve had the pleasure of watching him refuel. Six months, actually, since you returned from Keystone City. 

You scratch your head. “I’m not sure why Trickster would want to come here. Batman, I think, is a worse punishment than you—”

“Agree, even if that’s also a little insulting to me.”

“Oh, you know what I mean. You’re avoiding him, aren’t you?”

Flash nods. “This is true. Carry on.”

“Well… Gotham already has a joke-themed guy. I don’t think Joker is going to take too kindly to someone encroaching on that. Unless he’s back in Arkham. Though he might’ve escaped again…”

“Y’see, that’s what I thought. It’s gonna sound bad, too, but I’m kinda hoping those two take care of each other, then I can get Trickster back to Iron Heights without any issues. But—”

You crack a smile, guessing his next words immediately. “When is it ever that easy?”

You had once believed the Flash to be just about infallible. After all, he is the Flash. This is the guy who, like you said, can run faster than the speed of light. He can canvas a city in under a minute. That’s how he takes care of Central City and Keystone City. (Well, the addition of the other Flash and Kid Flash probably help, too, but you know.)

But it’s not that easy. It’s why, you think, Metropolis has issues, even when they have Superman. 

No rest for the wicked and all. 

“Well, it’s still good to see you,” you say, a tad more hesitantly this time. Unsure if you can say that. 

Flash looks back at you, sending you a warm smile. “It’s good to see you, too. How’s school?”

“No classes now. Financial aid doesn’t cover the summer, so.”

He frowns. “You’re still on track to graduate next year, though, right?”

You pause, surprised he remembered you saying that. “Yeah, yeah, I am.” 

Flash nods, worries assuaged, then his gaze strays to the Slurpee machine, its lights turned off. “Aw, it’s not working?”

“Not today, sorry.”

He purses his lips, head tilting as he looks at the counter where the machine and your abandoned cup are. 

“Wait a second,” he says, then the food that was in his hands is on the counter and he’s gone with arcs of blue lightning following him, a tingly feeling spreading through your fingertips and toes, like when you used to be a kid and dragged your hands across those old TV screens, feeling the static. 

True to his word, in the next second, he is in front of you, two Slurpees in hand. One blue raspberry and another cherry. 

You grin as he proudly presents the blue raspberry Slurpee to you. 

“Thanks.”

He winks. “My pleasure.”

He collects his food again then gestures to the front with his head. Sipping at the ice-cold Slurpee, you follow him, sliding behind the counter.

“Time to head off?” you guess, ringing up the food he already ate, then the rest of the stuff. 

He slips out a few bills from a hidden pocket at his hip. “Yeah, I need to go before—”

“Flash!” The door opens roughly. You balk as you see who it is. “Seriously? You can’t just run off. You’re just as bad as Impulse sometimes, I swear.”

Red Robin stands there, hands on his hips, scowling, doing a good impression of a teacher scolding a student, which is really weird for you, since you’ve always held a good dose of fear and respect for the Bats and this doesn’t really… go on par with that. And also, you’re pretty sure Flash is older than him. 

Flash frowns. “Now that’s seriously uncalled for. I’m much better than he is. We were done talking, weren’t we? You’d call me if you found anything and it’s not like it would take me time to get there, would it?”

Red Robin doesn’t respond to that, mostly because he’s looking at you now. You’ve never seen him up close — any of them up close. Black fair falls sharply over his forehead, a black domino mask hiding his eyes. Not like a normal one; this one allows for more coverage under his eyes, going down to his nose, the end of which curves in a way reminiscent of a bird. But under the bright fluorescents of Circle K, everything else is easy to make out. Pale skin, a sharp jaw, a soft-looking mouth. 

Great. He’s hot. And something else… something that niggles at you. Familiar in a way that bothers you because you’ve never seen him in person. Not like this. 

You swallow nervously, giving him a half-hearted wave. The action jars him and he looks away from you quickly. 

“Hey, don’t be mean to her,” Flash chides. “Seriously. Look at her. You’ve made her nervous.”

“Flash.”

He shoots you a troublesome grin. “Nah, don’t worry about him, kid. He’s harmless.”

“Flash,” Red Robin hisses out, his voice sounding stranger than before, modulated, in a way. 

You compose yourself, giving Flash a look. “You know better than that. Perception means everything.”

“That is true,” he says. “But believe me. If fear worked as well as they’d like it to, Gotham would be the safest city in the country.”

A long-suffering sigh. Red Robin is turned away now and by the movement of his arm, pinching the bridge of his nose, exasperated. 

“Hey, I’m not wrong,” he says to him, even despite you silently waving for him to drop it. “Look, fear is fine and all. But I don’t think there’s anything wrong with nurturing relationships with the people you protect. That’s what I did with you, isn’t it, kid?”

“Yeah, but I’m also not, you know, from there…”

He collects his change. “Which is why it’s even more embarrassing that these guys make you nervous and I don’t.”

Red Robin huffs. 

Flash shrugs, smirking. “Just food for thought. I’ll see you around, yeah, kiddo? Gotta get going before this guy gets annoyed enough to just tell Batman about me and then I’ll really have problems.”

Then he’s gone, blue lightning arcing in his wake. Red Robin sighs again and leaves without a word or backward glance. 

You stand there for a minute, unsure if that really happened. But the signature Slurpee cup of blue raspberry, already sweating because the June heat in Gotham is unbearable and the AC is not up to task, assures you very much that that did just happen.

A little unsteady, you take a seat on the stool, shaking your head and dragging the cup to you. 

At least you got to see Flash again.

You don’t see him again, which is what you expected. 

What you don’t expect is the appearance of Red Robin the next night. 

You’ve grown up in Gotham City. Like anyone else, you have a healthy dose of fear and respect for the vigilantes that prowl the shadows. You also, unlike Vicki Vale or any journalist or obsessive conspiracy theorist, have absolutely zero interest in interacting with them. 

Usually, interacting with them means you are in grave danger. 

(You had to unlearn some of that during your brief tenure in Keystone City; the Flash was a little bit different from them. Maybe more than a little bit…)

So, when Red Robin shows up at Circle K at half past one in the morning, you are… a tad wary. 

It doesn’t help that he seems awkwardly frozen, too, as your voice catches in the middle of your perfunctory Hi, welcome in as you realize who it is. 

For a minute, it is painfully, painfully quiet. 

“Is there something—”

“Do you have any—”

You both stop. You purse your lips. Red Robin is… blushing a little bit? Holy shit.

“Go ahead,” he says, clearing his throat after. His voice still sounds off like yesterday—modulated.

You grimace. “Sorry, I was just asking if there was something going on? Should I lock down the shop or hide or something?”

He looks briefly confused. “No? I mean, no… Everything is fine. I was just wondering if you guys had any, uh—” he seems to falter, scrambling a little bit “—hot… chocolate?”

Hot chocolate in June? What a weirdo.

You keep your face straight, though. 

Flash might’ve let you off the hook when it came to formalities but you’d be an idiot to think you could get away with that with these guys. 

He exhales the briefest laugh at something, then—you, you realize, your expression, which should be perfectly polite, what the hell. He turns his head away as a smile curls his lips. That niggling feeling—which began as soon as you realized he was here—strengthens. You push it away for a second.

“I know. Late night. Don’t like coffee, so it’s a good alternative.”

How did he—? 

Must be the detective thing.

You apologize anyway. 

“Sorry. My, uh, friend’s like that, in a way,” you say, your tongue again moving faster than your brain can grapple with. He won’t care about the fact that your friend, Tim, is like that, too. Well, Tim likes the occasional energy drink if he’s staying up late because he doesn’t like coffee. Not this hot chocolate business. But maybe? Doesn’t sound like a bad idea, actually. Probably better than Red Bull, even if he doesn’t drink it often, maybe once or twice a month. And, anyway, it’s not the point. This guy doesn’t care. He probably couldn’t care less. You’re just trying to show him—oh, it doesn’t matter. This entire thing has gone straight to shit. All because he managed to read your judgment.

“Oh?” It’s a question but it’s a bit strangled. See? He doesn’t care. Poor guy. Probably trying to think of a way to get out of this. Well, you’ll do him one better. 

“Uh, yeah… he’s—well. Doesn’t matter. Yeah, the machine is working. It’s over there.” 

“Thanks.”

You nod and glance away, leaving him to cross to the other side of the store. You can’t help but watch him go, watching the way the heavy black cape swishes with his movements, boots soundless on the shitty tiled floors. He disappears behind the shelf, but his head is visible. A head of dark, dark hair that seems… familiar to you.

Ugh. What is with you?

It’s Red freakin’ Robin. You’ve glimpsed him and the others briefly. Shadows in the night, swinging from buildings, jumping from rooftops. Anybody who lives in Gotham long enough has seen the same. Doesn’t mean you know him enough to be this way, to be so bothered by something that won’t even come to mind.

You shake your head briefly. 

You should think more on why he’s even here.

Though, it seems obvious, given what happened yesterday night.

Flash has a way of getting beneath your skin and inciting the most childish tendencies. You imagine his little comment about trust between vigilante and citizen bothered Red Robin.

Well, rest assured, you understand the position they are in. You enjoyed the way Flash visited you but they can’t afford that. Perception is gold. It is true, in some ways, that if it were as effective as they wanted it to be, Gotham would be less crime-ridden than it currently is. 

(But that was also a conundrum with the corrupt government. So long as the systems were in place, crime would always happen, and it would take more than the Bats to fix that.)

Either way, they cannot afford for that mask to slip—metaphorically and literally.

There is a level of trust, you think, between the Bats and the people but… it’s not the same kind Flash fosters with his own. 

You feel obligated to let Red Robin know that, with that, he has no obligation to do anything out of the ordinary. 

So, that’s what you do when he comes back over to the counter, two small cups of hot chocolate in hand.

“You don’t have to do this, you know.”

He turns forward with a five dollar bill in hand. “I can’t just not pay—”

“I’m not talking about that.” 

He is paying. You are moderately appreciative of what they do but not that appreciative. 

“So, what else is it that I don’t have to do?”

You gesture between you two. “This. Come here to try and prove the Flash wrong.”

“I’m not—”

You try to level with him. 

“It’s cool, man. He can be annoying. Annoying enough that he could make anyone want to prove him wrong. I get it. But he’s also a little bit of a doof when it comes to matters of the public. Though I’m betting he was trying to aggravate you more than anything. Either way, I get it. You have an image to keep up. Do what you have to do.”

“So, you don’t want me to come back?” Not an accusation. A genuine question.

You blink. “That’s not what I said. I don’t mind. I’m just… letting you know.”

“What do you know about it, anyway? Upholding an image? You seem very confident on the do’s and don’ts, despite being a civilian.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You guys actually refer to us non-vigilantes as civilians? Like, unironically?”

He doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you with the emotionless white lids of the domino mask, lips pressed in a line.

You smile and roll your eyes, finally taking his five and opening the register. “I’m majoring in communication with a concentration in PR. Did an internship at Quickstart Enterprises last semester working with their PR department. You can say I know a thing or two about it.”

“What year?”

“Just finished my third. Starting my final in the fall. Look, I’m not saying you have to take my advice, I just wanted you to know. That’s all. I’m not holding it against you.”

“I’ll take it under advisement.”

You slide his change to him. “That’s all I ask.”

He picks up the cups, says, “Keep the change,” and then, he’s gone, dark cape fluttering, his figure swallowed up by the darkness of the night. 

The only traces of his presence is the door slowly closing and the change still sitting on the counter.

These hero-types and their dramatic exits. Honestly. 

You meet the Flash in your second week of work at Circle K.

The stipend from QE covered your housing and groceries but didn’t allow for much options regarding the latter. At least not the fresh produce kind. 

So, you picked up a job at Circle K. Part-time only, which worked well with the schedule you had at QE. You typically worked evenings—not the graveyard shift you do now, which you took only because it paid better during the night—so from seven to eleven. 

The Flash was different from the Bats in that regard. While Signal worked during the day, the rest of them worked during the night. 

Flash told you he liked sleep, so he would take care of things during a reasonable hour in the evening to accommodate that, which meant you were beheld to his presence. 

Frequently.

And the first time…

You have no idea what to make of the superhero currently raiding the sausage grill.

A larger part of you is suspicious, hoping that the Flash isn’t about to come up to you and say something arrogant about not being required to pay. A lot of the cops you get say something to that effect. It takes so much willpower in you to not roll your eyes. 

But another part of you right now, the Tim part of your brain, is fascinated. Wants to ask some geeky questions about his power. Presumably, the fact that he is the fastest man alive means he has to eat a lot to sustain it, right?

Well. That one is a bit self-explanatory. At least if the way he’s stuffing his face tells you anything.

Suspicion wins out, though.

Keystone City is a nice enough city. Central City, across the river, is the same. They aren’t Gotham, that’s for sure, and sometimes you don’t know if that’s a blessing or a curse. 

It’s mostly that Keystone City is situated in Kansas and across the Mississippi, in Mississippi, is Central City. These regions of the country, historically conservative, make you a bit tetchy. Not at all helped by the fact that for a very long time, Keystone City was suspended in the fifties. Or rather, what they thought were the fifties. Time passed normally outside of it until the Flash fixed everything.

It gives Keystone an aesthetic old-timey vibe to it but with all the modern luxuries of the late 2010s, like phones and, you know, civil rights. 

But things have been okay, for the most part. The people you encounter here at Circle K are amiable enough. (Well, except for the cops you get. You could go without dealing with those idiots.)

Though, admittedly, between work for QE and here and trying to keep yourself fed and (mostly) rested, you haven’t gotten out much.

The Flash, though… you haven’t directly encountered him. Not in your few weeks here. Sometimes when walking to the subway, you feel the sharp gust of wind, commonly associated with him as he makes his way through the city faster than a speeding bullet, glass windows and cars rattling dangerously in the aftermath of his path. On the news, when he takes down whichever rogue woke up on the wrong side of the bed, and in the newspaper. But nothing beyond that.

People speak fondly of him, for the most part. Rumors are solid sources of information but you just can’t help but be a little bit suspicious. There is such a thing as too good to be true, after all…

You reach for your half-empty cup of blue raspberry Slurpee. Though it’s the beginning of September, summer takes longer to leave the midwest, you’ve learned, and the summers here are loads worse than ones you’ve experienced in Gotham. 

Before you can even get your mouth around the red straw, a breeze hits and you blink, finding the Flash in front of you, depositing mostly empty cartons of hot dogs onto the counter, with a few of them still full. On their way to being empty, though, as he crams more into his mouth. A cup of cherry Slurpee finishes it off.

The Flash points a half-eaten hot dog at you. “You aren’t from around here, are you?”

You narrow your eyes. “I’m sorry?”

“No, no, not like that. You’ve just got this suspicion to you. This… paranoia. A paranoia that can only belong to someone from Gotham,” he says, nodding to himself. 

Well, that’s—

Hm.

A bit embarrassed to be caught out like that—because it isn’t the first time—you attempt to make up for it.

“I’m from Metropolis, actually.” 

Best to stay on the east coast. Even you couldn’t pass as someone from the west coast, like Star City or Coast City or something. 

Flash grins at you. “Liar.”

You aren’t used to this kind of playful banter. Certainly not from a literal superhero, from someone who regularly saves the world with the likes of Superman, Batman, and Wonder Woman and more. You don’t think you expected the cold brutality the city gets from the Bats back home but… you didn’t expect this, either.

To get a much-needed sense of normalcy, you scan one of the hot dog cartons, adding them up on the screen.

“Was it that obvious? I wasn’t trying to be… I mean, I was, but, you know, I didn’t, um…”

You stop, cringing. Very eloquent and more than a little annoying, given your career choice. Can’t be like that when you get put on the spot. Even if it’s by a superhero. Especially if it’s by a superhero. Journalists are even worse, anyway…

“Relax, kid,” he laughs. “To tell you the truth, it was hard to miss but I’m sort of geared for that kind of thing, what with my choice in career.”

“Right.” You scan the Slurpee and take a drink of yours while he fiddles with some zipper in his suit. A deep red, with a purple tinge, a silver Flash symbol on his chest, and a cowl, but with the top free, showing off a shock of red hair, and his eyes still exposed. Pretty green.  

“But I do have an unfair advantage,” he goes on. “I see a similar look every time I have a League meeting.”

You blink. “The League…?”

“You should know. Your caped crusader, Batman. Of course, that’s also because he doesn’t like me—and the feeling is mutual, trust me—but, you know. Schematics. He sits right across from me and that’s all I get, this classic brand of Gothamite suspicion on top of the usual wordless Batman disapproval.”

“Should you be telling me that?”

He hands you a twenty. You pop open the register to break it. Another breeze hits and the empty cartons of hot dogs are shoved into the trash, with him eating the last one and on his way to finishing the large cup of cherry-flavored Slurpee. 

“I mean, what are you gonna do?”

“I don’t know,” you say lightly, calculating his change. “I could go to the press. Breaking News: Strife within the League. Tenuous relations between Batman and the Flash.”

“Oh, really?”

“That’s the press. A common dislike will absolutely turn into that in their headlines. They would take it and run.”

“That is true. You a journalist?” 

“Oh, no. Communications, with a concentration in public relations.”

Flash thinks on it for a second, finishing his hot dog, then the Slurpee. You partially expect him to get angry. It would be a justified reaction. He doesn’t know you and you don’t know him. You can admit that some of what you just said is a bit… imperious. Who are you to lecture him, right?

“You aren’t wrong,” he finally says, repeating his earlier words as the last hot dog carton and Slurpee cup disappear from the counter—thrown in the trash. 

“But,” he presses, accepting the change from you—a few dollars—then dropping it into your tip jar. “I know you aren’t going to take that to the press.”

“How’s that?” 

He points at you. “Because I don’t think you’re the kind of person to do that.”

“You’re appealing to my morals?”

“Yes. Is it working?”

“Not much work to be had,” you admit. “I was never going to. I was just…”

“Being nice and telling me I should watch what I say,” he finishes, grinning. “Which is true. All true. I just couldn’t help myself. What’s your name, kid?”

You tell him. He extends a hand.

“It’s nice to meet you. Welcome to Keystone City. Hope you enjoy your stay.”

A bit bemused, you nod politely and say, “Thanks.”

Before he can say anything else, he visibly tenses, lifting a hand to the Hermes-like wings at his ears, then, in the next blink, he is gone, off to stop someone or something, leaving you with a sharp gust of wind that rattles the windows and knocks the candy from the shelves under the counter onto the ground.

Well, then.

Talk about a first impression. 

reblogs are appreciated!

taglist: @peachesona @knoxx-seresinbradshaw @kikis-writing-service @sweetistic @soundsfunbutno @ginevraxrogers

[if you'd like to be added to the taglist (or removed), let me know here or in my inbox! ^_^]

#tim drake x reader #red robin x reader #dc comics imagine #tim drake imagine #red robin imagine #dc comics x reader #tim drake x you #red robin x you #tim drake x y/n #red robin x y/n #batfamily x reader #batfam x reader #batfam x you #batfam x y/n

[mind-empty-just-fictional-people]

Another Classic Rock Fan

masterlist

summary : a broken jukebox leads dean to a woman who’s so much like him that she sweeps him off his feet.

pairing : (earlier seasons) dean winchester x female reader

rating: R for language, sexual themes (?)

word count : 1.7k

warnings: language, implied sex/nudity, violence

gif source

“Son of a bitch!” You muttered, hitting the side of the jukebox, as if that would suddenly fix the (clearly half-a-century-old) machine in front of you.

“I tried that ten minutes ago sweetheart, it doesn’t do much,” A man’s voice said behind you.

“Well, maybe you didn't hit it right!” You exclaimed, hitting it again but in a different spot.

“What song are you trying to play?” He asked.

“AC/DC, You Shook Me All Night Long. And, before you say anything; if you want a shot at getting in my pants tonight don’t you dare disrespect that band,” You replied before you finally turned around to look at the man. “Or any of the classics, while you're at it.” He was taller than you, with brown hair and light brown eyes that stared down at you. The room was dark, but you could see a smirk form on his full lips when he saw your face.

“Hey, I wouldn’t dream of it!” He held up his hands in defense. “I’m an AC/DC fan myself.”

“Favorite song?” You quizzed, narrowing your gaze.

“Trick question, they’re all great,” He shrugged a little.

“Correct,” You nodded. “List some songs though.”

“Thunderstruck, Sin City, Girls Got Rhythm, Let There Be Rock; should I keep going?”

“No, I believe you're a fan,” You laughed, letting your guard down a little.

“So baby,” He smirked, “what’s the going price?”

Your smile disappeared and you stared daggers at him. “Go to hell!” You exclaimed before you brushed past him, intentionally bumping into his shoulder as you did so.

“Wait- That’s- Shit,” He stuttered, regretting what he said.

You turned around, a childish smile now on your face as you looked up at him; “Shot Down In Flames, nice job. You really thought I didn’t get the reference?”

“I really thought,” He laughed lightly. “Let me buy you a drink?”

“Sure,” You turned back around and he followed you to the counter. You could feel him staring down at your ass and you smirked a little; you wore your jeans that accented that feature for a reason.

“I’m Dean, by the way,” He smiled when the two of you sat down. “What’re you drinking?”

“I’m Y/n, and just a beer’s fine.”

“So, is there a reason you’re alone at a bar on a Thursday night?” He asked, motioning the bartender toward you. He then ordered two beers.

“I’m in town for work, don’t really know anyone here,” You shrugged and took a sip of the beer.

“Me too, actually,” Dean responded.

“Really? What kinda work?”

“Law enforcement.”

“Would not take you for a cop,” You nodded in response.

“So, who got you into AC/DC?” He asked, wanting to change the subject.

“My mom traveled for work so my little sister and I were stuck in the car a lot. My mom loved classic rock. It’s all she ever played for us, really.”

“No way! My dad was the same way! Traveled for work, loved the classics, played ‘em for me and my little brother all the time!” He exclaimed, both of you smiling widely.

The two of you talked about nothing in particular for another twenty or so minutes, Dean making the occasional flirty joke about taking you to his motel room.

**

“Oh my god!” Sam exclaimed, covering his eyes in a hurry.

“Sam, what the hell! Knock!” Dean huffed back as you hurried to cover yourself with the sheets. Dean stood up, still wearing boxers, and you sat up in the bed.

“Wait, you’re Sam?” You furrowed your brows. “And you’re Dean. The Impala in the parking lot…shit. You’re not- You’re not the Winchesters, right?”

“How’d you know that?” Dean asked.

You covered your face with your hands and groaned; “Oh my god! You must be working the case here! The four women drained of blood?”

“Yeah, how’d you know that?” Dean repeated, his voice now raised a little.

“Calm down, I’m a hunter,” You sighed. “I’m here working the case too, it’s clearly a vampire!”

“You’re a hunter?” Dean affirmed.

“What, you didn’t see the anti-possession tattoo?”

“No, I definitely did,” He smirked.

You looked up at him, a smirk finding its way onto your lips as well. You stood up, holding the sheet like a towel wrapped around you. “So, why don’t we work the case together?” You said, placing an open hand on his heaving chest.

He took your face in his hands and replied, “Of course,” before he kissed you.

Sam cleared his throat obnoxiously before he exclaimed; “Four dead bodies? Possible vampire nest? Impending doom? Any of this ringing a bell?”

“Sammy-” Dean started.

“Come back in about fifteen minutes, okay?” You told the taller man and then kissed Dean again. Sam got out of the room in a hurry so as not to see what the quickly escalating situation would become.

**

“I’m Agent Jovi, this is my partner Agent Sambora,” Sam and Dean flashed their badges as you did the same.

“And I’m Agent Paula Stanley,” You added to Dean’s introduction. Dean looked at you as if with awe as you simply continued with the conversation. “Could you take us to the bodies, please?”

“Right this way,” The doctor replied. You followed him to the morgue, Dean’s eyes glued to your ass as you walked away.

“Dean?” Sam interrupted his train of thought.

“What?” Dean exclaimed, clearly out of sorts and still very distracted.

“God, you are a mess!” Sam joked, Dean just looked at him with confusion. “C’mon, you’re practically drooling over this girl!” He laughed lightly.

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

“Well, she- She’s just-” Dean scratched the back of his head. “Yeah, I got nothing.”

“Dude, it’s okay. Just, ask her out after the case, please? We’ve got lives to save,” He patted Dean’s shoulder before they both walked into the morgue as the doctor walked out.

“Hey, does this girl look familiar?” You scrunched your eyebrows and looked at the newest vampire kill; the fifth vampire kill.

“No, does she look familiar to you?” Sam asked. He took a look at the toe tag, “Silvia Mortenson?”

“Oh my god, she was at the bar last night! I’m sure of it!”

“Did you see her leave with anyone?” Dean asked.

“Yeah, uh this man; he struck out with me,” You inhaled sharply, “so he went to talk to her.”

“That’s when you went for the jukebox,” Dean nodded.

“Yeah- Wait, were you watching me?” You questioned, a slight teasing tone in your voice.

“I may have had my eyes on the ridiculously hot woman in the Kiss tank top,” He smirked.

“So, we know who it is. Now what, we watch him, see who he leaves with, and follow them?” Sam interrupted.

“Or, we do the smart thing,” You shrugged. The brothers looked at you with confusion. “Use me as bait, duh! I lure him out, let him take me to the nest, you two follow me and we take them down from the inside.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Dean shook his head. “That’s not happening.”

“Why not?” You asked.

“Uh, where do I start?” Dean scoffed. You slightly tilted your head, confused. “It’s way too dangerous! You could die!”

“We’re hunters, Dean; danger and death are kinda in the job description.”

“Well, yeah, but…” Dean trailed off, trying to think of a way to keep you out of immediate danger.

“Yep, we’re doing this,” You nodded.

**

“I’d like to take you up on that drink now,” You smirked, sitting next to the vampire. He had offered to buy you a beer the previous night, but you turned him down.

“What, you're not leaving with Leather Jacket again?” He replied, gesturing to Dean, who sat at the other end of the bar.

“Well, I’m not one to kiss and tell, but let’s just say I want a real man to rock my world tonight.”

**

He led you back to his motel where four other vampires were waiting. Sam and Dean rushed in after you, but you had already beheaded two of them. Sam got one, while Dean got the other. You walked up to the last one, the one you had followed here.

“And just so we’re clear, this man,” You pointed at Dean, keeping the machete in your hand ready, “is amazing in bed!” And you chopped the vamp’s head off. You turned to Sam and Dean, all three of you splattered with blood. “What?” You asked, seeing the shocked and confused looks on their faces.

“Gotta say, that’s the craziest way a woman has ever complimented me,” Dean smirked.

“Just setting the record straight,” You shrugged, smiling.

**

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Sam exclaimed when Dean walked into the room.

“I’m here to pack up before we hit the road?” He furrowed his brows before Sam rolled his eyes.

“So where’s Y/n, then?”

“She’s got her own room, second floor, why?”

“Did you get her number?”

“No…?”

“Are you an idiot?”

“Can you just get to the fuckin’ point?”

“Go ask her out before she leaves!” Sam exclaimed, seeing the gears in Dean’s head slowly turning before he left the room.

**

“Can I ask you something?” Dean said, standing outside your motel room.

“Sure,” You shrugged a little. You opened the door further so he could go inside.

“Why’d you say that? To the vampire, I mean.”

“About you being good in bed?” He nodded. “Well, when I was flirting with him at the bar I had to lie and say you weren’t good in bed, so I figured I’d set the record straight before killing him.”

“Oh!” He let out a bit of a laugh. “I guess that makes sense.”

“Can I ask you something?” You asked. “What are you doing here? I thought the famous Dean Winchester was all about lovin’ and leavin’.”

“That’s what I’m famous for?”

“Well, that and you know, all the incredible hunter stuff.”

“I- I’m here to ask for your number.”

“Hunter phone, or personal?” You asked. (It was pretty common for hunters to have at least two phones - one for hunter contacts and one for friends/family.)

“Personal, is what I was hoping for.”

“Okay,” You smiled.

#spn #supernatural #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester x you #spn fanfic #by mind empty just fictional people #by jean

[bryngmemoney]

✁FASHION FLIRT✃

Megumi Fushiguro x Reader

⭑story masterlist link

tw:none

🪡Chapter Twenty-six: Ignored

“Uno.”

“Oh you suck Y/n,” Nobara said, reaching to pick up a card from the pile in front of you. You just smile, officially winning the game when you place down your last card.

“Shouldn’t you two be working?” Maki said as she put a safety pin through Yuta’s shirt. Yuta jumped when he felt a prick at his side, “Ow.” Maki looked at him apologetically, “Sorry, didn’t mean to.”

“I’m basically finished, just waiting for Gojo to check over them. He saw Yuki’s already and I finished the the guys’ today.”

“And Nobara finished as well? Because we planned to come here to work on the clothes.” Maki questioned.

“Yeah they’re all good, everyone’s set,” Nobara looked down shuffling the cards together for another round. “You’re positive?” you asked as you watched her flip the cards together. “It’s just a few details, i’ll finish it next class, i’m exhausted from this week.”

“Well good for you guys then,” Maki turned back to Yuta trying figure out what needed adjustments to make the shirt fit him right. “Do you need some help Maki?”

“No it’s fine Y/n. I just don’t know why I can’t get Yuta’s shirt to fit him the way I want it too, it’s annoying having to continue to rip the seems apart and everything.”

“Don’t worry Maki, i’m sure you’ll get it right!” Yuta encouraged, trying to not seem off put by the threat of more safety pins poking him.

You and Nobara gave encouragement to her, then returned to your game, only for your attention to turn back to Maki a few minutes later when the sound of a metal clink echoed through the room.

“Shit!”

“What happened?” Nobara asked, leaning slightly around your head as you turned around to look at Maki who was currently sitting in front of a sewing machine. Yuta turned to you guys with a worried look “Ugh, I think this thing is broken, and it ruined the shirt.” Maki, clearly frustrated just stared at the piece of clothing in front of her. “I don’t have anymore of the same fabric either.”

You, Nobara and Yuta all exchanged a glance, trying to silently figure out a way to help.

“I could go and run to the store and get more fabric,” Yuta offered. “And I can go with you! I went with Maki to the store that one time. I know which ones you used, but we can take the receipt just to be sure,” you added on.

“I can stay here and help with whatever you need,” Nobara walked over to where Maki was sitting, willing to just be moral support or do whatever was needed.

“That.. that would be great actually, thanks.”

Finally getting into the car after packing all of Maki’s fabric from the list she had sent you, you sighed leaning against the seat. It shouldn’t have taken more than hour to drive, get the fabrics, then drive back and meet them at the room. However you and Yuta had the unfortunate luck of having to deal with a clueless employee. As patient as you two were being, how could they say they didn’t sell what you were looking for in the store, that you were at the wrong place when the name at the top of the receipt was the location you were currently at?

“That was exhausting,” Yuta mumbled, starting up the car ready to take you two back. “Poor Maki, she really wanted to get everything done, but I don’t think she’ll finish today,” you said while unlocking your phone, only to be met with a few messages from Megumi, the last one specifically catching your eye.

“Shit.”

Author’s Note: r.i.p. maki

was originally gonna make y/n and nobara play b.s. but then i realized that doesn’t rlly work with two ppl

quick question tho guys, would u want two chapters tomorrow ill probably have them ready

but anyways hope you guys enjoyed!

Taglist below, feel free to comment or dm me to be added!!

TAGLIST

@iridescentrays @gumimegz @maya-maya-56 @mamafly @lunavixia @swissy23 @coltsgf @m00nglad3-mp3 @etsukis @xosren @qtnfer @oengleli @harek89 @y-sabell-a @morgyyyyyyy @getolvr @liliumaraneae @k3lbade @aiieera @dancedancey @get0sfav @chuyasthighs0 @hyssoplampflickers @kpopanimen @sad-darksoul @vivi-loves-penguins @kasumitenbaz @talkingsperm @nymphsdomain @inlovewithlondonn @rzcnlb @enchantingkitty @fuyuzemi @lysaray @ni-ki-ismyluv @renemy @frumira @mixzimi @miralunaela @dreamxiing @p3achiee @anianurst @nishii28 @arguendo @samutoru @hallothankmas @invisible-mori @aiserex @all-in-the-fandoms @milza12 @nyxlai @daintyminho @tokyodarlng

#jjk #jjk college au #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen megumi #megumi x reader #nobara kugisaki #yuji itadori #jjk megumi #megumi fushiguro #jujutsu megumi #jujustu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #megumi x y/n #megumi fluff #megumi x you #maki zenin #yuta okkotsu #inumaki toge #jjk itadori #jjk no curse au #non curse au #jjk art college au #jjk smau #jjk x y/n #jjk au #smau

[denaliwrites]

Don't Turn Your Back

Tenth Doctor x GN!Reader

Part 1: Don't Blink Part 3: Don't Look Away Part 4: Dreams See Us Through

Summary: If you never see a Weeping Angel again as long as you live, it'll be too soon.

Requests: Open!

Tag List: @nyxiethesimp

Warnings: Weeping Angels.

When the Doctor said "Let's find out why this Weeping Angel is stalking and torturing you," you weren't exactly sure how he intended to do that.

You were not expecting him to propose establishing a psychic link between you and the Angel in question.

"Absolutely not," you'd said, adamantly. "Find another way -- I won't have that thing inside my head."

"It's the only way," he'd said, and damn if he wasn't a bloody good liar.

"I hate you," you'd said.

To which he'd smiled and replied, "You know you're dying to know." And damn if you weren't convinced he couldn't read your mind, sometimes.

So now, here you sat, with some odd machine he'd fashioned out of scraps sitting atop your head. "I don't like this," you told him nervously.

"Oh, but you look great," he told you with a smile. Despite his blasé attitude, you remained unconvinced. He was a little too casual, yet for some reason he wouldn't meet your eye.

"What's wrong Doctor?" you finally asked as he adjusted the machine you wore. "Why won't you tell me the other options?"

"Because there aren't any," he said, yet again.

"Doctor, I know when you're lying."

"Because the only other option is to let you die," he snapped, voice broken and movements suddenly jerky as he was overcome with emotion. "And I will not let you die."

"Oh."

You regretted asking. And yet, you persisted.

"So this is safe?"

"No," he replied with a sigh. "But you have a better chance if we do this than if we do nothing. If we do nothing... the Angel will get bored, and..."

"It may not send me back... like the other Angels do."

"Are you ready?"

"No."

"Starting on the count of three."

He counted down, turned the machine on... and then everything went black.

You could tell something was off even before you opened your eyes, but opening them certainly confirmed your suspicions. You found yourself back in your flat, but the world around you was strangely dark and covered in thick mist -- even though you were inside.

Not a fan of that, you decided.

Walking through your flat didn't reveal anything out of the ordinary, besides the darkness and the fog. There were no ghosts, no angels, no Doctor, no... anything.

You were alone.

How were you supposed to tell him? How would he know to pull you out? Those thoughts, among others, ran through your head as you made your way outside to look around the garden. Finding more nothing, you moved on to the street.

You saw the TARDIS on the other side of the road, its light dim and ominous in the oppressive dark of whatever Hell this was.

You wanted to run towards it, and into the safety of the TARDIS, but movement to your left caught your attention.

Oh.

The Angel.

You sucked in a steadying breath and walked towards it.

"Why are you doing this?" you asked as you neared. You hadn't expected your voice to echo. It freaked you out a little. This whole place did. The situation, too.

The Angel didn't answer you.

"Oh. Do I need to turn away?" you asked, genuinely. You blinked and when your eyes opened you could've sworn the Angel's lips were slightly more upturned. "Okay. I'm here to talk. I'm here in good faith. Please don't kill me... I... I'm trusting you."

It was a terrible decision, really, but what choice did you have?

So you turned -- and closed your eyes for good measure.

"Why are you doing this?" you repeated.

A voice not unlike two rocks grinding against each other whispered in your ear, "Revenge." And as quiet as that single word was, it still echoed around you.

"But I've never seen a Weeping Angel before," you whimpered. "How could I have done anything to you worth revenging over?"

"Not you," the voice whispered.

Oh. Well, the only other person that left was the Doctor.

"What did he do?" you asked, even though you didn't actually want to know.

"He killed my sisters."

"I... I'm very sorry," you started, swallowing thickly. "That must've been... terrible. I can't imagine."

"He took something from me," the voice continued, "something I loved. So now I will take from him something he loves."

A nervous laugh bubbled out of your throat. "The Doctor doesn't love me."

"Foolish human," the voice said, and there was just enough threat in those words for you to instinctively open your eyes and turn around.

The Weeping Angel was gone.

Nerves alight and mind about a hundred times more exhausted than it was when you first entered this place, you sighed and wearily turned to the TARDIS. Walking inside revealed that it was just as dark, misty, and creepy as everywhere else.

But you could see yourself sitting in one of the seats by the console, unconscious. The Doctor hovered beside you, his hands clutching yours desperately. He kept whispering to himself, but in this place they echoed right over to you, clear as day --

"Come on, come on, come on."

Over and over, just those two words.

You watched sadly for a moment before you made your way to... well, yourself. You weren't really sure how to wake yourself up, but were willing to try anything and everything that came to mind.

Which was how you found yourself going through a series of ridiculous attempts that included yanking on wires, chanting in Latin, screaming in your face, slapping your face, and dancing the hula.

After everything you tried failed, you dropped to the floor with a whimper and closed your eyes.

You awoke with a jolt, gasping desperately as if you'd been holding your breath for several minutes.

The first thing you saw was the Doctor, still hovering over you. He looked incredibly relieved to see you back, unharmed. You let him take the machine off, and though you felt incredibly heavy suddenly you let him pull you into a hug, too.

"What happened?" he asked as he pulled away. "What did it say?"

"It..." God, you were so tired. Why were you so tired? "It says it wants to kill me because you killed its sisters...?"

You could see him pondering that, eyes searching the air as he tried to recall a time he may've killed some Weeping Angels. All the while, his hands still held yours. It was a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

If he remembered at all, he did a strangely good job of hiding it, though you supposed it helped that your sudden swaying drew his attention away. "Hey, hey," he cooed, pulling you up and into his chest. "Let's get you to bed, eh?"

You shook your head, pushing yourself gently away from him. "I need... to think. Erm. I'm gonna take a shower. And then I'll go to bed..." You nodded tiredly but resolutely and made your way to your bathroom.

The shower you took was long, just shy of blisteringly hot, and not nearly as productive as you'd hoped it would be. Your thoughts kept running in circles, or else running away from you altogether, and chasing them only served to wind your anxiety up like a rubber band about to snap.

And snap it did.

You hadn't even realized you were screaming until the Doctor was pulling you out of the water and gently shushing you. You only sort of quieted, your screams simmering down to sobs as you clung to him. He held you firmly, protectively, whispering such gentle words of comfort and encouragement in your ear even as your cries filled his.

"Oh, it's all right now," he soothed, petting your wet hair. "I won't let it hurt you, eh? I promised I'd keep you safe, didn't I?" He sighed when the only response he got was a sob, and pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

Carefully, and much to your confusion, the Doctor managed to move to a stand with you cradled in his arms. You didn't protest as he carried you to your room (again), nor as he set you down and swaddled you up under the covers.

As you started to come down, you realized you were still naked -- that the Doctor had pulled you out of the shower and held you and carried you all while you were naked, but honestly dealing with that would have to wait until you weren't exhausted.

Once he was, seemingly, satisfied with the cocoon he'd surrounded you in, he leaned forward and pecked your forehead, then moved to leave.

"Doctor, please don't," you begged quietly, still sniffly.

He paused for only a moment before he turned back to face you, before he came to sit on the edge of your bed, before he scooted in next to you and laid beside you.

He didn't even need to speak for you to feel comforted. Even just turning to face him and nuzzling up to his shoulder had you feeling immensely better.

He rested his cheek against the top of your head and silently stared up at the ceiling as you yawned and sank into him. It took a long while for sleep to come for you, but when it finally did, it came hard and fast.

You were haunted by nightmares of moving statues.

#tenth doctor x reader #tenth doctor x you #doctor who x reader #the doctor x reader #the doctor x you #reader insert #doctor who fic #doctor who fanfiction #doctor who #the doctor #david tennant #canon typical peril #weeping angels

[cerise-on-top]

Giving König a Bracelet to Help with His Anxiety

@puff0o0 Hey, I'm the anon who said they'd write this! I know you deleted that ask, which is why I'm not really sure if you care about this anymore in the first place, so if this bothers you, just tell me and I'll delete it! Either way, I hope it's enjoyable enough and thank you for the idea!

From the doorway you watched the behemoth go about his day, with him currently picking out the food he would like to make. From what you could see, both options he weighed seemed to have been some form of pasta, although his large frame did cover the picture of the second bag. With a sigh, he put down one of them, the winner seemingly being noodles with broccoli sauce.

“I hoff meim Liebling werdn’s schmecken. Guad sans jo eigentlich scho.”

Fascinating, he was speaking his mother tongue again, but seemingly in the way where no machine translator in the world could help you. Strange as it was, to have been so confident in what little German you did know, there were many times you failed to understand him, but that’s what made it all the more charming as well. Either way, dialect or not, you had something else planned, something transcending language.

Creeping up to him, like a benevolent shadow, you took the piece of jewelry out of your pocket, holding it in your hand as you gave it another quick glance. It should fit him, but hopefully, it won’t pinch him too much. Seemingly distracted by the packet of noodles, or maybe he was just playing along with you, it was hard to tell, you stood behind him, not making a move. It was a bit ironic in your eyes: The gift you had gotten him takes its bearer’s anxiety and cleanses it, yet here you were, worried he might not like it. It still wasn’t too late to go back, or maybe leave it somewhere for him to find. Which, however, would make way for another problem, mainly that he would think it belonged to you when such couldn’t be further from the truth. You were certain König was a different man on the battlefield, fierce, frightening, fatal, but when it came to domestic things, he seemed a bit lost.

He was a sweetheart to you at all times, very aware of his strength and how easily he could hurt you by accident. He’s cracked several eggs on his hand instead of inside the frying pan, he’s even broken glass by holding it. And even then, the problem wasn’t the splitters in his hand, he was more worried about you being mad at him for breaking it. The guilt in his eyes was something else as you patched him up.

“I don’t deserve someone like you.”

And every time anew, you would tell him:

“Who said that?! Who do I need to cuddle the sadness out of?!”

Stupid as it was, it would always make him smile. But you couldn’t always be there with him, reassure him that everything was going to be alright. You probably didn’t need to, but you couldn’t help but want to, no matter what. For as scared as you were this time, you had to bite the bullet, let it be known that you loved and cared for him, even got him something. “Honey?”

“Oh, you’re back home. I am so glad to see you, I was just about to make dinner. Say, do you like broccoli?”

König turned to face you, his slight excitement was evident in his voice, the fact he tried to swallow it down even more so. It was adorable how his eyes almost glistened in the artificial light just because he was looking at you instead of pasta instructions now.

Softening your grip on the small bracelet, you hadn’t even realized you were gripping tightly enough to cause pain, you put your other hand on top of it, making sure to conceal it entirely. This was all or nothing. “I, uh, got you something. Can I have your arm for a moment, please?”

“Naturally.” Taking the pack of pasta into his other hand, he extended his arm towards you. It never ceased to amaze you just how big it was, his hand, too. He could likely take someone’s skull and crush it using just one. But in that moment, all it did was hang there, giving you the opportunity to attach the bracelet. That you did, putting the hook through the loop to make sure it wouldn’t fall off.

“There we go.”

König lifted his arm towards his face, inspecting the little accessory closely. While he wasn’t quite sure what those pretty crystals were, he could make an educated guess, having listened to you talk about them from time to time. The purple one, he was sure, he could make out fairly easily, the faintly pink one made his gears turn for a moment. “...amethyst and rose quartz? Is that what those are?”

“Oh, you actually remembered.” Taken aback for a second, you recovered quickly enough, taking his arm into your hands. You ran your thumb over the back of his hand. “But yes, that’s what they are. Good job, König, that makes me really happy.” Flashing him a smile, you took a shaky breath. “I got you this because it will help with your anxiety, though it seems like I should have one myself, haha. The amethyst calms the mind and the rose quartz will soothe the heart. But generally speaking, rose quartz will also help you when you can’t sleep at night. I want this to be yours so you will be well wherever you are.”

König’s eyes widened for a moment, breaking eye contact with you to look at the bracelet instead. It was absolutely gorgeous, a reminder from you that everything will be alright, no matter when or where he may be. Softly, he rubbed your arm with his free hand before pulling you into a hug. You couldn’t complain, he was tall, strong and warm. It calmed your senses, feeling his arms wrap around you, as he muttered his gratitude to you.

“Danke, Schatzi, ich hab dich so so lieb, du hast ja gar keine Ahnung.”

That German seemed to be easier to understand than what he said about the noodles earlier.

“I love you too. Be well and come back to me always, alright? Do you promise you will do that for me?”

You pulled away from the hug, putting a hand on König’s cheek while caressing it gently with your thumb.

“Yes, of course.”

________________________________

“I hoff meim Liebling werdn’s schmecken. Guad sans jo eigentlich scho.” = "I hope my darling will like it. They are normally pretty good."

#cod #cod mw2 #könig x reader #könig mw2 #also this has some Austrian German in it because I do believe he would speak it when talking to himself #and also because I could #just a bit nervous about posting this #Shrimp if you're reading this: thank you for the idea but also sorry for bothering you

[thebearmage]

Closed Eyes (Please Open Them)

Five Hargreeves x GN!Comatose!Reader

Part Two of One Mistake (is All it Takes)

Summary: After Cha-Cha's attempt on your life, you are admitted to the hospital. You are alive, but you are far from okay. Five sits with you, refusing to leave. His only company is his own regrets.

Warnings: Angst, HEAVY angst, injuries, hospital and medical equipment, Five being sad

READER AND FIVE ARE 18+

MASTERLIST

Five was shaking.

He was sitting in his room, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. A mug of something hot in between his numb fingers. He hasn't moved. Not since Diego had dragged him out of your apartment building a few hours ago.

Five was still in his bloody clothes, he was looking at the blood on his pants. It's yours. Your blood...you're blood on his clothes....your blood staining his skin....your blood all over the floor...all over you...everywhere....everywhere.....EVERYWHERE!!!

Five gasps as he finally snaps himself out of his shock-induced trance. He pants, letting the mug slip through his fingers, crashing onto the floor.

Someone comes rushing into the room. It's Vicktor, he gasps softly and kneels in front of Five.

"Five, hey look at me," he gently takes Five's hands, "Hey, it's Vicktor, can you hear me?"

Five slowly focuses on Vicktor, sighing, "Yeah,"

Vicktor looks at Five in sympathy, "Let's get you cleaned up, okay?"

Five nods numbly. Vicktor leads him to the bathroom.

"How is..." Five's voice cracks. He's scared to ask the question, "Are they...?"

Vicktor nods, "They're alive. Last we heard from the hospital, they went into surgery. We have to wait until they're done before we see them,"

Five nods, his breathing slowed a bit. You were alive. You were alive.

The relief slowly fades when the second part of Vicktor's sentence clicks into his mind.

Five swallows. You were not out of the danger zone yet.

Vicktor helps Five clean up and change clothes. After that, the family drives to the hospital.

Allison walks up to the desk, her brothers trailing behind her.

"Hey, we're looking for Y/N L/N,"

The nurse nods, "They just got out of surgery, it went well," The umbrella academy sighs in relief but the nurse looks at them sadly.

"Oh no, I know that look," Klaus says,

"What's wrong?" Luther asks,

The nurse sighs, she gesture for the family to follow them as they walk down the hallway.

"Y/N was brought to us in critical condition," she states, "Several stab wounds to the stomach and sides, bruised ribs, a bruised lung, and some trauma from being attacked or hit. They're body showed us signs of torture as well,"

Five's blood was boiling. The quick death he gave Cha-Cha was a reward compared to what he wished to do now.

The nurse stops at the door, "They lost too much blood on the way here and during surgery. They...fell into a coma,"

The Umbrella Academy gasped in horror. Ben and Allison cover their mouths with their hands. Luther and Klaus look down. Diego curses before putting a hand on Five's shoulder.

Five...looked crushed. The mask he normally wore around others shattered into pieces at those words. Tears filled his eyes as he gasps a bit.

"When will..." he takes a breath, "When will they wake up?"

The nurse shrugs, "We don't know. It's possible that they won't,"

Five chokes on a sob and blinks into the room. The nurse is startled but the others slowly open the door to peak inside.

Five is staring at your broken and battered body. Bandages were wrapped around your arms and fingers. Five could assume there were more covering your chest and legs. There was a few tan bandages on your face, covering smaller cuts.

There were so many different IVs and wires connected to you, each hooked up to a liquid or machine keeping you alive. You were on life support; a tube was down your throat, peaking out of the side of your mouth. You lips were closed limply around it. There oxygen tubes in your nose, helping you breath.

For a heart stopping moment Five realized those tubes could be the only thing making you breath. He stands, frozen, breathes coming quicker and quicker.

Then, to the shock of his family (sans Diego, who'd had seen Five earlier), Five bursts into sobs, rushing over to you.

He doesn't say anything at first. He just grabs your free hand and sobs loudly, gently moving some hair out of your face with a trembling hand.

"No..." He pleads, "No....please...."

Five collapses into a chair next to you. His legs no longer able to hold him. He buries his face into your stomach, gently wrapping his arms around you, and wails. Screaming his sorrow and pain into your hospital gown.

———————❖———————

Days ticked by, slowly turning into weeks. The doctors were loosing hope for your recovery, saying you most likely have gone brain dead.

Five wouldn't listen, he was by your side every hour. The doctors stopped trying to kick him out after he'd blinked into the room after visiting hours multiple times.

The doctors told him that talking to you might help. So, as he sits next to you, on day 18, he mumbles to you.

"Hey, baby. It's me. It's Five," he says, "I...I um...I hope you can hear me," Five sniffs, taking a pause, "I really do. So, whatever your dreaming about, I can be there with you,"

Five slowly covers your hand with his, "I have some good news," he laughs a little, "I should have told you ages ago...but...um...it's past April 1st.....we've stopped Doomsday,"

Five swallows, his throat was dry, "We learned about Viktor's powers. Apparently he was the bomb to end the world. But, uh, he's to worried about you right now,"

Five laughs humorlessly, "You've saved the world," he says, voice choked, "By nearly dying," he lets out another laugh, "You're a goddamn hero, Y/N,"

Five's laughter slowly dissolves into sobs, "God...I miss you so much," he murmurs, "So...so...fucking much! So much it hurts!"

Five tries to wipe his eyes, but the tears keep falling, "You've needed this rest, though," he admits, "You've been so overworked since I came back,"

Five buries his face in his free hand, "It's all my fault! I dragged you into this! I wasn't there for you when you needed it! I pushed you away! I said those horrible things to you!"

Five sobs brokenly, "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" Five desperately but gently squeezes your hand, "I've got you, I'm not letting go! I have your hand, your small lifeless hand," he hiccups slightly, "Oh god why is so lifeless!?"

He brushes some hair out of your face, sobbing and looking into your closed eyes, "Please wake up....please wake up,"

He lets his head drop onto your chest as he weeps. His hand ever letting go of yours.

The sound of your heart monitor beeping faster catches his attention, he gasps softly as he looks up.

"Baby?" he cups your face, "Y/N?"

You slowly wince due to the harsh light as it slowly filters into your awareness. Your eyes are not open yet but you can sense the brightness behind your closed lids,

You try to speak around the tube in your mouth, and then sigh in defeat when you can't. One would expect that you'd be panicking, but you had hear (most of) everything while unconscious. You had been aware that you were in a coma, and you had been aware of the tubes and wires attached to you (it caused a LOT of discomfort, thank you very much).

Five was in disbelief, gasping as he gently cups your face, "Y/N?"

Despite the harsh light, you slowly crack open your eyes to look at him. You smile as best you can.

Five laughs, this time it's a happy sound, and rushes forward to kiss your forehead, "Hey," he says, more tears coming to his eyes. You slowly reach up your heavy arm to brush the tears away and he cradles your arm against his face.

"You're okay, you're okay," he mumbles like a mantra, "I'm here...and you're here with me," he half sob, half laughs and looks up at you.

"Morning sleeping beauty," you give him a deadpan look at that line and he snickers wetly.

The doctors come rushing in a moment later. Once they get the tube out you turn to Five and breath,

"...bright," your voice is cracked and dry due the tube and lack of use. Five blinks to the light switch and flicks it off, earning a few glares from the doctors, he just maintains eye-contact until they turn back to you.

Once the doctors clear out, Five sits down next to you again, smiling from ear to ear. You try to sit up to hug him but he puts a hand on your shoulder,

"No, no, stay down. Stay down,"

You wince in pain and nod, laying back down. You cough a bit,

"...water?"

Five nods quickly, overwhelmed, and blinks to the cafeteria. He comes back with a water bottle. You hold out your hands for it and he reluctantly hands the bottle over,

"....bed,"

Five nods again and helps you raise the bed so you're sitting up more without moving your body. When if was safe to drink, you gulp down half the bottle before sighing.

With your throat feeling less like that The Atacama Desert, you turn to Five.

"Hey, baby," your voice was clearer but still weak, "Did you miss me?"

Five laughs brokenly, "Yes, yes I did," he leans forward and kisses you, "I'm so so sorry,"

You look at him, confused, "For what?"

Five looks at you in disbelief, "For everything!" he shouts, "Dragging you into my mess, not being there, pushing you away, saying those horrible things,"

"Five..." you try, but he isn't listening.

"For not protecting you, for letting my selfishness get the better of me. It's my fault your like this!"

"FIVE!" You cough roughly at raising your voice and Five feels another pang of guilt.

"What...happened....wasn't your fault," you say between pants, "We have a fight, yes. But who knew that Cha-Cha was going to be there? Not me, and certainly not you!"

"But..."

"No buts!" You snap, "I don't want to hear you wallow in self pity! I want you to be here with me, dammit! Okay?"

Five laughs, seeing that you were taking a page from his book with the harsh words, "Okay,"

He leans in again and you kiss. He holds you gently. You were here, in his arms, awake and alert. He was never letting you go again, not in a million years.

"So...I saved the world,"

"Oh, shut up,"

———————❖———————

HELLO EVERYONE! I hope you enjoyed this part two! There might be a very short, fluffy part three if anyone wants to see it! Again, hope you enjoyed.

Also, requests are still open! If you want you can send some ideas to me and I'll write them for ya!

TAGS

@eddie-swhore @deceasedream69 @beautyb1ade @sniney @fives-simp217

#five hargreeves #the umbrella academy #the umbrella academy imagines #five hargreaves #tua five #five x you #five x reader #five hargreeves x you #five hargreeves x reader #five hargreaves x reader #number five #tua five hargreeves #angst #the umbrella academy fanfiction #injury #five hargreeves angst #the umbrella academy x reader #umbrella academy #netlflix #tua #tua x reader

[foli-vora]

Congrats on 3k, lovely!!!!

Can I have “you know where to find me.” with Dave York?

Pls turn my pelvis into dust. Your Dave is AMAZING.

My love. Thank you for your never ending support and love. I am honoured you enjoy my Dave! I apologise for the delay, and I hope you enjoy! ❤️

A sidenote: Yes, I'm slowly making my way through these requests. Yes, they are incredibly late. Yes, we're ignoring the fact I'm well over 3k now LMAO.

your taste i crave

dave york x f!reader

word count: 1.3k warnings: SMUT 18+ ONLY. semi public sex/workplace sex, rough unprotected p in v, brief talk of choking, vague descriptions of toy use, use of tie as a gag, creampie, oral sex (f), cum eating, a brief thigh nibble, dave's messy idc

The edge of the copier is harsh where it digs into your stomach, but you can’t find it in you to care—not when he’s moving like this, not when his hands are locked on your hips, keeping you at his complete mercy as he takes what he wants.

He’s so fucking rough, and if you didn’t have the tight pull of his work tie around your mouth and making words practically impossible, you’re absolutely positive you’d be begging him for more.

You don’t think it will ever be enough.

Instead, all that falls from your parted, restrained lips are muffled whines and broken moans when he hits that spot that’s almost too far. It sends a jolt of pain through your system, rocketing up your spine and bringing your body harder against the machine in an effort to escape the intense sensation, but it’s quickly replaced with more heat, more need.

He merely drags you back against him each and every time, his neatly trimmed nails pressing indents into the fleshy skin of your waist as he moves behind you with tightly restrained grunts, the slap of his hips meeting your ass echoing in the small copy room.

Despite the time of day, with most of the office having enough and retreating home, there’s not much time left.

Beyond the dizzying, overwhelming feel of him rutting into you without abandon; cock so fucking solid, so goddamn thick; and bringing a flood of tears to your lash line, you know it can’t last—not like it usually does.

He’d still want to go back to work—most likely for the rest of the evening, the strict borderline obsession with his career rendering him unable to leave the mountains of work flooding his desk.

So there’s no room for build up here. No time for teasing. No long, blissful drawn out torture of him bringing you to the edge only to stop at its peak again and again.

This is about release. This is about working and relieving the tension that had been slowly building across his broad shoulders with every bullshit thing that had happened today and granting him a clearer head for the hours left at the office. This is about him, and you’re only too happy to oblige.

“Might—fuck… might have to–to make this a regular work thing,” he grits out, hand curling around the back of your blouse and tugging roughly at it until your back is pressing against his chest.

The silk collar of it cuts into the soft flesh of your throat, and you want to ask for more.

Maybe his hand? His long thick fingers curling around the width of it and giving it that perfect squeeze that borders on too much but is always just enough.

Maybe his belt? The worn, cared for leather smooth against your skin as it tightens and tightens, slowly pushing your lungs to the max until you’re weeping from the irresistible assault of sensations.

The gag wound tight around your mouth makes it impossible to get the words out, and his mouth latches onto the curve of your shoulder, nipping and biting at the skin until it feels raw. You stretch out for more, his lips soon running hungrily along the expanse of your throat.

Close.

He’s getting close.

You know it, you can feel it.

You can feel it in the way his already bruising grip tightens just that little more. You can feel it in the way his breath starts to catch where it ghosts your skin, sticking in his throat and coming out in shorter pants as he chases the promise of that sweet, sweet high.

You can’t speak, can’t utter a single fucking word to coax him along. You can’t beg for him to keep going, to finish right where he is and fill you to the fucking brim so you can take a part of him home.

He goes wild for your shaky home videos, the smooth finish of your vibrator glistening with the remnants of his cum sliding down the silicon as you fuck yourself with his name on your lips in the cosy comfort of your bedroom.

A mantra of his name fills your mind.

Dave, Dave, Dave.

You want him to hear it, you want him to know that it’s only him that could do this, only him that could use you like this. You love it, crave it.

That familiar tingle runs along your spine in anticipation, your body aching for just that little bit more, your clit throbbing in need of desperate attention to get you just over that line right alongside him—

The groan that falls from his throat is utter filth, hoarse and throaty, and one of your favourite fucking sounds he makes. He slams his hips upwards one more time, forcing the head of his cock right up against your soft cervix as he starts to cum, and you’re left to do nothing but whine into the now damp material of his tie, barely aware of the tear that leaks from the corner of your eye.

He takes a long moment to recover, sweat slicked face hidden in your shoulder as his chest heaves against your back. The tie loosens from around your mouth and falls to rest at the base of your throat, leaving a mess of saliva coating your lips and chin which you try to wipe away as cleanly as possible with the back of your hand.

Too soon, he starts to pull away, guiding his softening cock from your tender, weeping cunt with a low hiss of ‘fuck’ before you hear the rustle of his slacks and the smooth pull of his zipper.

You take that as your silent cue, twisting and bending as well as you could on shaky legs to retrieve the damp panties still tangled around your ankles and attempt to drag them back up into place.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He asks gruffly, tugging the thin lace out from your fingers and letting them drop to your feet once more. “Who said I was finished with you?”

“But—”

There’s no time to argue.

He works quickly, dropping to his knees and gripping the underside of your ass enough to spread you open before pressing forward eagerly. The thick, firm feel of his tongue swipes through the mess he had made, forcing its way along your wet folds before pushing into your throbbing cunt.

You manage to smother the yelp of surprise with a quick slap of your hand over your mouth, half wishing he had left the gag in place if he wasn’t done with you. Maybe he’s trying to test you, or maybe he just doesn’t give a shit about being quiet anymore.

God, it’s risky.

It’s so fucking risky, it’s so fucking good—

He holds you tightly, winding an arm around the front of you to pull you harder against his face as he practically devours you from behind, eagerly coaxing more of his cum and your arousal into his mouth with feral curls and flicks of his tongue.

Your knees threaten to give out when he finally moves away from your entrance and finds your clit, smoothing over the swollen nerve with alternating quick, light flutters and firm, wide rolls. He falls into his pace easily, rekindling the heat in the pit of your stomach in a way only he knows how and you’re desperate to find something to anchor yourself with.

“Y-yeah,” you breathe brokenly, hands clutching the machine for life and eyes rolling with the fresh waves of pleasure as you can’t help but start to rock back against his face, focusing on the feel of his slick tongue sliding back and forward over your previously neglected clit, “maybe we could make this a… a r-regular work thing.”

He hums into you, breaking away with an obscene wet smack of his lips before nipping at the inside of your thigh playfully.

“You know where to find me, pretty girl. Bend over, give it to me.”

-

tags: @maievdenoir, @javier-pena, @lv7867, @dihra-vesa, @katronautt, @radiowallet, @januarystears, @missminkylove, @beskarprincessjenny, @mswarriorbabe80, @danidrabbles, @amneris21, @eri16, @absurdthirst, @hnt-escape, @acourtofsnakes, @ezrasbirdie, @mstgsmy66, @lovesbiggerthanpride, @coaaster, @sherala007, @greeneyedblondie44, @wyn-n-tonic, @you-got-me-starry-eyed, @shirks-all-responsibilities, @withasideofmeg, @harriedandharassed, @andruxx, @buckybarneshairpullingkink, @spideysimpossiblegirl, @prostitute-robot-from-the-future, @tanzthompson, @mad-girl-without-a-box, @hope-for-the-best-98, @fangirl-316, @christina-loves, @jediknight122, @hallway5, @xoxabs88xox, @nicolethered, @churchill356, @massivecolorspygiant, @just-here-for-the-moment, @gracie7209, @pinkie289, @lavenderluna10, @goodgriefitsawildworld

#foli's 3k #dave york x reader #dave york x f!reader #dave york x you #dave york #pedro pascal x reader

[holylulusworld]

Designed by pain (2)

Summary: Broken hearts are hard to put back together. 8 years ago, Dean lost something he didn’t even know he had in the first place. Will he get a second chance?

Pairing: former AU!Dean Winchester x fem!Reader; Arthur Ketch x fem!Reader

Warnings: angst, language, implied break-up, time jumps, strong reader, Dean being a douche (implied), unplanned pregnancy

A/N: This was an alternative idea for the first chapter of my Bucky story: Monster-in-law masterlist. I decided to use it for a story with Dean.

Designed by pain masterlist

Designed by pain (1)

Three months later, London 

London in spring was less exciting than you thought. If you explored most of the well-known tourist attractions, it was a place like all the ones you lived in before.

Well, it was a little more British, and they had better tea. Okay, they had the best tea you ever drank outside of Japan. But you couldn’t feel more than resentment against London.

It wasn’t its fault. If you had come here before Dean broke your heart, you would’ve fallen in love with the non-touristic places you discovered on your walks through town.

Like the sweet little bakery called the Dusty Knuckle. You chuckled at the name and were about to call Dean to tell him about it. He would’ve laughed and you would’ve laughed…together soon enough.

That was until you realized that you forgot about reality and the situation you are in. 

Well, he would laugh getting to know you signed up for one of their bread-making classes to distract yourself from your messed up feelings.

“How do you like your new office?” Arthur brings you out of your thoughts. Over the last months, he became a confidant. He helped you find the perfect home for you and your baby and made sure that you at least forget about your heartbreak for a while.

Having a man not trying to get into your pants around was refreshing. Arthur tried to be a friend, not your boss. “It’s perfect,” you smile up at him before you turn your attention back toward the newest design. “I like the new design of the car.”

“I knew you’d like it,” Arthur chuckles. “Just like I knew you’d be perfect for this position. I wanted someone with the same passion for cars I share.”

You focus on your laptop and try not to cringe. Dean was the one waking the passion for cars deep within you. You still prefer classic cars, but you want to help build cars for the future.

“Thank you, for everything, Arthur,” you drop your eyes to your middle, wincing as you think about Dean again. He doesn’t deserve one single thought, but it isn’t easy to forget about the love of your life.

“I told you before, there is no need to thank me for hiring you,” Arthur pats your shoulder. “We work together like a well-oiled machine. I have to thank you.”

At the same time, Dean’s office, …

“Dean, I don’t get why you won’t try to find Y/N. She just upped and left that night. I heard her crying in your shared room, but she wouldn’t open the door.”

“She just upped and left, that’s right,” Dean snaps at his younger brother. “He rises from his seat to glare at Sam. “She left her ring on the bed! No note, no reason why. This told me everything I needed to know.”

“Just saying, that’s not her. Y/N would never do such a thing,” Sam interjects. “You know her better than me, but Y/N once told me that she hates unfinished business. She would’ve talked things out if you only gave her a chance!”

“Why are you so interested in my love life?” Dean snaps at his brother. “Y/N left and that’s that. Whatever we had is over.”

“Whatever you had?” Sam huffs and shakes his head. “You wanted to marry her, Dean. Dean Winchester wanted to settle down and have a family. If not for your mishap at the party, you’d be happy with her.”

“Mishap?” Dean splutters. “I don’t remember much of that night. I got a little drunk to find the guts to tell Mom and Dad about my engagement. Maybe I talked a little bit too long with Lisa. That’s all!”

“You ignored your fiancé for your ex-girlfriend, Dean,” Sam makes a face. He can’t fathom that his brother believes he wasn’t in the wrong that night. “You could’ve been happy with Y/N if not for your self-manipulative behavior. We both know you did this on purpose to make Y/N leave you.”

“What?” Dean gasps.

“Y/N was the best thing ever happening to you and you got scared again. So, you allowed Lisa Braeden to be all over you. No woman will stay by your side if she feels unwanted.”

“Leave me alone,” Dean grunts. “It’s over for good. I wouldn’t know where to look for her either way.”

“I can call a friend. He’s a private investigator and could easily find Y/N,” Sam tries one last time to make his brother see that he should do anything to get you back. “Dean don’t lose her out of stubbornness. You were in the wrong.”

“She could’ve stayed and talked to me. Just give up,” Dean drops his eyes to the little black box on his desk. “I did when I woke up to an empty bed, her ring in my hand.”

“I hope Mother is happy now,” Sam snaps at his brother. “She always wanted you to settle for Lisa Braeden, the woman breaking your heart.”

“Sammy,” Dean swallows thickly. “She was my fiancé, not yours. Stay out of my business.” He says instead of asking Sam to help him. Dean is too proud to admit that he’s missing you like hell.

If only he knew why you didn’t even leave a note…

Part 3

#dean winchester #dean x reader #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester x reader #angst #dean winchester x you

[ananke-xiii]

(it's going to be quite a convoluted post but bear with me)this insanely good post by @postmodernmulticoloredcloak (about this line from 7x21 "the angels, they don't care. I think maybe they just don't have the equipment to care. Seems like when they try, it just breaks them apart") made me think of another line, always by Edlund, from TMWWBK s6e20, ie:

Dean: It's not too late. Damn it, Cas! We can fix this!

Cas: Dean, it's not broken!

I remember that when I first watched the episode I thought "hold on, what is going on here?" 'cause it was clear from Cas' reply that the lines are not just about the Purgatory situation but also about Dean and Cas' situationship. Now, Dean's words "fix" and "equipment", reminded me how he uses fixing Baby in s7e1 as a necessity ofc, but as a coping mechanism, too after the whole mess with Sam's wall and Cas getting pregnant with Leviathans (I don't remember the lines but I'm pretty sure that he even admits, in different words, that fixing the car is a way to for him to stay focused, to regain control).

And now that the image of fixing a car has popped into my mind, I recalled the lines from s7e17 when Dean tells Emmanuel that he can't "shake off" what Cas did and Cas/Emmanuel says: "You're not a machine, Dean. You're human".

So what am I trying to say? Well, I think what I want to say is that although Dean is humanity, he's the definition of caring etc, at the same time, he doesn't have the tools to navigate his relationship with Cas. He is willing to but he doesn't know how to and this drives him a bit crazy. So, in a way, Dean doesn't have the "equipment" to care as well, not generally speaking, but specifically when it comes to Cas (Dean has said so in s7e17, the one thing he can't shake off is this thing with Cas). Every time he tries they break apart anyway.

From here I went a bit insane 'cause I started thinking: so what happens when you fall in love, deeply, nonsensically and for the first time but you don't know what to do? Like you don't even recognize how big this whole mess is simply because you don't have the tools to deal with these freakingly huge totally-out-of-control emotions? And then the person you're falling for becomes God or whatever and then he dies? What's one supposed to do? I guess fixing a car is as good as a coping mechanism as any So Dean couldn't fix things with Cas but he sure as hell can fix his baby. Now if you excuse me, I'll be over there crying.

#destiel #spn #supernatural #castiel #season 6 #season 7 #dean winchester #insame show for insane people #spnblr #spn brainrot #spnfandom #spn lines

[kiame-sama]

hi :D i'm a new follower, I just finished reading your story of twin eclipses- (Yandere! Illumi x reader) and i'm left with the intrigue to know more 😢

Could it be that you can do part 2 or mini series of this? The plot is very interesting and leaves you wondering what will happen next.

Only if you want :), GREETINGS FROM ARGENTINA!!🇦🇷

Twin Eclipses- (Yandere!Illumi x Reader) pt. 2

Warnings; yandere, mention of abuse, coercion, threats, mention of being threatened, unfair situations, female bodied reader, mention of past noncon, mention of birthing troubles, going MAXIMUM OVERDRIVE stalker/creep here, item theft, irrational behavior, irrational thinking, obsessive behavior, obsessive thinking, extreme invasion of privacy, breeding kink,

A blazing sun sat in the middle of the sky, burning rays only slightly broken up by the occasional cloud. The only solace from the intense heat was the dappled shade cast beneath the tree canopy. Most animals were laying low during the height of the day's warmth, spare for two small figures that walked up the dusty road. They had been told of the family that lived upon the looming mountain and they were told to avoid it at all costs, but the cost now was just too great for the pair.

The looming gates of the estate stood before them, a small sentry checkpoint waiting not far from the large doors. Even so, the pair knew well enough to not approach as speaking to the attendant would only waste time. Time was not something they had in generous supply, so they were left with the only option they had; a phone. This phone belonged to the very person the pair aimed to save, the most recently dialed number displayed on the screen.

When they pressed the call button, the other line immediately answered and hung up, leaving the two to glance at one another in confusion. Their confusion didn't last long as the giant gate began to move and slowly creak open from some powerful force. The pair watched in awe and surprise as the huge gates swung open and revealed the group of adults on the other side. Four adults walked forwards to meet the pair, all of them familiar from when they last visited the pair at their home not long ago. Despite the intimidated feeling the pair got from the adult group, they knew that these adults were the only chance they had.

"Okay, we're here. All we have to do is call, right?"

"Right."

"I see the two of you have arrived, as agreed. It surprises me to see your mother isn't with you."

The first of the group- the eldest and shortest- spoke with a calm tone, clearly not giving anything away even to the frightened pair. Though the two were young and much smaller than the adults in the group, they were no less determined to get what they needed.

There was a slight waver to the young voice, the pair were only children barely out of their toddler years, after all. They had not known the world outside of the village they lived in with their mother and though the distance to the mountain was relatively short, it was the furthest they've been from home. Certainly farther than their mother had ever taken them, especially on foot. The boys were desperate though, and they saw no other solution to the problem that threatened their peaceful existence.

"She... She's why we came."

"Oh? Did she tell you to?"

"No... Mama..." The boys glanced at one another, "Mama's sick. She hasn't woken up in days and the elders say there are only a few places that have the things she needs to get better. They said that you all have the medicine and machines she needs to get better and she'll die without them..."

"Mama said we shouldn't talk to any of you, or ever go near the mountain. She said that you all are our family, but want us to do what you want and not let us choose what we want. But... We don't want to lose mama... So, we will do what you want, just save mama first."

It was a surprise to the group to hear the mature thought process of the two children in front of them. The pair had sought them out to save their mother, which took planning most children twice their age wouldn't be able to do without help. If ever there were a sign that the two were of the lineage their pedigree suggested, it would be their adult approach to the problem they had.

"So, you two sought us out in the hopes that you could use yourselves as bargaining chips to save your mother's life, right?"

There was a small beat of silence as the adults looked at one another, passing along silent meaning to their glances. It had been their intent all along to find some way to convince the wayward mother to allow her sons to be trained in the way of the assassins, but that didn't mean the group was thrilled to hear of her declining health. The group intended to assist regardless as they owed more than they cared to admit to the woman that birthed the pair of boys, however that didn't mean they would pass up the opportunity presented to them.

~~~~~~~~

"Very well, we will send for her and have her treatment begin here immediately. For now, though, introductions are in order. Your mother was not very forthcoming with information, especially information regarding the two of you. So, what are your names?"

"... Gesshoku and Nisshoku Zoldyck."

The slow and steady beep of machines brought you into awareness, feeling your dry throat crackle as you breathed. Each inhalation feeling forced and annoying as oxygen poured into the mask on your face. Your thoughts came slowly and sluggishly as if dampened by some chemical or drug fed into your system. It was difficult to even keep your eyes open as you tried to think about where you were and even who you were. Everything was jumbled in your brain and the ever present temptation to keep sleeping sat stubbornly in your mind.

"(Y/n)?"

A familiar voice managed to reach through the confusion and drag you back to the surface of clarity. Your attention snapped over to the source of the voice and you were vaguely lost as to why your father sat next to you. More so than just your father being present, you wanted to know where you were and where your sons were. If your father was with you in this mysterious place, where could your boys possibly be?

Your voice was harsh even to your own ears as if you had not spoken in a very long amount of time. The fact that your mouth felt so dry didn't help either as it only served to make your voice scratchier. It didn't really matter what your voice sounded like, though. What mattered to you was making sure your sons were alright and as far from their father as possible.

"(Y/n), I'm sure this is confusing for you-"

"Where are they?"

"..."

"Where are my sons?"

You left little room for argument and it was clear your father understood you would not be resting or wasting any time on questions until you could ensure your sons were safe. Gotoh silently thanked the fact that Illumi was out on a job and was not likely to return any time soon. At least the absence of the eldest Zoldyck son would give you some time to adjust to the new reality you found yourself living.

"They're with Master Silva-"

"Take me to them."

"(Y/n), you just awoke after spending two weeks unconscious. You should rest-"

"Take me to my sons. Now."

When your sons arrived at the proverbial doorstep of the Zoldyck estate, Gotoh was stunned to find out you were in poor health. The fact that the boys had traveled alone to meet their family and ask for their help told him just how unwell you were. Last time Gotoh saw you, you stood strong despite the way the world had worn you down and you were ready to fight the very people you served so you could protect your sons. He certainly was not prepared to see what had become of you thanks to your sudden illness.

Arriving at your home in the small village burned a permanent etching into Gotoh's mind. You looked so frail and sickly, bed bound and unable to respond to the world around you as your body fought as hard as it could to keep you alive. He had only just learned you were still alive and already had to face the potential reality of losing you again. In some ways, helping you during your illness soothed the ragged ache in your father's heart as he lamented the fact that he had been unable to protect you when you needed him most. Constant wondering of how he had ignored the signs of your mistreatment plagued him, filling his head and heart with shame at not seeing sooner.

Learning the real reason you had run from the family and from him weighed heavily on his mind. If he had just noticed sooner, or kept a better eye on you, perhaps Illumi wouldn't have gotten away with his sick affection towards you for as long as he did. Even now it was hard to think of the stoic eldest Zoldyck son doing anything so perverse and twisted towards you- someone he grew up with- but the evidence you had gathered was supposedly very damning. Either out of respect for you or for Gotoh himself, the Zoldycks did not share the compiled videos with him. Not that he wanted to see the things Illumi had done to you or hear you cry for help only to be ignored. The reality of what had been done to you was a heavy one and one that Gotoh struggled to come to terms with.

"Alright. I brought your clothes so you can change into something and then we can go see them."

The things they found... Were truly enlightening to just how depraved the eldest had become.

You wordlessly snatched up the clothing that he bought for you, pulling yourself out of bed and behind the curtains to change your clothes. The confident strides you had once walked with were now broken and eternally limping, a constant reminder that Illumi had tried everything to keep you with him permanently.

After he and the three Zoldycks left your home that first time, they did digging into Illumi and what exactly he was capable of doing and threatened to do to you. Milluki- the second eldest son- kept extensive back-logs of any kind of security feed footage and even had cameras previously unknown of around the estate.

It began with video of Illumi stalking you well before the abuse began. He would follow you throughout the estate and ensure any schedule you were on passed by his room at least once, if not multiple times throughout the day. There were countless evenings where he would silently enter your room while you slept and did who knows what with your unconscious body. Beyond the stalking he began to steal things that belonged to you, squirreling them away in his room.

Approximately when he began his perverse abuse, his behavior around you erratically shifted. He would openly corner you in halls, dragging you- sometimes literally- to the nearest closet or even his room. Neither of you would leave for hours on end and usually he was the one who emerged first, looking no worse for wear. Several minutes after he leaves, you would emerge, clothing torn in places revealing dark marks adorning your soft body. Sometimes you would walk out, other times you would practically crawl out of those rooms, disheveled and limping with clear distress on your face. It didn't take a genius- or sound from the video feed- to know what Illumi was doing to you. If anyone saw or heard you, they would quickly retreat the other way and speak not a word of it to anyone.

None of this was news to the Zoldycks, or to Gotoh. You had gathered enough evidence and said as much to make the suffering you felt clear. What really took them by surprise was what they found when they went poking around Illumi's room.

There was a secondary room that was hidden away from the common eye, looking like just another panel in his wall. Behind that panel lay the true depth of the depravity Illumi had been consumed by. What was akin to a room of worship or even some kind of elaborate shrine lay within. Things he had taken from you on display like trophies; from underwear, to locks of hair, even to a fridge full of marked vials of your blood, saliva, and vaginal lubricant. Aligned along one wall were countless pregnancy tests- all negative- and a clear empty spot marked and reserved for a positive test. Pictures of you papered the walls, some candid shots taken from a distance, some of you asleep in bed, others where you were clearly posed, bound, and gagged.

Several notebooks filled with dates and observations taken on you were in the far corner of the room. The earlier contents dated back to years before Illumi acted on his dark desires. Countless pages filled with line after line of his growing obsession filled every book, certain things highlighted and marked to be remembered. Some of the passages detailed exactly what he wished to do to you and how he imagined you would sound as he did them. One book was exclusively notes on how you reacted to certain sexual situations he put you through; what you responded to best, and what made you scream the loudest.

Calendars were marked with your monthly cycle, peak ovulation days specifically labeled 'breeding days'. Each week had a date marked for when he planned for you to take a pregnancy test.

He clearly had a place for his more 'prized' items in the center of the room. Upon a pedestal sat a torn uniform in your size. It was neatly folded and stacked together, a pair of bloodied underwear sitting on top with the label 'our first' placed along side it. There was little doubt that this uniform was what you were wearing when the sexual abuse began.

The most disturbing- by far- was the unnaturally life-like doll that looked near identical to you. It had clearly been 'used' many times and looked like you as if you were simply sleeping. This doll had your exact measurements, from bust size to hips, and wore clothing that they recognized as yours. The fake you was blindfolded and cuffed to a raised metal bar, hanging by the wrists. There were obvious features intended to be used for sexual gratification, from the openable mouth with a moveable tongue, to the two holes that were made to be stuffed. The most recent entry in the notebooks were Illumi lamenting the fact that the doll simply was not you and didn't feel the same, though it felt real enough for him to use consistently when he was not on a job.

Gotoh was disgusted and would never tell you what he and the three Zoldyck men had discovered in Illumi's room. All the secret room did was make Illumi's insatiable and insane obsession with you clear. They truly did not know how to keep Illumi from you when he learns you are at the Zoldyck estate and within his reach once more. There was little wonder now as to why Illumi had mangled your ankle, as he clearly was willing to do whatever it took to keep you in his grasp.

As you returned in the clothing Gotoh had given you, he stood up and silently led you through the twisting halls and corridors. Any fellow workers the two of you passed reacted to you the way they would react to a member of the family passing by; bowing their heads and moving to the far sides of the hall to let you pass. Where it was surreal to have others treat you with the same respect as they did the family, you knew it was likely because of your sons. You two came to a large door you were familiar with as it was the door to Silva's 'office' and you began to worry what you would find inside.

Gotoh knocked and the deep voice of the head of the family called out for you two to enter. As the door swung open and you stepped inside, two small figures practically flew into your arms. Your two sons clung to you and held tightly to wherever they could as they enthusiastically greeted you. Both boys were practically on the verge of tears as they rejoiced your return, talking over each other.

You couldn't keep up with the overlapping conversations and simply returned the hug in kind to the two boys who quickly went quiet, just enjoying your loving behavior. It was clear the boys had missed you to an extreme and they wanted to share everything they had learned while you were bed-ridden from your illness. Silva had a single brow raised at the boys, no doubt having only known them to be relatively quiet and withdrawn. Compared to how they interacted with you, it was more than obvious that the two favored you in every way. Your boys were clearly mama's boys and they had no issue letting everyone know that.

"We knew we had to help-!"

"Even though you said not to-"

"They really helped-"

"I've learned how to stab people-!"

"Did you know a human body dies without-?"

"But then we were really good at-"

"Grandpa has killed so many-"

"And Great-Grandpa hasn't killed anyone he wasn't hired to-"

"But Great^(3)Grandpa is super strong and-"

"When did you teach your boys how to use Nen?"

You glanced up at Silva, who was observing the exchange between you and your boys with a calm yet watchful gaze. It hadn't ever occurred to you to tell anyone the boys could use nen because you didn't want them around their family anyway given the emphasis on being assassins.

It was then the eldest of your boys, Gesshoku, seemed to perk up. Despite the young ages of your twin boys, they were unusually aware of what adults said and the things adults murmured when nearby.

"I didn't."

"I can see they have use of their nen, there is no point in trying to cover it up."

"I'm not covering anything up. I never taught them to use nen. From the moment they were born they have had access to their nen. Perhaps it was the respective eclipses that took place during their birth that caused it, I don't really know, but I never taught them how to use it."

This came as surprise to you, not only for the fact that Illumi had belittled you at every turn and called you replaceable, but for the fact that Silva seemed to think he was obsessed. You looked up at the white-haired assassin curiously, wondering what your boys were going on about. Truthfully, you would rather your sons never meet their father, but that decision was not up to you to make. It was a choice only they could make regarding their father and they seemed uniquely interested in meeting the man.

"Mama! Grandpa said our father isn't here right now, but might come back in a few days. You said he was not nice to you, so we asked Grandpa why Father wasn't nice to you and Grandpa said that Father is assessed with you-!"

"Obsessed."

"Right, like I said, assessed."

You felt a shiver of dread run down your spine upon hearing just how twisted and unhinged Illumi had become. It was surprising to know the assassin had such intense feelings for you, but it did not soothe you in the slightest. If anything, you wanted to grab your boys and run before Illumi ever caught wind of you being back, but it was likely too late for that.

"What are they talking about?"

"Gotoh did not tell you, I see."

"Tell me what?"

"We did more investigation into Illumi after our first conversation at your home. He has been keeping a kind of shrine to you in his room. He has many things of yours in this room, as well as written documentation about his thoughts on you. I believe he tried to make you believe he didn't care for you as a coping mechanism for himself, as he has been obsessed with you since the two of you were children. There are... revealing... photos of you and a life-sized doll he made of you. I am sure you can guess as to what he uses it for."

"I will be honest with you, (y/n). We don't know how to keep Illumi from pursuing you once he learns you are here. Anything short of you being by an elder Zoldyck's side 24/7 would be unable to deter him. I have no right to ask you to remain here, but the boys must remain. I would think you would stay with your sons, but I must warn you that the price to remain here with them will be Illumi having access to you once more."

The truth weigh heavily on you as you had suspected as much. Illumi was a skilled assassin and had been trained to be able to bypass any and all security in his way to get to his target. Simply thinking of Illumi being near you made your heart flutter and panic. You could leave before he found out about you, but that meant you would have to leave your sons, both of whom were still clinging to you and affectionately snuggling into you. There was simply no way you would abandon your boys, so a heavy resignation thudded like a hollow drum in your chest. If you stayed, Illumi would get to you regardless of any attempts to stop him.

You knew Silva was right and you would have to start thinking about these conditions. It was clear you would need the rest of the family backing you if you were to make any kind of rules to limit his behavior. Beyond that, you worried if he would try to hold your sons' lives in jeopardy for your obedience, but he can't get to them now that the family is protecting them.

"I don't really have a choice, do I? I won't leave my boys. I can't. ... I will have to let it happen, because it will regardless of if I fight or not."

"Perhaps you can make conditions to his access to you? If he is given the choice to follow them or lose you, perhaps he will take them seriously."

There were so many things to consider that you almost missed the sound of the door opening following a single knock. Turning to face the newcomer, your heart seized when you saw a pair of familiar looking doll eyes set in white alabaster skin. Clearly he had not expected to see you standing there when he opened the door and his excitement crackled like static around him. His eyes trailed from you to the two white-haired children that clung to your legs, narrowing slightly as he considered what he was seeing. When his gaze returned to you, there was a kind of recognition in them that was quickly replaced with hunger the longer he stared at you.

"..."

#kiame-sama #yandere #x reader #yandere x reader #reader insert #tw yandere #hxh yandere #yandere male #male yandere #yandere illumi #yandere illumi zoldyck #twin eclipses #tw past noncon #tw obsessive behavior #tw stalking #tw manipulation #tw creepy

[dmwrites]

It all started with Doc bursting into Xisuma’s office. Xisuma had just been about to take a sip of his tea, but a shard of the door landed directly in his mug, and he decided against it.

“Hello, Doc.” Xisuma said, putting down the mug sadly. “What’s up, dude?”

“That beady-eyed birdie and his smirking friend have me at my wits end!” Doc began pacing back and forth over the now-broken door. “They broke my machine, and giggled like little school children while showing me what they’d done!”

Xisuma hummed. “Beady-eyed… oh, you mean Grian and Scar! Yeah, I heard about that, what an unfortunate situation! I heard through the grapevine that you’re going to kill them, and badly. Sounds like fun.” He looked over Doc as he paced and cursed. Doc looked ruffled, lab coat in even more disarray then usual, and his crocs missing the straps. And on top of his head…

“Are the cat ears a… statement, or something?” Xisuma asked.

“Huh?” Doc felt for his head and tore the ears off with a growl. “Ah, fuck those ScarLand ears, forgot they were there.” He threw them into the garbage can by the door- he missed, and the cat ears just kind of flopped to the ground.

“Doc, I can see that you’re upset.” Xisuma held out a placating hand. “But is there a reason you came to my office? I know you’re more than capable of dealing with them yourself.”

Doc puffed out his chest at the complement. “Yes, yes, of course I am. I came here to ask a favor of you. You see, I have a plan- well, me and the hivemind have created something of deadly proportions. But the machine will take time to plan and build. I need someone to tell them off now, so they don’t forget that they were bad.”

Xisuma frowned. “Doc, it sounds like you think that Grian and Scar are children with no sense of object permanence or guilt.”

“They are children- look what they’ve done, and giggling the whole time!” Doc raged. “And they need to be disciplined like such until I can get to them.” He gave Xisuma an almost evil look that had him wondering if he would have to pay off the Minecraft board of ethics to look the other way for this DocM payback.

Doc seemed to have planned for Xisuma’s trepidation, and tossed a stack of diamond ore blocks onto his desk. “Please, man. I need time, and they must know of their crimes.”

“You know, I think I have just the person for the job.” Xisuma said, pocketing the diamonds. “They’ll leave Grian and Scar feeling very sorry for themselves indeed. You go do your planning, now, let me handle this.”

Doc cracked a smile. “Yeah? Awesome, thanks man.” He left, picking up the cat ears on the way out and stuffing them into his pocket.

Xisuma sighed at the state of his office, but picked up his communicator and made a call.

——

“Sit.”

“Already sat.” Scar said cheerfully.

“Not you, Scar, I was talking to Grian.” Xisuma replied, and gestured for Grian towards a wooden chair he’d placed under the HHH pavilion at spawn. Grian sat down, and Scar positioned his chair next to him.

“What’s going on, X?” Grian asked, crossing his arms and furrowing his eyebrows.

“Well, your recent actions against a certain DocM77 have not gone unnoticed.” Xisuma began, crossing his arms too.

“Oh my god.” Comprehension dawned on Grian’s face. “Are you going to lecture us on our bad behavior, X?” He began to laugh.

“What? Is that why you called us here?” Scar giggled. “Now, Xisuma, you’re a wonderful man, really, but you don’t exactly strike fear into my heart. But by all means, lecture away, tell us how bad we are. I’m sure we will be scared into being good little boys for the rest of time.” He wiggled his eyebrows at him.

“Oh, no, you see, I’m not going to be the one lecturing you.” Xisuma said with a smirk. “I’m just here as a teacher’s assistant, if you will.”

“Teacher’s assistant?” Grian asked, confused.

Scar looked at Xisuma, fear in his eyes. “Wait… you don’t mean-”

“Doc’s redstone? Really, guys?” Cleo landed on the ground in front of the pavilion, a frown firmly in place. Xisuma had to smother a laugh as he watched Grian and Scar gulp in fear at the same time. He’d had to pay Cleo thirty diamonds to come lecture Scar and Grian, but he had a distinct feeling he was in for a real show.

#hermitcraft s9 #long post

[rayrayvan]

It's okay, I forgive you

Pairing: Shuri x fem!reader

Note: This request was made by @kingstormpostsshit and I hope you like this piece. Enjoy everyone 🤗

As the Shuri coped in her lab figuring out how to recreate the heart-shaped herb, you and Riri helped make suits for the battle between Talokan and Wakanda.

“Griot what’s the probability of the herb?” Shuri asked her AI and when Griot told her it was about 97% , you immediately stopped what you’re doing and rushed to her side.

You embraced her immediately “Well done my love” You told her “Will it work?” Nakia asked, “It will work if it closes” Shuri told her “Griot print it out. The three of you rushed to the printing machine and the process of printing started.

After it was printing it closed up and glow into a purplish color. Nakia hugged Shuri and both nodded to each other.

“Just prepare if I ever I have a cardiac arrest okay?” Shuri told both you and Nakia as you settled your kimoyo beads to her chest “Wait cardiac arrest?” Riri was baffled at how the ritual would go. You leaned closer to your girlfriend and held her hands “Just promise me, come back to me, to us, to Wakanda okay? I love you” You whispered and kissed her forehead lovingly “I love you too, I’ll be back” She promised you

As Nakia started the ritual and Shuri drank the purple liquid, you three awaited for it to work.

Suddenly Shuri woke up, Nakia rushed to her side while you wait “Who did you see?” Nakia asked but Shuri was hesitant to answer “It didn’t work, it’s not, I know it’s not” Shuri repeated over and over and you were quick you hold her “Shuri we don’t know, calm down my love, it’s okay” As you reassured her, she pushed you accidentally and you flew across the room and slammed into a window pane. Riri was quick to your side to aid you. The pain you felt was running through your back, some broken glass scratched in your arms. Shuri was in shock that she did something to the last person who knows her more than anyone even herself.

As Riri helped you stand up, you broke free from her grip and limped your way to your shocked girlfriend. “Hey , Shuri look at me” You told her and cupped her face between your palms “I hurt you” She repeatedly whispered and her eyes are frantically looking everywhere except your face “Shuri, it’s okay, hey, it’s okay, I’m okay” You told her . She looked directly to your eyes and when she saw blood in your cheek, she sobbed “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” She repeatedly apologized to you. You embraced her quickly and told her it was okay and you forgave her.

A few hours went by and you were patched up, you offered to help them build weapons and armours for the fight. As Shuri was building her Black Panther suit, her eyes were always on a look out for you and when you caught her looking at you, she’d look away, so you decided to approach her. “You seem to miss me everytime I’m out of your peripheral view” You told her jokingly and as she looked up to your face, her eyes saw how patched up your arms were so she averted her gaze. You took notice of this and told her to look at you.

The hesitation to look directly at your eyes was evident around her face, so you cupped her face between both of your palms. You smiled when you saw her eyes, she was slightly taller than you so you had to raise your head to look at her beautiful face. “My love it’s okay, I forgive you” You told her but she went on to saying “How could you forgive me? I almost killed you, I cannot lose the last person who knows me well. I’ve lost too much , losing you would break me. You’re the only person left to keep me sane. I’m so sorry Y/N” She cried and you hugged her “It’s okay my love, I’m right here.” You told her reassuringly.

And that day on, you both made silent promises that were kept to yourselves. Shuri vowed to handle you with care and love. As for you, you vowed to stay beside her side and when things get tough, you stay for her.

#shuri x reader #letitia wright #mcu shuri #shuri x you #shuri x y/n #queen shuri #shuri udaku x reader #shuri black panther #princess shuri #angst with a happy ending