#but my brain was like oh he's returned (undead) so like

[undermostcorgi]

drawing other people's dnd characters based on the image i made of them in my head and NOTHING ELSE because i'm evil

[littlexdeaths]

eddie munson x shy fem reader

warnings: lots of cute first date jitters, reader is clumsy, also a lot more cheese 🧀 — take your lactaid besties.

part one | part three

let’s go, don’t wait masterlist

a/n: i’m honestly blown away by all the sweet comments on that first little blurb. shy reader is 1000% me, so this is very near and dear to my heart. i hope y’all like this one just as much! also big kisses to my lovely angel @undead-supernova for looking this over for me <3

“This looks stupid.”

You huff, glancing at your reflection before rushing back over to your closet for the 3rd time in a span of twenty minutes.

But Nancy grabs your wrist from before you can make it there, pulling you down onto the bed beside her.

“Everything you’ve tried on has been cute… I don’t see the problem here.”

You groan and flop back onto the mattress, covering your face with your hands.

“I wasn’t exactly trying to go for cute, Nance.”

Your words are muffled behind your palms, but she gets your message loud and clear.

“I know you want to impress him, but my best advice is to just be yourself… that’s why he asked you out in the first place, right?”

You sigh, uncovering your face to look up at her. She has a brow raised, and as much as you’d hate to admit it— you know she’s right.

“Do you always have to be right about everything?” you puff out a small laugh and she beams, nudging your knee with hers.

“Of course, I am the brains of this operation, remember?”

You roll your eyes fondly before returning to your feet, smoothing over the denim of your skirt when you meet your reflection once more.

“Oh god, what about make up?!”

You only managed to change your shirt one last time before Nancy had to practically barricade your closet door shut with her body. Reminding you that, once again, you looked great.

It doesn’t help much to soothe that little voice in the back of your head that disagrees— but the rumble of an engine and a blaring guitar riff distracts from those thoughts momentarily as the panic finally starts to set in.

“Shit, shit, shit! He’s here already?” you squeak, glancing over at your beside clock.

6:45 pm.

He was 15 minutes early.

“He’s early… color me impressed.” She grins before peeking out your curtains.

“I’m… I’m not ready, Nance.”

Your heart is about to pound out of your chest and your palms are beginning to sweat. She steps away from the window to put her hands on your shoulders, face full of determination.

“Just breathe, okay? I’ll go down and let him in, you just take a minute and come down when you’re ready.”

You nod dumbly, eyes widening further when the doorbell rings.

Eddie’s here… actually standing on your front porch. Bouquet of flowers grasped tightly in his own sweaty palms.

“Thanks, Nance.”

She just gives you a reassuring smile before starting down the stairs and opening the front door. To say Eddie is surprised when Nancy Wheeler appears at your front door instead of you is an understatement.

“Uh… please don’t tell me I’ve got the wrong address,” he steps back to take a look at the number on the house again.

“No, you’re at the right place. She’s just finishing getting ready, come on in.”

Nancy can see the way his shoulders sag in relief before he steps past the threshold. Dark eyes wandering around the interior of your entry way in utter curiosity. Pictures of you and your parents line the walls, but one in particular catches his attention.

You’re smiling up at the camera, eyes scrunched closed behind the round frame of your glasses— with your two front teeth missing.

The sight has him grinning despite himself, already catching more of a glimpse of the girl that’s been on his mind for the better part of that year.

“So… where are you taking her?” Nancy asks casually, leaning against the doorframe of your kitchen.

Eddie turns then, still clutching the flowers tightly in his fist.

“The Palace… and then Benny’s. But don’t worry, I’ll have her back before 11 pm. Scout’s honor.” He grins, raising his other hand in a mock salute.

You can hear their voices floating up the stairs, which only seems to worsen the butterflies fluttering around in your stomach. You take one last look in the mirror to straighten your top and make sure your eyeliner wasn’t smudged before you turn the knob and make your way down the hall.

The creak of the floorboards alerts them both to your presence when you slowly begin to descend the stairs. Your hand grips the railing tightly, eyes finally lifting once you reach the landing.

“Wow,” he whispers in dumbstruck awe.

You can feel your skin warm under the intensity of his gaze, tucking your lower lip between your teeth to hide a grin.

But the sweet moment is quickly squashed when your foot catches on the edge of the step, and you go tumbling forward. Eddie drops the flowers in his haste before closing that short distance between you to catch you in his arms. Your bodies collide, much like what happened earlier in the cafeteria.

Only this time he doesn’t let you go right away.

“Steady now,” he chuckles, and your eyes can’t help but drift lower to stare at his lips. “You okay?”

You nod, not fully trusting your voice when he’s so close like this, you swear he must be able to hear how fast your heart is fluttering beneath your ribs.

“Oh goddammit, the flowers.” Eddie groans, making sure you’ve got your footing before he bends down to pick up the crumpled bouquet.

“Uh, I promise they weren’t like this when I got here...”

He hands them out to you with a sheepish grin, the apples of his cheeks now flushed a soft shade of pink. And from this close proximity you can see the faint freckles dotted along the bridge of his nose.

Man, he sure is pretty…

“They’re beautiful,” you smile, finally finding your voice. “Thank you.”

“… well, you two should probably get going, right?”

You had almost forgotten Nancy was even there.

“Oh what about—” you gesture to the bouquet in your hands, but she quickly cuts you off.

“I’ll put those in some water and lock up for you, sound good?”

You don’t have much time for protest when she carefully takes the flowers from your grasp and nudges you right into Eddie’s chest. You apologize between small giggles when he steadies you again, and Nancy disappears into the kitchen.

His eyes are almost sparkling in childlike delight at the sound of your laughter, and it’s something he’d like to continue hearing for a long time. Eddie guides you both toward the front door. His rings clink against the knob when he swings it open, taking a slight bow before motioning you forward.

“Your chariot awaits, mi’ lady.”

The Palace is packed by the time you arrive, but for a Friday night in Hawkin’s— that’s no surprise.

Young teens dart between the different games with renewed excitement while Keith watches on with a bored expression. Eddie’s hand is held loosely in your own, fingers intertwined while you decide what to play first.

You both agree on air hockey, allowing him to tug you toward the table with a newfound pep in his step. He hands you the blue paddle, teasing telling you that red is always his color before he crouches down to slip two coins in the slot.

“Prepare to be demolished, sweetheart,” he grins cheekily.

Your stomach flips at those seemingly innocent words, and Eddie silently pats himself on the back for how flustered he’s already made you. That’s not something he’s used to, making a pretty girl fumble over her words. But it’s something he’s decided he wants to see a lot more of tonight.

Eddie ends up winning two rounds of air hockey, but his victories were entirely due to the fact that you were so distracted. Poised across from him, you spent more time admiring the way his tongue poked out from between his lips in concentration— or when he had to pull his wild hair back into a bun when it kept flying into his face.

Not that you would ever mention that little fact to him.

“What’s next?” you ask, unable to hide your glee when he takes your hand without hesitation this time.

“Have you tried Dragon’s Lair?”

He nods his head over to the game that was just recently abandoned in a fit of rage by short boy with dark hair. If you were being honest, skee ball and air hockey were more your speed when it came to arcade games. But the look of absolute delight on his face has you willing to try regardless.

And just as you suspected, you’re terrible at it.

You’re barely able to get past that first level without dying repeatedly but Eddie continues to give you an encouraging smile while he leans against the machine. He adores the way your lips are pouted in a slight frown when the dragon engulfs the knight in flames again.

“Here,” he mumbles, sliding in behind you. “Let me help.”

His arms cage you in against the machine, and you can feel the heat from his chest seeping through the thin cotton of your blouse. Ringed fingers gently hover over where yours are stationed on the controls, and in your nervous state you don’t notice the way his fingers tremble slightly.

Eddie guides your hands with ease, all but playing the game for you at this point. But your focus is no longer on the dragons and knights. They instead settle on his hands, and how they completely engulf yours in size. And the way his chain bracelet rattles against your skin with each flick of his wrist on the joystick.

They continue to travel a little higher, noticing how the muscles in his forearms contract each time he pushes that red button in rapid succession. It has your mind wandering to places that it definitely shouldn’t be…

Like how his hands would feel gripping your hips…

Stop that.

When you take a shuddering breath, you get another whiff of his spicy cologne when he leans his head forward. The faint hint of tobacco and mint still lingers on his lips when he blows a breath out in frustration when he finally looses that round.

The words GAME OVER flash across the screen in brightly colored letters, and you feel a little disappointed when he begins to remove himself from you. But you’re suddenly feeling a little bold, gently turning to grab his hand before looking up at him.

“Show me again?” you mumble, chewing nervously on your lower lip.

Eddie grins down at you, eyes flicking down to your mouth for a fleeting moment. But his next move has your brain about to melt out of your ears.

He takes your lower lip between his thumb and forefinger, carefully removing it from between your teeth. He allows the pad of his thumb to graze over your lip while the other slips around your waist. Eddie guides you back around by your hips, quickly resuming his position behind you.

“Sure thing, sweetheart.”

taglist: @sheneedsrocknroll92 @blckbrrybasket @your-nightmaredoll @missmarch-99 @fandom-princess-forevermore

[redflagshipwriter]

Halfa Cass Chapter 8 Part ½

masterpost

Black Bat got back to Gotham well before flying time. She took a shower to get the stinkyman stink out of her hair and apologetically took the green jacket to the wash. Cigarettes. Yuck! 

She joined the family for dinner. Damibat was there, face like thunder and clearly Not Talking to Alfred or Brucedad. Cass slid into her place and gave him a nod. He returned it. Very civil. We are professionals, Cain, you and I and no one else in this dump.

Cass hid a faint smile.

No Timibird. No Jaybird. Those were rarer birds to fly out to Wayne Manor, so she wasn’t too surprised. Just…

Cass readjusted her body language to be fine and normal. She didn’t need her flock family close for comfort. She was fine and normal! Yes, Stinkyman had said that she’d died. Yes. He said that.

(That fits with the pain of the electrical shock and the voltage necessary to short out bat computer, Cass’s Black Bat brain said sensibly.)

Cass hid a shudder.

But he’d also said that there may be no repercussions! As long as she left it alone and did not think about it. She had permission to pretend it didn’t happen. That was the best thing to try. She would eat her dinner and take her nap and then go flying.

Alfie served dinner. Cass caught herself playing with her fork, winding noodles into a secret pattern that might somehow make her feel better. 

“Is there something wrong with your pasta, Miss Cassandra?”

She looked up at him guiltily through her eyelashes and stopped playing with her food. Big sigh. 

“Will Master Timothy be returning to the manor tonight?” Alfie asked Brucedad.

Brucedad cleared his throat and put his spoon down for a moment. “I expect that he might spend the night with his friends in San Francisco,” he said.

Cass read the words beneath the words. Timbird was with the Young Justice friends. New plan. Not discussed. He’d been sent to Amity Park to investigate the laboratory where Cass had

(died. Where Cass had died.)

Been with Captain Marvel. And if he was out all day, it meant he’d found something.

Her heart jumped in her chest. She wanted to ask questions. She wanted to make sure that no one knew. 

Suspicious, Cass told herself sternly. Suspicious behavior. So she drizzled hot sauce on her pasta and ate a big mouthful.

Damibat copied her after a moment. 

Brucedad and Alfie did not wince, but they made their ‘white man thinks spice is scary’ faces. 

Cass quirked a smile. She put a lot more hot sauce. It was too much sauce. It turned the pasta red.

Brucedad made an unhappy sound and deliberately looked away from her plate. Haha. He was thinking: my stomach hurts just looking at that. Oh god, I'm old. Acid reflux. Heartburn. Acid reflux heartburn heartburn-

Bullying her batdad made her feel a little better. How could she be an undead abomination if she was, in fact, a naughty girl? Check and mate, existential horror. Cass finished her dinner and danced to her room on her toes, feeling the music from the last time she had performed on stage. She did a leap for the sheer joy of movement.

Everything still seemed better when she got up from her nap. Cass stretched on the floor beside her bed, and then flopped into a side saddle stretch to happily drink a bottle of green tea. She took it to the kitchen and into the machine for a wash and stole a peek into the fridge to see the after-flight snack. Protein balls! Chocolate and nuts? Cass stole one and fled to the batcave before anyone could see the crime.

Timbird was waiting in the cave on the big screen. He looked very tense. He and Batdad both looked at her when she came down the stairs.

Oh. There was a rock in her stomach. 

Cass beamed at them and flipped off the stairs to land in a gymnast stance behind Brucedad’s chair. “Hi, Timbird,” she said, acting normally. 

“Hi, Cass,” he said, sparing her a tired smile. “I was just telling Bruce how my trip out to Amity went.” She nodded, waiting for elaboration. Tense. “There were fresh tank tracks.” 

Oh. What. “What?” Cass repeated, because it was worth repeating. “Tanks?” She mimed her mind being blown.

“Yes, I figure that you would have noticed if they’d been there before.” Tim somehow seemed even unhappier. “The running theory is that someone was keeping an eye on the place and something about your trip out there alerted them.”

‘Machine. Electricity.’

“Extremely suspicious,” Cass said on rote. 

“Yes,” Batdad agreed gruffly. “There’s no legal justification for that kind of force being deployed in the continental United States and no record that we’ve found for it.”

“Definitely criminal.” Cass hovered for a moment. “Should I help?”

Timbird and Batdad exchanged glances. “I think that I would be best used in the cave tonight on research,” Batdad decided. “I’ll run comms while I’m here. Cass, can you and Robin handle things? There’s nothing in particular going on, aside from the weapons case. Robin has the information on that. We think that we’ve tracked the gang’s mechanic down.”

Cass gave a double thumbs up, more than a little relieved that she didn’t have to do anything related to Amity Park today. “Okay, I find mechanic and beat peace into them,” she said cheerfully. 

“You investigate and observe them,” Batdad repeated, faux-stern. Hint of smile. Naughty kid, tugging at my cape.

Cass nodded just as seriously. “Robin and I investigate, observe, beat until peaceful.” She smacked a fist into her palm.

Timbird snorted. “It sounds like a plan. I’m with YJ tonight, so I’ll log off.”

“Byebye birdie.” Cass waved on her way to the equipment lockers.

[johnwickb1tsch]

The Girl Next Door ~ 2

A Constantine x Reader fic based on this imagine. Part 1

Summary: John Constantine has a crush on you. He wasn’t going to do anything about it though, until you strong arm him into coming over for dinner. Little do you know, this paints a target on your back for the local vampire coven… Rating: Explicit, NSFW, but no dead doves...😮 Note: I got Constantine on my brain, y'all! 😆 I write about vampire hunters all the time, but never from the vampire perspective. This was new. I hope you enjoy!🧡

2. whoever drinks my blood has eternal life

In the end, he was too late.

Oh, he killed them all, wiping out the entire coven with his magical holy shotgun, and a handy spell that basically burned the remaining undead to a crisp around you.

But you were already half dead, drained and forced to drink their blood in kind.

You were well on your way to becoming one of the Damned.

John knew this, as he cradled your cold body in his arms, carrying you like a bride to the cab outside the warehouse. He knew it as he held you close in the backseat, reciting ancient prayers over your fevered brow, hoping just this once God might grant him a good miracle, and not forsake one of his children just because of an unlucky twist of fate.

Your only crime, as far as he knew, had been extending the mercy of your kindness towards him, and that should not have earned you this.

He barely thanked Chas for a job well done, carrying you bridal style up the stairs of your apartment building. Rather than return you to your bed, he brings you to his. He doesn’t know if the vampire who you must have inadvertently invited into your home died that night, and all his holy weapons are at hand in his own space.

He lays you down in his bed, wishing he’d washed his sheets more recently for you. He wishes a lot of things, in the interim hours that follow.

He can tell that his incantations are not touching the dark magic that is taking hold of you, and he knows that he should just put an end to it here and now. You are damned, and there’s no going back, and who knows what chaos you will reap with your new thirst when you wake?

He can’t bring himself to do it.

Looking down at you, huddled in a ball, trembling as your body is dying and remaking itself anew—he falls to his knees to talk to God, though his words aren’t exactly a prayer. “Our father, who art in heaven…fuck you. I hope you're happy, asshole. Another innocent who you should have protected, fucked over by your stupid games. Why? Why is it always the good ones? I hate you. Amen.”

He takes your hand in his, and only because you are practically unconscious in the fever-pitch of your transformation, does he let his eyes fill with silent tears.

One more soul he was too late to save.

One more weight upon his conscience.

He cries for you. For himself. For the impossible odds God and the Devil pit against humans, then punish them when they're just not up to the task. Flesh is weak, but They made you this way. None of it is fair.

Constantine has never actually been present at a Turning. He doesn’t know how long it will take, or how you’ll act when you come out of it. He has crosses and holy water to keep you in line if he has to…or maybe you’ll rip out his throat, and he will absolutely deserve it after what he let happen to you.

He wonders how the vampires knew about you. Did they watch through the window from some impossible perch, as you made love? Maybe he would never admit it out loud, but that was what that merciful night together had felt like, with you.

This was a hell of a reminder, as to why he couldn’t ever let anyone get close.

It never ended well.

Fully clothed, shoes and all, he spoons your smaller body with his arm around your waist, and waits.

***

When at last you wake, the first thing you are aware of is a heartbeat, right next to you. Behind you. Pressed against you. You hear it like a drum, thundering in your ears. There is a grinding pain in your belly. You are so hungry.

You do not recognize your surroundings, or the bed you lay in. A heavy arm is draped over your waist. You study the large hand upon the sheets, long fingered, veiny. Maybe you know that hand.

Slowly you turn, to find John Constantine beside you. He looks up at your through hooded dark eyes. He was dozing, but no longer.

“Y/n?”

You take a deep breath, and the smells that hit you: his aftershave, sweat, deodorant, dirty sheets, scotch whisky in the kitchen. Old Chinese food. But most of all, you can smell his blood, and it is the sweetest thing you’ve ever smelled.

You lean towards him, mouth open, hands reaching.

You don’t know that your incisors have lengthened to deadly little points.

Casually, John holds up a little crucifix between you. You feel it like a hand pressing back against you, and instinctively you flinch.

What is going on with you?

“John?”

You feel something long brush your lip, and you reach up to touch your teeth, finding the sharp points. Your eyes go half-dollar round as you nearly cut yourself with the tip of one.

“What happened to me?”

He sighs, and there is so much weight and sorrow in that one exhalation of air.

“I’m sorry, y/n.”

“John?” The panic in your voice starts to rise.

“Shh. Don’t get excited. It won’t be good.”

A rampaging new vampire was the last thing he needed on his hands.

“Those things took me,” you whisper, your hand covering your mouth. You start to remember what happened, those creeps who snatched you from your apartment, the impossible things you saw. They were monsters. Vampires. Things you only thought existed in folklore, books, bad B movies. And they’d told you a little about John Constantine too. That he was some sort of demon hunter, crazy as that fucking sounded, who clearly they wished to do harm to.

“Yeah.” 

“They took me,” you repeat with emphasis, still trying to understand.  

A longer pause, pregnant with lots of words you sense he doesn’t quite know how to say.

Again, he settles for, “Yeah.” 

“Why?” 

“I guess…they thought that you mean something to me.” 

After everything that happened, this hits you like a knife between the ribs, a long sharp blade aimed right for your heart.

“Do I not?” 

“Come on, I didn't mean it like that.” 

Yes he did, and you realize... that maybe he's just like all the others. 

At least he'd warned you. 

You just...had hoped, anyway, like the stupid little romantic you are. 

You look down, unable to meet his eyes. 

You kind of want to cry, but you're not even sure you can anymore. 

“I came for you as soon as I knew,” he says quietly, not liking this at all.

You nod, your lip quivering.

“What's going to happen to me?” 

The haunted way he looks at you rends your heart in two.

“We'll…figure it out.” 

“I'm hungry...I think.”

He nods gravely. 

“I was afraid of that.”

“What am I going to do?” 

“I'll...try to help you.”

Your eyes go to his throat again. The thought should be gross, but...you just feel hunger pangs, instead—and a confusing wave of desire.

He notices the focus of your attention, and looks uneasy about it. Your eyes have started to glow.

“Why don't we start with the wrist?” he deadpans, not enthused about your untried razor-sharp fangs in his throat.

You nod shakily, tears in your eyes. “I'm sorry,” you say. 

There's a flicker in John's soulful brown eyes, and though he says nothing, you feel his guilt as though it's your own. You feel it crawling over your skin, and it scares you. 

What is happening to you? 

“Come on,” he says gruffly. “Let's get this over with.” 

You've seen the movies, and you’re not a total idiot. But the thought of actually...biting him? And drinking his blood? It freaks you out, ok, even if every cell in your body is singing out for you to swallow him down. The smell of him. You'd thought it was intoxicating before. Aftershave, spice, and cigarette smoke. The smoke was good only because it ticked some deep buried memory box in your subconscious. But now...it’s like you can sense the strength of his very soul, in the smell of his blood, and you know he will nourish you. 

These thoughts come to you unbidden, and you don't even really know what they mean. Just... that they are unequivocally true.

You take his wrist, the blue veins there seeming to dance for your new improved vampire vision, as though you can see the blood pumping within them.

This is so fucking weird.

“You’re going to be really strong now,” he cautions you. Then, the corner of his mouth ticks. “So be gentle with me.”

Your eyebrows raise at the thought that you could actually hurt him. This big, strong man who threw you around not so long ago like you were just a doll. You’d loved that, truth be told. The memory is so sweet that it almost makes you want to cry again.

“I don’t know if I can do this.”

“You should do it now,” he says. “Because you’re just going to get hungrier, and young vampires when they’re hungry are at their most dangerous. I’d hate to have to—”

He cuts himself off before finishing that thought. Your eyes drift to his nightstand, the holy water, crucifixes, and a broom handle piece that has been sharpened into a nice neat stake. Just in case he has to shove it through your heart.

“Could you do that to me?” you ask quietly before you can stop yourself, still staring at the stake.

“I don’t want to find out,” he deflects. “So come on. Pull up your big girl panties.”

You glare at him, taking his wrist again. “I think I have a right to be freaked out about this.”

“Sure, but it is what it is,” he fires back unkindly. “You’re a vampire now. You have to drink blood to survive, and you’re Damned. Welcome to the club.”

You frown at him, your eyes flashing dangerously. You notice him tense, his attention flicking over to the stake on the bedside.

“You’re afraid of me now,” you marvel. 

“A little, yeah.”

“And I should be afraid of you? They told me what you are.”

“Let’s agree to have a healthy respect of one another, alright?”

You sit quietly, contemplating him. With his wrist in your grasp you can feel the thump thump of his pulse through your entire body, like bumping bass out of a speaker. It is distracting, and as you think about what you must do a warmth rises in you, a tingling rush of power that spreads from your fingers into his arm. It makes him shudder, his pupils suddenly blown wide with desire.

This feels good. Better than the fear, although you’re ashamed to admit, that had been delicious too.

You don’t know how you’re doing any of this. It’s just happening, and you let your new instinct take you, straddling his narrow hips to find his burgeoning erection straining against his slacks. You are still wearing the sundress those creatures took you in, and nothing but the thin cotton of your panties barricades the space between you and him.

He is so handsome, and strong. His blood smells so strong, and it fills you with an aching desire, wetness flooding between your legs. Suddenly the desire to bite him while he is inside you grips you like an iron fist, some ancient knowledge of arcane pleasure pulsing through your veins. You blink, the urge receding only slightly, and you do not know it but your eyes glow like coals. It’s strange, how your body feels cold, except where your skin is touching his. Your points of contact are almost searing, in comparison.

“Y/n…”

“What?” you taunt him. “You don’t want me now that I’m a monster?”

You can still hardly believe this is really happening to you.

“I think you can feel that’s not the case.”

Again, you sense his fear, cloyingly sweet upon your tongue. You like it, and that is the thing that brings you back to yourself. Wanting anyone to be afraid of you is so opposite your true nature that it shocks you.

“Fuck. I’m sorry,” you apologize again, squeezing your eyes closed.

“It’s alright,” he says in that deep voice of his.

It’s not. It’s really not.

“Just…can we get this over with, please?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“He’s not going to help you now, believe me. Just…go slow, ok? Don’t bite me too hard. I need use of my hand still, if you don’t mind.”

You let out a shuddering breath. It feels weird, and you realize…you don’t need to breathe? Taking in air is a reflex, but there’s no effect of your body processing oxygen.

Jesus fucking Christ.

“Okay. I’m going to do it.”

“Any day now.”

“Shut up.”

This is the thing that actually makes him smile, that slight curl of lips that is like a full-on grin for most people. Maybe it’s stupid—but it gives you courage.

You graze his skin with your new sharp teeth, and like a beachcomber searching for treasure with a metal detector, you just sense the sweet spot. You move as carefully as you can, pressing down into his flesh to make two neat little holes.

The spill of blood is divine, and you don’t have time to think that it’s gross. It fills your mouth and it is good, and you are so hungry, and you can’t get enough. The magic in this bloodletting rises like a tide, desire crashing over the both of you in a tingling, intoxicating rush. You feel everything, and there is no extricating the sexual pleasure from the gustatory. They are one and the same with this man, his delicious, powerful blood filling your mouth, his strapping body beneath yours, his hips bucking against you.

You feel his hand slide up your thigh, his thumb seeking the molten center of you. When he makes himself stop just short of your panty line you whine in protest, straining for his touch, but he resists your goading, his fingertips digging into your soft flesh. Perhaps you should be grateful, that he is strong enough to resist the pull of this magic between you, trying not to debauch you while you feed for the first time and everything is new and you have no idea what is happening. And yet, you can hardly think past how wonderful it would be to have his teeming erection buried inside you to the hilt while you drink him down.

You would tell him all this, but you can’t bring yourself to separate your mouth from the font of his delectable lifeblood. In fact, you don’t know how you’re going to stop, period.

It’s just so good.

John watches you through heavy lidded eyes, seemingly enjoying this as much as you are. Yet he has more sense of the situation as well, and when he tells you, “That’s enough, y/n,” an inhuman keening of protest escapes from deep in your throat.

“Y/n��” he warns again, his words thick with desire. “You have to stop.”

You close your eyes, telling yourself just one last mouthful.

That was two long sucking draughts ago.

Suddenly you feel a searing heat very near your face. Startled, your eyes fly open to find the crucifix there before you, and you hiss in answer, scrabbling back on the bed away from the holy item. With John Constantine’s blood on your lips you cower, shielding your eyes with a hand.

With a shuddering sigh he lowers the cross, sitting back against the headboard of his bed. He presses a tissue against his wrist, and your eyes are drawn to the crimson stains flowering on the wad of paper beneath his fingers.

What a waste, you think, before shaking the thought away.

Then the horror of what could have happened dawns on you.

You could have drank him dry, and in the heat of the moment you would have done it gladly.

Oh God. What have you become?

“I’m sorry,” you apologize again. “Are you ok?”

He actually has the gall to smirk at you, as though any of this could be funny. “Yeah. Not the first time I’ve lost a little blood.”

There’s some inside joke in that statement you don’t understand, though you sense the darkness of self-deprecation in it.

Somehow, you feel simultaneously sated, and horrible. With a whimper you curl up at the foot of his bed, closing your eyes against the world. You can feel everything. You sense the people in the building, the fragile sound of their juicy little hearts beating. Even outside, the life on the street, men and women going about their lives with no idea what lurks in the shadows, wanting to eat them up…

But most distracting of all, the sheets beneath you smell like John, and the lust in your blood has yet to abate, even if the feeding is over. You feel it marching across your skin like red-hot ants. The desire to crawl up the bed and press your bloody lips to his is real, and you fight it with everything you have, because you don’t imagine he’d appreciate that very much after what he’s done for you. The sour expression on his face did not match the size of the tent in his pants, that is for sure.  

You wonder, is it going to be like this every time you eat from now on? The thought does not thrill you.

“Hey,” he goads softly, and your eyes fly open to regard him. Again, your irises shine like lanterns, fueled by the roil of emotions warring in your heart. “Come here.” He holds out one of those beautiful hands to you. Hands that you had so relished upon your body, on your flesh, in your hair…hands with such thick, beautiful blue veins…

You’re not sure how he knows that you want to be held, but now you fear it too. You fear what you are, and your ability to control yourself around him. Because the truth is you still want him very much, and he’d basically told you point blank that you mean nothing to him. The thought weighs on your heart now like a thousand stinging needles, and you feel your eyes fill with moisture of some kind.

So, vampires can cry after all.

You touch a finger to the corner of your eye, and see it comes away tinted red.

You kind of want to throw up.

“Maybe…I should go,” you say sadly, sitting up. You’re certain you look as disheveled as you feel. Your hair is a bird’s nest. Your once pretty floral sundress is dirty and torn. No wonder he doesn’t want you.

“If…you want.” Why does he sound sad about it? Shouldn’t he be glad to see the backside of you? Constantine the Demon Hunter? If you’d been nothing but a one-night fuck as a human, he certainly didn’t want to spend time with you now.

 “You know you’re going to need a dark place to rest for the day?”

Is he actually worried about where you’re going to sleep?

“Okay.” You think you can manage that, in your apartment next door. Or maybe…you’ll see what happens, if you watch the sun rise. Maybe it would just be better that way. Are vampire suicides double damned? You’ve never really been a religious person, but he’d said it like it was A Thing.

It reminds you of what John had said earlier. “What did you mean before? When you said join the club?”

He sighs, reaching for a pack of cigarettes on the night stand. “I’ll tell you some other time.”

Feeling like you’ve now been dismissed, you slide from the bed, standing on bare feet. You should be sore, but your movements are lithe, liquid as a cat’s.

Something else to get used to.

You can feel Constantine’s eyes glued to you, and you dare to take one last look back, waiting to turn to a pillar of salt. He’s so handsome it hurts, even in his rumpled state, his cuffs rolled up his forearms and his tie loose around his neck. How do his soulful dark eyes seem to hold all the sorrow of the world right now?

“Bye, John.”

He just nods, and you let yourself out.

***

Much to your surprise, ten minutes before dawn, you hear a knock on your door. You know it's John. You can tell by the sound of his breathing, the sound of his heart beat. You can smell him, and it is a heady thing in your nostrils. When you do not answer he just lets himself in, the cheeky bastard. 

He finds you sitting in one of your thrift store chairs by the window, one of the only ones not broken in the mess the vampires who took you left behind. He does not like this, you can tell, by his hairline frown. 

“Hey.” 

“Hi.”

“Hate to tell you, but you're going to have to find a new way to get your vitamin D.”

“Ha ha,” you say, turning back to the window. A few people are out and about below. This city never really sleeps. 

“Hey,” he says again, crouching down by your chair. “I know this is a lot...”

The look you pay him is not exactly kind. He plows forward anyway.

“But take it from someone who's been there. Hell isn't a place you should be in a hurry to go.” 

You blink at that. He says it like it's so black and white, not a hint of uncertainty. Not faith. Fact. Once upon a time, you might have questioned his sanity. Not anymore. 

“Sounds like you've been.” 

“For about two minutes. It was enough.” 

“What was it like?” you whisper. 

“Pure agony.” 

Your eyes go wide at hearing that. 

“So...want to show me your bolt hole?” he asks.

Once upon a time you would have capitalized on the opportunity for inuendo with such comedic gold just handed to you for free, but you’re not in the mood. You just stare at him.

“John...You're a demon hunter. Why do you care?”

He tries to meet your eyes, but in the end can only look away. “Come on, y/n. Just…don’t give up yet, ok?”

He just feels guilty, you tell yourself, and you pry yourself from your chair with a sigh. You’re not sure what the point of anything will be, anymore. But maybe you’ll make an effort to go on, because he asked you to.

Sometimes, that’s all it takes.

“Fine.”

You figure the closet will be the darkest place in the apartment for you to hide.

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

All is bright

For Day 8 of @dbdaghostmas, here's a fluffy little Christmas fic set in the Undead Boy Detectives AU. For anyone who hasn't read the first fic in the series, this one works fine as a standalone. Everything you need to know is in the author's note. You can either read it below or here on AO3.

Prompt: AU

Rating: T

Word count: 3.5K

Relationships: pre-Edwin/Charles

Summary: On their first Christmas after coming back to life, Edwin and Charles try to surprise each other by making their favorite holiday dishes, with mixed results.

***

“This cannot possibly be right.” Edwin stares down at the meatballs he’s attempting to cook for Christmas dinner, which look nothing like the picture Crystal showed him on her phone. They look more like the bloody, burnt detritus left by souls trying to escape the river of boiling blood in the Violence level of Hell than anything someone should eat. “Crystal, there is something wrong with that recipe you showed me. These look abysmal.”

“What’s wrong is that the recipe isn’t for cooking meatballs on a hot plate,” Crystal says. “Whoever wrote it expected you to have a stove.”

Edwin sniffs and prods at one of the meatballs. It wobbles distressingly. “It’s hardly my fault you didn’t bother renting a room with a proper kitchen.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. When I rented this room months ago for what I thought would be a few days, I didn’t think I needed to worry about an undead teenage boy trying to make meatballs on my hot plate.”

“Don’t call me undead. It makes me sound like I’m about to start devouring brains.”

She leans over to look into the pot, grimacing. “You know, they have frozen meatballs you can just heat up in the microwave. They won’t even give us all food poisoning.”

“It’s Christmas,” Edwin snaps. “Charles’s mother always used to prepare spaghetti and meatballs on Christmas. He speaks of it often. I doubt that Mrs. Rowland purchased frozen meatballs and microwaved them.”

“Yeah, but she probably knew how to cook the meatballs, which is why it wasn’t food poisoning that killed Charles.”

“The spaghetti turned out fine.” Edwin glances over at the colander full of spaghetti in the sink, which is properly cooked and doesn’t look like it needs immediate medical attention.

“Sure. I hope Charles likes his spaghetti crunchy.”

Edwin rolls his eyes at the ceiling. “If you are such an expert, why don’t you help?”

“Oh, no.” She takes a step back. “I told you, I’ve never cooked anything more advanced than microwavable ramen. My parents hired people to do that for us. Don’t give me that look. Did you ever step foot in your kitchen back in Victorian times, or did you have servants to do that for you?”

“I’ll have you know, I heated myself up some milk once,” Edwin says primly, leaving out the part where he burnt himself and splashed milk all over the place, earning himself a lifetime ban from the kitchen from the unamused cook.

“Wow, a real man of the people,” she deadpans. “I have almond milk in the fridge if you want to serve Charles that for Christmas dinner.”

“How’s it going?” Niko asks in a sing-song voice as she swans into Crystal’s flat.

“They just need a bit more time.” Edwin glares at Crystal, daring her to contradict him.

She takes him up on the dare, the beastly girl. “What they need is a time machine so Edwin could do everything differently.”

“I’m sure they’re—oh.” Niko’s face falls when she spots the meatballs. “You want us to eat those?”

Edwin has rarely suffered such a betrayal. “The recipe Crystal gave me was clearly defective.”

“Obviously,” Crystal says.

“Every year on Christmas, Charles talks about his mother’s spaghetti and meatballs,” Edwin says. “Since we’re alive and most likely won’t be come next Christmas, I’m going to make sure that he has the best Christmas I can give him.”

In the weeks since they came back to life upon their return from Hell, Edwin has slowly readjusted to this new existence of theirs. He’s only walked into a wall while expecting to phase through it once in the past week, which is a vast improvement. He’s even getting used to having to eat and sleep on a regular basis, helped by the fact that he falls asleep listening to Charles’s lovely, familiar voice every night.

Charles, on the other hand, has thrown himself into this second life with gusto. Every good night’s sleep, every snack, every morning feeling the sun on his face (not that there’s much sunlight to be had in Port Townsend in December) is like a little victory for him. Edwin already worries what it will do to Charles, who he recently learned is far less sanguine about his untimely death than Edwin always assumed, when this brief second life is over. So while they’re alive, he’s determined to make everything as perfect as possible for him.

Hence the spaghetti and meatballs.

“Maybe if we cover it, they’ll cook more evenly?” Niko suggests helpfully.

“Or maybe we chuck the whole thing in the trash and order pizza,” Crystal suggests, less helpfully.

“Good thinking, Niko.” Edwin places the lid on the pot. “I am so glad that one of you—”

A shrill wail fills the air. Edwin flinches and slaps his hands over his ears, but it barely muffles the sound.

“The fire alarm,” Crystal shouts, turning an accusing look on Edwin.

“There is no fire!” Edwin jerks his chin at the pot of meatballs, which at least have a lack of fire to recommend them.

“Oh no.” Niko’s eyes go wide. “Charles was doing something in Jenny’s kitchen.”

“What?” Edwin and Crystal demand at the same time. Jenny has been very clear that she “doesn’t do holiday bullshit” and she’d rather face Esther Finch’s giant snake than endure any festivities. She told them all she would be spending the day holed up alone in her flat and that she didn’t want to be disturbed. But if anyone was going to finagle their way into her kitchen, it would of course be Charles.

Her kitchen, which is now apparently on fire.

“Charles!” Edwin turns and races out of Crystal’s room and up the stairs, ignoring Crystal’s shout behind him. Charles is alive and flammable, with lungs that could easily fill with smoke, choking all the air out of him. For the thousandth time in the past few weeks, Edwin curses the frailty of the human body. If Charles is hurt…

He bursts into Jenny’s flat without knocking and finds the smell of something burnt heavy in the air. “Charles!” he shouts again, rushing into the kitchen.

“Mother fucker !” Jenny is currently waving a dish towel at the wailing smoke alarm while a sheepish-looking Charles perches on the counter to pry the window over the sink open. There don’t appear to be any flames, but a cookie sheet filled with burnt, blackened lumps.

“What on earth?” Edwin demands as the smoke alarm’s infernal shrieking finally goes silent.

“Fuck.” Charles leaps down from the counter, grimacing. “Sorry, Jenny. Not sure what happened.”

“What happened,” Jenny hisses. “Is that you hit the broil button and not the bake button.”

“Oh.” Charles looks gobsmacked. “There’s a difference?”

She points to the cookie sheet. “Obviously. When I told you you could use my kitchen, I thought I didn’t have to specify that I didn’t want you to nearly set a fire!”

“I didn’t set it on fire! Just a bit of smoke, is all.”

Crystal and Niko come rushing into the kitchen. “Are you okay?” Niko demands.

“Wow, yes, everyone please come in,” Jenny says. “On this day where I specifically said I wanted to be left alone.”

Crystal ignores her. “What happened?”

“Guess there’s a difference between baking and broiling something, isn’t there?” Charles says a little helplessly.

“There is?” Crystal asks and Edwin realizes he made a grave mistake asking her for her assistance with the meatballs. Not that he knows what broiling means.

“What are these supposed to be?”Niko peers at the blackened lumps.

Charles smiles ruefully. “I was trying to roast chestnuts.”

“Why would you do that?” As far as Edwin knows, roasted chestnuts fell out of vogue long before Charles was born, which he’s always thought was a shame. They were a pleasant treat on holidays.

“Because you once said you liked them, mate,” Charles says.

Edwin blinks. He cannot ever recall discussing roasted chestnuts with Charles.

Seeing his confusion, Charles says, “First Christmas we spent together, remember? We talked about how we would have spent the day, if we were still alive. You said you’d be eating roasted chestnuts and plum pudding.”

“How did you remember that?” Edwin vaguely recalls the conversation, one of many they had about their lives during their first year together. Eventually, the conversations petered out. Perhaps foolishly, Edwin assumed it was because Charles was growing accustomed to his death. Now, he wonders if the subject became too painful as the years went on and Charles realized his life was truly lost forever.

Charles shrugs. “Try to remember things that you like, don’t I? I wanted you to have a proper Christmas, like you would have had back when you were alive before.”

Edwin’s throat suddenly feels tight. How is he supposed to not be in love with Charles Rowland when he goes around remembering a single conversation that they had over three decades ago? And all because he wanted to give Edwin the kind of Christmas he would have had when he was alive back in the 1900s? As if any of those Christmases were an improvement over the ones he’s spent with Charles in their office.

“Jenny wouldn’t let me roast a pheasant,” Charles says.

“Absolutely fucking right I’m not letting you roast a pheasant,” Jenny snaps. “You couldn’t manage roasted chestnuts and plum pudding without nearly burning my building down. Again.”

“Oi, I wasn’t even on this plane last time your building nearly burned down. I was in Hell!”

“Is that what this is?” Crystal points at a pot on the stove, face screwed up in disgust. “Plum pudding?”

Edwin takes a look and shudders. Bits of grayish sludge bob on top of the water.

“Right, I can explain,” Charles says. “The recipe called for putting the pudding into pudding tins and standing them on a trivet over a pot of boiling water. Only problem is that Jenny doesn’t have a pudding tin or a trivet—”

“No, I don’t have a pudding tin,” Jenny snaps. “I’m not Mary fucking Berry.”

“So I thought I’d just put the pudding in a bread tin and let it float in the water. Except, it didn’t float. So now it’s more like pudding-flavored water. Might still be edible, yeah?”

“No,” Crystal and Jenny say at the same time before Edwin can be convinced to eat pudding-flavored water in order to spare Charles’s feelings. 

Edwin feels his lips tugging into a hesitant smile. “Charles, you didn’t need to do all this. I know plum puddings and roasted chestnuts aren’t exactly features of a modern Christmas.”

“Yeah, but they were features of your Christmases, and you deserve to have the Christmas you want,” Charles says. “Sorry, mate. I tried.”

Jenny claps her hands, interrupting Edwin’s reply. “Okay, this has been very sweet, but could you two gaze lovingly at each other elsewhere? I’d like to get back to—”

From downstairs, another alarm starts to blare and Edwin remembers the meatballs. “Oh, blast.”

***

Edwin gazes sadly at what’s left of the meatballs, coated in film from Jenny’s fire extinguisher. Even before the fire extinguisher, he doubts there was anything edible about them.

Charles takes a fistful of cold spaghetti from the colander and shoves it in his mouth, grinning. “Cheers, mate. Just like Mum used to make.”

Edwin gives him a withering look, which just makes Charles grin harder.

“Jesus Christ.” Jenny blows out a breath. “I’m ordering Chinese. No one try to cook anything while I'm gone."

***

“This is how I spend every Christmas,” Jenny says later as they gather in her living room, eating directly from takeaway containers. “Eating Chinese food and watching whatever shitty movie is on TV.”

“Alone?” Niko gives her a sad look.

“Yes, alone.” Jenny’s tone goes snappish. “And I’m fine with that, Niko, so don’t try to pull a Hallmark Christmas movie on me. I don’t need to learn the meaning of Christmas. Christmas is about selling more ham and pot roast than I do at any other time of the year.”

“What is a Hallmark Christmas movie?” Edwin asks, which makes Crystal and Jenny groan and Niko beam at him.

After much arguing over the remote and Jenny reminding everyone that this is her apartment and she paid for dinner, they’re watching an attractive couple strolling hand and hand past a display of Christmas lights while the woman says they just don’t have lights like this in Chicago. Edwin has never been to Chicago, but given its size compared to the small town the couple appear to be in, he finds that doubtful.

The food is quite good, at least. Edwin is enjoying his orange chicken immensely while Charles declares his lo mein “almost as good as my mum’s spaghetti.” Most importantly, no one seems to be at risk of getting food poisoning. Niko makes a big deal out of everyone opening their fortune cookies, though Edwin thinks she should have learned her lesson from the cursed magic 8 ball. His fortune says, “Big changes are coming. Embrace them.”

“I hope not,” he says, showing Charles his fortune. “I just came back to life. That’s quite enough change for me.”

“What you’ve always wanted is right in front of you,” Charles reads aloud from his own fortune, before stealing a piece of Edwin’s orange chicken. Through a mouthful of chicken, he says, “Fortune was right, mate. Incredible.”

Edwin rolls his eyes and steals some of Charles’s lo mein in retribution, which just makes Charles laugh.

On the screen, the attractive couple are standing in front of yet another display of Christmas lights while a blandly good-looking man is arguing with the young woman, apparently trying to convince her to come back to “the real world” while a small crowd gathers around them to shake their heads and stare at the man disapprovingly.

“I’d still take this over the Point No Point light show.” Jenny gestures at the TV with her chopsticks. “There aren’t any crying babies and people I knew in high school who won't stop trying to catch up.”

“Point No Point has a light show?” Edwin asks, interest piqued.

“Yeah, but it’s the same stupid displays every year and the same people who want to spend their Christmas overpaying for hot chocolate and jostling with hundreds of other people to see the same displays they saw last year.”

“We could go.” Crystal sets aside her container of fried rice. “We’ve never seen the lights here. It could be fun.”

Jenny looks skeptical, but Niko squeals in delight.

“That’s how me and Edwin spend our Christmases back home. Walking around and seeing all the different lights. Right, mate?” Charles nudges Edwin. “Edwin loves Christmas lights.”

Edwin nods eagerly.

Jenny looks around at all of them with an expression of someone who already knows she’s lost this war. “ Fine. Let me get my coat.”

***

“Dagfinn must hate this,” Charles says cheerfully as they look out across the bay, where the Point No Point lighthouse is festooned with lights, the beacon at its top flashing red and green.

“I imagine so,” Edwin says, since this appears to be the opposite of the solitude the cranky ghost craves. Their little group is surrounded by other people enjoying the view of the lighthouse, with parents hoisting children on their shoulders for a better vantage point and smiling families taking pictures together in front of the lights.

Edwin, who doesn’t normally care for crowds, finds himself unbothered by the crush of people. The lights are lovely as they reflect on the waters of the peaceful bay, which seems mercifully free of sea monsters. With a cup of overpriced hot chocolate cradled in his gloved hands and his breath misting in the air in front of him, he feels something approaching contentment. It’s hard to worry about this second life and what it means when the night is glowing with colorful lights and he’s surrounded by his friends.

“You really like lights, don’t you, Edwin?” Niko asks. “You always used to stare at the cow in Jenny’s shop before Esther blew it up.”

“I liked that cow,” Jenny grumbles, though there’s little rancor in it. She’s sipping on her own overpriced hot chocolate, which seems to have improved her mood.

“I’ve always enjoyed Christmas lights,” Edwin tells Niko. “When I returned from Hell, it was almost Christmas. I remember seeing the lights everywhere and knowing that I was truly free, that I wasn’t going back.”

She smiles a little sadly at that and squeezes his arm. “You’re not going back. Not again.”

Edwin returns her smile, wishing he had her certainty. “Come along, there are more lights to see. I believe that’s a giant seagull up ahead.”

“Oh, a giant seagull!” Looking delighted, Niko grabs Crystal by the hand and drags her away. Jenny follows them, not looking half as exasperated as she seems to be trying to appear.

Charles lingers with Edwin, looking painfully adorable with his face flushed from the cold and his curls sticking out from under the red hat pulled low over his ears. He’s already drunk all his hot chocolate and has the paper cup crumpled up in his hand, tearing little bits off of it.

“You never told me that,” he says, rolling a bit of paper between his fingers. “About coming back from Hell.”

Edwin shrugs. “You’ve seen it. There’s nothing beautiful or decorative down there. You forget things like that can exist if you spend enough time there.” His gaze lingers on the curve of Charles’s lips and the glint of his earring.

Charles bumps his shoulder against Edwin’s lightly. “I’m sorry about the pudding and the chestnut, mates.”

Edwin huffs out a laugh. “Charles, you don’t need to apologize.”

“I made a right mess of things, didn’t I? Just wanted to give you a proper Christmas.”

“This is a proper Christmas.” Edwin gestures at the lights, at the hot chocolate, and at Crystal, Niko, and Jenny, who are up ahead, admiring a display of lights in the shape of a giant seagull about to swoop down on someone’s lunch.

“Not like they were back in your day,” Charles says, sounding genuinely contrite.

“No, because my day was 1916. I won’t pretend that I don’t miss things about those days, but I find the world much improved since then. There’s no world war, for one.” Edwin hesitates, then adds, “And I didn’t have you and the Agency in 1916. Those things are worth the lack of plum pudding, I think.”

That earns him a warm smile. “You saying you like me more than plum pudding, mate?”

“Undoubtedly,” Edwin says. “And I am sorry for the disastrous spaghetti and meatballs.”

“No big deal.”

“I could have poisoned us. I too wanted you to have a Christmas like you enjoyed in your youth.”

Charles lets out a laugh with little humor. “Christmases when I was a kid were mostly watching my dad and uncles drink too much eggnog and wondering what shitty comment of my granddad’s was going to set my dad off so he’d take it out on me and Mum once everyone else went home. The spaghetti was always good though.”

Edwin’s throat feels tight. He wishes he could pop through a mirror to strike fear into Paul Rowland’s shriveled, putrid heart. “And for me, Christmas was usually about wishing the rest of the year could be like those few days. Wishing my father would be home more, wishing my mother would smile more, wishing my brothers wouldn’t ignore my existence. I would take this over those Christmases any day, even if I did enjoy the food. For me, a proper Christmas is just you and me in our office.”

The smile returns to Charles’s face, as bright and beautiful as the lights surrounding them. “Same here, mate. Though this is pretty brills too.” He squeezes Edwin’s shoulder. “Next year, we’ll do Christmas properly, yeah? We can make plum pudding, roasted chestnuts, and spaghetti together.”

“Next year…” Edwin trails off. He was about to remind Charles that they’ll almost certainly not be alive next Christmas. If they’re lucky, they won’t be in Hell. But Charles doesn’t need that reminder. Tonight, neither of them do. “Sounds like a strange sort of Christmas feast.”

“Perfect for us then, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so.” Edwin feels his own lips tugging into a smile at Charles’s enthusiasm.

“And afterwards, we can go walk around and look at the lights, like we always do.”

“If the girls are around, Niko will most likely insist we watch another of those dreadful movies.”

“That’s the kind of stuff you do for family during the holidays,” Charles says with a grin.

Edwin glances over at Niko and Crystal, who appear to be trying to coax Jenny into taking a picture with them in front of the seagull. “I suppose it is.”

Charles slings an arm around Edwin’s shoulder, hugging him against his side. “Next year, mate. Christmas will be perfect.”

Edwin almost tells him that it already is, but bites back the words, because they would give far too much away. So he lets Charles steer him in the direction of the others. And with the weight of Charles’s arm around his shoulders and Christmas lights illuminating the night around them, Edwin lets himself hope for a moment that they’ll get to keep this second life of theirs, if just for long enough that he and Charles can eat spaghetti and plum pudding together next year.

***

If you read and enjoyed, please consider leaving kudos and/or comments on AO3!

[ficnation]

“Your dad's an asshole” Part 1 - Carl x Reader

Request: “Carl x son of negan. Where they meet when Negan goes to get supplies for the first time from Alexandria and Negan’s son keeps flirting with Carl and Carl gets flustered and acts like he hates it, because y’know son of NEGAN, but eventually they go on a sort of date and kiss? Just fluff with a lil angst? Whatever works for you xoxo”

requested by @thatcucumberwhore

Word count: 2918

Pairing: Carl Grimes x Male! Reader

Warnings: usual twd themes (e.g gore, cursing)

A/n: It's a little bit different than the request, but I still hope you'll enjoy it :D There'll also be a second part to this which will focus more on the romantic aspect of Negan's son and Carl's relationship!

☁ 𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ☁ || ☁ 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐋 𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ☁

“Well, hello there,” the greeting that left your father’s lips was anything but friendly. The mere idea of it not being hostile to the people who killed so many of your men blew your mind.

You decided to keep your mouth shut when a glare of a blue-eyed man on the other side of the fence almost outmatched yours in its viciousness. You hopped out of the vehicle, yawning and murmuring something about having enough traveling for the next few weeks. There was nothing you hated more than sitting for hours in a metal can with nothing to do.

“Do not make me have to ask,” your dad said when no one moved to open the gate for him and your people. He shoved his hand deep into his leather jacket’s pocket and tapped his foot on the ground to hurry them up.

The blue-eyed man hesitated for a moment before sliding the gate open, but not without some resistance. “You said a week. You’re early.”

“How about you file a complaint, huh?” the words escaped you before you could catch them, gathering everyone’s attention.

A few of the Saviors whistled in amusement and appreciation. You quickly pulled the hood of your sweatshirt over your head with an unpleased groan and turned your head to the side, suddenly finding the trees on your left very interesting.

You didn’t get a kick out of people’s attention on you as your dad did. It was just one of the many differences between you and him. There were things you were confident in, but speaking up in front of a large group of people or getting applause for something you did just wasn’t it.

Luckily for you, the citizens of Alexandria didn’t dwell long on your words, and their fearful eyes quickly returned to your father. His smug grin already told you that he was proud of you for speaking up. You were his blood, after all.

When the distinctive growling sounded closer and closer, you could almost see the light bulb lighting up above your father’s head.

“Oh, Rick, come on out here.” He licked his lips in anticipation as he raised Lucille above his head and whistled. “Watch this.”

“I’m not a damn dog,” you mumbled under your breath, but obediently grabbed the bat out of your father’s hands, annoyance clearly visible on your face and in your voice.

The undead man stalked towards you with outstretched hands, excited to get a bite of fresh meat. You raised the bat over your head before swinging at the creature with an annoyed groan. The weapon hit it straight in the middle of its head. The barbed wire and force of the strike made a whole bloody mess of its brain. The blood and all the muck splattered over your clothes and the nearby car.

Negan burst into a deep chuckle at the sight. “Easy peasy lemon squeezy! My kid is doing some charity work for you here, Rick. You better remember that,” he said, winking at the man standing by the gate.

You rolled your eyes, handing the bat back to him and wiping the stray red drops off your cheek. Negan proceeded to give a cheeky little speech to the people from Alexandria, throwing a few threats their way and bowing at the end, almost as if he was waiting for applause.

He gave Lucille to Rick with a sly glint in his eyes before he stepped inside ASZ. He knew exactly what effect his actions had on that man. Rick Grimes was furious and afraid, but not for himself, for something far more important to him.

“Alright, let’s get this show on the road. See what kind of goodies you have in the cupboard.” Negan gestured for you to keep close while he walked further into the town.

“We put aside half of the supplies.”

“No, Rick. No,” your father butted in. He stepped closer to the man threateningly. “You don’t decide what we take. I do. Tell him, boy! Tell him how things here work.” Negan turned towards you with a proud grin.

Of course, he wanted to include you in his weird power plays. He was throwing your existence right in their faces for reasons unknown to you. You thought it’d be safer for you if they didn’t know about you being their enemy’s son, but your father had different plans, like always. It was a shame he didn’t at least give you a heads-up before playing them out.

“It’s always been like that. He’s the boss, he decides what’s his,” you spoke up, shrugging your shoulders. You weren’t going to give them more than that; you weren’t your father.

After that, Arat yelled out for your group to get a move on, and they dispersed, immediately getting themselves busy searching through the houses.

Your father weaved you off to go and explore, maybe help out his men if you were feeling petty. But you knew the rules—the crueler you were, the more things you took, the more Negan’s approval you got. It wasn’t your thing, so you just planned to walk around and check out some of the places there. You were particularly curious about what weapons and how many of them did they have, but you also did not want to participate in the scavenger hunt, so you decided to just let it be.

After not even an hour, you knew you’d seen every interesting place in Alexandria, so you followed one of the random Saviors group searching through the houses. You didn’t take anything from the buildings, just walked around, curiosity peeked by the big suburban homes. The place was nothing like the industrial Sanctuary. It was beautiful and cozy, with the light colors of the furniture brightening the rooms. You could’ve lived in a place like that.

While you were checking out the upstairs of the house, you heard a commotion and an unfamiliar voice downstairs. Without a second thought, you ran down the stairs to find your people being held at gunpoint by a long-haired boy around your age. You looked at him in awe. He looked badass with his bandaged eye and the steady grip on the weapon. He also looked like someone you could get on with. Damn, it was a shame that your groups were on some kind of warpath.

The teenager popped the safety off. “Put some back or the next one goes in you,” he threatened.

“What do you think happens next?” one of the Saviors asked, looking at the boy in amusement while you took that as a sign to pull out your own gun.

“You die,” he replied with so much confidence it was surprising.

“No, you die.” You pointed your gun at his temple, cocking your head, very entertained by the situation. You weren’t sure if the kid had the balls to actually kill your guys over the medicine, but you were curious to find out.

The brown-haired boy slowly turned his head toward you at the sound of the safety clicking. He stared you off with that pretty blue eye of his. For a second, you wondered if he wasn’t this settlement leader’s kid. If that turned out to be the truth, then the chance of you becoming friends dropped to zero.

“That’s a standoff I didn’t expect.” Your father’s whistling cut through the tension in the room.

You turned your head to look at him and Rick, that stood at the entrance of the room. The leader of Alexandria walked over to the two of you, glancing between you and the other boy. It was easy to put the puzzles together. The one-eyed boy was his son. It was an accurate guess, seeing the fear and uncertainty in the man’s blue eyes.

Rick called his son’s name, reaching for the gun in the boy’s hand. “Carl put it down,” he warned him, looking yet again at the barrel of your weapon.

“No. He’s taking all of our medicine. They said only half our stuff,” he protested, raising his voice. His hand holding the gun started shaking slightly, and your eyes quickly caught that sight. Maybe he wasn’t as brave and badass as you thought, or maybe your father traumatized him so much that his presence scared the boy.

“Really, kid?” Your father stepped in front of Carl in amusement. The whole situation was probably pretty entertaining to him.

“And you should go,” the boy continued looking Negan right in the eye. “Before you find out how dangerous we all are.”

You snorted amused. Shit, you knew that with this sentence, the boy just fucked up. If Negan wasn’t pissed before, he definitely was now. You let out an exasperated sigh, tucking your gun behind your belt. You stopped listening to the conversation between them, your eyes glued to the blue-eyed boy.

You didn’t even pay attention when your father stopped talking for a moment before he commanded Dave and the other Savior to take away all of Alexandria’s weapons.

Your heart started beating faster when you took a closer look at Carl, who scrunched his eyebrows in annoyance. The whole time you were there, he gave you maybe a glance or two, desperately trying to show you that you were the intruder here.

You noticed your father staring at you with narrowed eyes. He crossed his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow, challengingly at you. His gaze went back and forth between you and the boy. When you finally met his eyes, he sighed loudly and shook his head disapprovingly. You rolled your eyes and scoffed lightly, turning around and walking away without sparing Carl another glance.

Your steps sounded too loud in the silent house, making you feel uneasy and a bit ashamed because of getting caught staring like a lovesick puppy at someone who was supposed to be your enemy. And damn, how did he manage to make such an impression on you? Why did you want to talk to him so much?

You sat by the little lake in the town, tangling your fingers in the cold grass and waiting for somebody to call you over and say you were leaving. You felt bored and out of place. You thought you would get out of the sunshine and rainbows town quicker. But it took a lot longer than you initially thought.

There weren’t many Alexandrians around the area, so you could let your guard down for a bit. The humidity from the water was refreshing, and you caught yourself breathing in deeply. If you could, you’d bring that lake back to the Sanctuary. It reminded you of your childhood and the days when your mom took you to swimming classes. However, the water there stank strongly of chlorine, so the air wasn’t as nice as this was.

When someone finally passed by you. It was Carl fucking Grimes. He walked right past you like you weren’t there, but you didn’t take it personally. He had no obligation to keep you entertained, and you knew that. You also knew that he probably didn’t want to have anything to do with you, but something drew you to him.

You waited until no one was looking before following him. If he noticed you behind him, he showed no sign of it for most of this short walk. His steps were long and rushed, and it should’ve been a red flag to you, but you decided to ignore it.

At one point, Carl stopped walking and looked around, searching for something. You noticed he was pretending. He did that to make sure you were still following him. And when he noticed you did, he scoffed under his nose. He kept walking, pretending like you weren’t there.

You noticed you were getting close to the edge of the town. There was no one in sight anywhere around you. Carl must’ve seen that, too, because he stopped and sighed, turning around slowly to face you. His expression had turned into a frown, and his eye had grown cold and angry.

“What do you want? Why did you stare at me, and why did you follow me here?” he spat the words at you, glaring daggers at you as if he wanted you to fall dead before his feet. He stepped closer to you, invading every inch of your space, forcing himself between you and the town. You took a step back, your back hitting the cold wall of the house behind you.

“No reason,” you muttered, trying to act nonchalant about it all. “Just wondered where you were going.” You tried to sound natural, which was hard, considering you were freaking out about being in such close proximity to him.

Carl stepped closer toward you, knowing you had nowhere to back away now. He glared at you again, and you flinched. “Yeah, right.” He scoffed once more. “Why does it matter?”

Your mind blanked at this sudden question, and you struggled to find an answer. “Well...” You glanced down at the ground nervously. “I haven’t seen anyone my age for so fucking long. I just thought we could talk for a while.” Your voice faltered at the end, your heart pounding against your chest. You swallowed thickly. You didn’t know what else to say.

“About?” he raised his eyebrow, waiting expectantly. You shrugged awkwardly.

“Whatever you want to talk about.” You tried to keep your tone light, hoping it would calm him down somehow. This was getting awkward and embarrassing fast. You weren’t used to people staring at you like they could read your soul with their piercing gaze.

“You’re pretty badass,” you blurted out nervously. You mentally slapped yourself for talking without thinking twice. Carl raised an eyebrow yet again, seeming unimpressed by your answer.

He stared at you, looking even more annoyed now than before. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again, shaking his head and letting out a heavy sigh. “Whatever. Just leave me alone, okay? You’re not welcome here.” With that, he turned on his heels and started walking away.

“Wait!” You shouted before you could think. He stopped and glared at you once again, this time with more malice than before. He looked ready to punch you. You gulped down some nervousness and continued speaking, trying to sound casual. “Look, I’m sorry I came after you. Like I said, I just wanted to talk.” You smiled sheepishly. “Can’t hurt to try, can it?”

Carl crossed his arms over his chest. He leaned against the brick wall beside you and studied you; his forehead furrowed in concentration.

For a while, neither of you said anything. You stood still, staring at each other intensely, waiting for the other to speak first. It felt like hours had passed before Carl finally broke the silence.

“Your dad is an asshole.”

You gave him a weak smile and nodded. “Yeah, he really is,” you admitted.

“A total douchebag,” he continued, but a hint of sympathy was hidden underneath the harsh words. You gazed at him in contemplation, but he wasn’t paying any attention to you. Instead, he stared up at the sky quietly. He seemed lost in thought.

“He wants me to be just like him.” You shook your head and chuckled bitterly.

“That sounds like the sort of thing a douchebag would do.”

The corner of his lips twitched, and you almost didn’t catch it. Almost. Your heartbeat sped up in excitement, and you grinned. You liked seeing him crack a small smile, even though it was barely there. It made you feel warm inside and helped you forget how Carl’s eye flashed dangerously at you just a few minutes before.

“You have a pretty smile,” you blurted out, surprising even yourself.

The boy looked at you quizzically for a minute as if wondering what the hell had possessed you to say something so stupid. But then the corners of his mouth curved upwards into a shy grin, and that was all the answer you needed. You felt giddy and lightheaded. Maybe because of the fact that he was still smiling at you or perhaps the fact that he hadn’t yelled at you yet. Either way, you were grinning foolishly at the boy you considered an enemy just minutes ago.

You watched him as he studied the clouds. He was handsome, and the way his long brown hair framed his face made him look almost angelic. His blue eye shined in the sunlight, but there was something more: it hid loneliness behind its surface. It made you wonder if he felt just as lonely in this world as you did. Then again, you didn’t know enough about him to be sure if that was true. So instead, you focused on the warmth spreading through your chest.

“Do you think this could work?” you asked suddenly, breaking the silence. Carl turned to you, eyebrow raised in question. “Well, I mean, if we became friends… Would it work?”

He frowned, considering your question carefully. “I’m not really sure.” He hesitated, “Maybe.”

You sighed, defeated. “Me neither. But it’s worth a shot, right?”

It took him a few moments before he finally agreed with you. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s worth a shot.”

You smiled widely at him, and he returned the gesture with one of his rare smiles. It sent an electric jolt through your body. You swallowed hard and tried to ignore the butterflies that swarmed your stomach.

@thatcucumberwhore @yttricuz @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @humanmistakes @twdeadlysins @donttelltheelff

[halfghostwriter]

“You’re listening to Wraith Radio, your number one link to the living realm. I’m your host, the wandering ghost, Ellie Phantom. This week, we’re taking a tour of the cursed and creepy Gotham City. Longtime listeners will note that this place is nearly impossible to get into for us uninvited specters and spirits, but even longer time listeners will know my fun little method for getting around anti-ghost wards. That’s right, dear listeners, I’ve been playing human, and let me tell you, it may have been the best decision I’ve ever made.

Now, you all know how bored I can get playing human, what with the whole ‘being bad at being alive’ thing. I spend way too much time trying to remember things like how far a human body should be able to bend or how fast a heartbeat should go to have any real fun in my human form. In my defense, it’s not my fault my vital organs don’t work the way they should, that’s on the evil billionaire who made me. But anyway, I’m wandering through this place called Park Row, trying to practice breathing and blinking without needing to think about it, when all of a sudden this group of humans come out of nowhere, shooting each other.

Well, I love a good fight as much as the next ghost, so I get closer to them, try to see who’s on who’s side, who wants to put a bullet in who, when one of them grabs me and puts a gun to my head. So now there’s all this shouting, some threats get yelled out, and I’m thinking, ‘man… I am killing it with this human disguise!’ And it’s true, I was! They really thought I would die to a bullet! So I’m getting ready to phase out of this guy’s grip, maybe rough him up a little, when I see a bullet go straight through his arm. The guy drops me, and suddenly I’m hooked under this other guy’s arm, being thrown around like a potato sack.

And this is where it gets good. Because see, as fucked as my biology may be, I do have a damn good ghost sense. And this guy? He was about as ghost as any undead could be. Yeah, you heard me right, listener. The rumors are true. Gotham, as inhospitable it can be to any and all unwanted ghosts, does in fact have an undead population. Now, that’d be incredible on its own, but this guy? Folks, this guy was fucked. Up. You know that feeling you get when someone nearby gets punched in their core? That real quick ‘oh shit I gotta help this guy before they cease to exist’ feeling? Think that, but constant. Like this guy should be in so much unbelievable pain. And he’s throwing me around like I weigh nothing.

So I’m kind of freaking out, and I look up to ask this guy if he’s okay, and. Guys. You’re not gonna believe this. It was the Red Hood. He’s an undead. I know! It’s insane!

So he throws me to the side, kinda blocking me with his body while he’s shooting these people, and I think he told me to run at some point, but I’ll be honest, my brain just kinda stopped. Cause I’m not thinking about the fight anymore, now I’m thinking ‘holy shit, I need to get this guy to a doctor.’ I was actually in the process of starting to ask when one of the other guys’ bullets grazed me. So I decided against it.

Instead, I took out one of my spare inter-realm radios from my bag— always good to keep an extra in case the first gets destroyed— and one of the flyers for Wraith Radio with the airtime on it, and I snuck it into his pocket and disappeared.

And now, here we are, live on the radio, with— hopefully— Red Hood tuning in. So here we go: Red Hood, I am offering to bring you to the ghost zone doctors to get your core fixed. All I want in return is either an interview or a tour of your haunt, whichever you’re more comfortable with. You helped me out, stopping those guys from shooting me. Granted I would’ve been fine if they shot me, but you didn’t know that, so it still counts as a massive favor. I’m not gonna force you, obviously, but coming from someone whose unstable core almost melted her to death, I really think you should come with me. I doubt you remember much about the afterlife, what with the whole ‘being revived’ thing, but trust me when I say that getting an offer to go to this place as a human is rare, and probably won’t happen again. I will be waiting tomorrow at noon at the same place I was yesterday, hopefully not surrounded by people who wanna shoot me this time. Cool?

Anyway, back to talking about the city—”

————————

Jason stared at the glowing radio. He genuinely couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He remembered that girl, she was so scrawny that she looked like she could keel over at any minute. And apparently, she was some… horror radio show host? Sure, she pegged him as dead, but she probably said that about every interesting person she talked about on her show. And now she was going back to the same place she almost got shot? This kid was gonna get herself killed. Looks like he was going to have to talk some sense into her.

Part 2

[lyzelky]

Snippet SunMonday

Tagged by the wonderful @atsadi-shenanigans, thank you!! A snippet in which Tav makes a decision, and Astarion nearly craps his pants over it.

The lingering scent of bergamot and rosemary should have tipped her off, but to her annoyance she finds herself once again startled by the appearance of Astarion. He has the decency to step into the light, though his expression remains cooly intrigued. “You were gone for so long the wizard began to worry,” He picks at a nail and adds, “I wondered if you decided to abandon us entirely.” “I would never—!” She begins indignantly, but Astarion cuts her off. “So, I went looking. I must say I didn’t expect you to be having a little rendezvous with the old man.” He gives her a calculating look, and then to her surprise he smiles, leans in close, and purrs, “You can’t be interested in him for his looks, that much is obvious. So, what did you get out of it? Money? Treasure?” His eyes rake down her form and then back up again, “Or perhaps you simply had a lapse of judgement… Come now darling, I won’t judge, what were you up to?” His face dances with impish delight, and she’s just cottoned on to what he’s implying. “Oh gods, no,” She gulps back a squawk of embarrassed laughter, “No, no, no, definitely nothing like that.” Astarion’s coy smile twists into a scowl. “Well clearly something happened,” He grouses, “There’s something… different.” He gestures vaguely to the whole of her, “Something… new.” “Well,” She begins to walk up the path and gestures for him to follow, “To put it simply, I wanted to increase our chances of survival, so I asked Zevlor to teach me how. I’ve made an oath.” “An oath?” Astarion stops dead in his tracks. “Like a Paladin?” She stops too. “What, do you have a problem with that?” “Well, I suppose it depends… what manner of vows are we talking about?” He’s giving her that odd look again, like he can’t quite figure her out. “Zevlor said it fairly common, as far as oaths go,��� She offers, “Duty and justice and mercy, and whatnot.” “And whatnot…” He snorts, apparently amused by such a thing, though his eyes do not leave her face. “Promises are tricky things,” He tilts his head, “What does your oath say about the undead?” The question is a bit strange, but she sees no harm in answering. “Nothing, specifically,” His eyes narrow. “I thought all paladins were sworn to eliminate them?” She considers. Zevlor had mentioned something about the importance of proper burials and the evils of necromancy, but she hadn’t really thought much into it. “Well,” She chuckles, “If a zombie is hells-bent on my brains, I’d probably put up a fight, yeah.” Astarion doesn’t laugh. If anything, his expression darkens. When he next speaks, it sounds like he chooses his words very carefully. “And, theoretically, if a zombie assured you it wouldn’t harm you, what then?” She stares at him, non-plussed. “What?” “Humor me, darling.” “Alright, well…” She considers the scenario, bizarre as it may seem, “Theoretically, If I came across a sentient zombie who could communicate it meant me no harm? I mean, if it’s not hurting anyone else I don’t see any reason in attacking it.” “Truly?” He sounds skeptical, “Most Paladins would jump at the opportunity to dispose of such a monster.” She shrugs. “My oath says to root out evil. If the zombie is living— well, un-living a benevolent existence, who am I to destroy it?” Something flickers in Astarion’s expression. “What an unusual answer.” “I suppose so, but it’s mine,” She grins. He does not return her smile. “Quite.”

In other words: Tav: "I made a pact of power after listening to a guy I met literally this morning! :3" Astarion: YouWHAT.Jpeg Tagging @amoremagnificentbastard @eraserspiral @dwarfsized @gilded-glitter @molgars and anyone else who wants to participate!

[nnibarrel]

So... Trine 5: A Clockwork Conspiracy. My recent obsession. Let's go! I'll try to do it without significant spoilers.

Carefull, long post under the cut!

First of All. Amadeuses Kids! They grew up! UWU. They're such cute little young fireball casters. Omg, that's almost like watching your nephews grow, they feel so much like a family...

That game series has been with me since I was a child and as I remember Trine (part 1) was my first (real) videogame! And now when I play Trine 5 it cures my soul so much, right when I needed it. It's like... Has a Tolkien vibe for me. I mean in the sense that It's too fairy tail outside, it may look childish, but it has layers! I really like the plot, it hit me right in the heart and made me reflect. And I was struggling with dark thoughts on Future and Trine's perspective on the global world's problems made me smile and hope for the best... Really thank you, trine team, you're awesome :D Where there's people who share your concerns and put it in the work of art like that and make witty satire on it that's precious. I have returned some of my faith in humanity now. 

Well, maybe some people may not see what I saw or just won't feel such weight, cause my recent experience made me stump on it, so well I need to say that plot in general... Dramatic. I was impressed How it manages to balance at the edge of magical fairy tail and life drama (OR that's again me and my pains. Anyway...) STRONG twists and things at stake. Heroes encounter both global threat and personal challenges (all three of them, but poor wizard, he got it the most. But he's so silly old man, I'm crying) (Zoya, my girl, I love you...) (Pontius... You're just perfect, I'm proud of you, example of a real knight :D)

Character writing is amazing, they REALLY feel alive.

For example: Amadeus marries a woman after he became a hero and throughout the whole game series he mentions that, then he mentions their kids and, like i mentioned now, now we see how they grew up! And in fifth's game due to plot he misses his triplets greatly and in the forest three heroes meet a fox with three little foxes... And Amadeus is like "oh no, I'm a terrible father" 😭

And there's a lot of cute normal or giant animals in the game series, we're helping them and then they come up and help us. Such lightsome game, I can't/// Those animals... Uwu/// (Just a little detail but I wanted to mention that...)

What I like else about the narrative: humor :D For demonstration I just let Pontius to show himself:

And now when I've let out my shouts...

*sights* AaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAA. Another round, Friends :D

I. Worship. Those. Artists. They are geniuses. Screenshots speak for themself, I guess.

Design, artwork and effects... No, I can't describe it in words, again, I just pray on it. So damn enchanting. I literally dream to be like those artists who work on this series. (And that's a threat) When I think of it, well, maybe THAT magic inspired me to be who I am right now...

Magic observatory where's pictures of butterflies there and there... ARE YOU DESNAN, WIZARDS???

And those just killed me. Episode in a dark place with the sudden rays of hope... I was just. Aaaah... So beautiful both by art and location's story.  Replica of the second screenshot: "It's rare that ghosts are on our side. Usually we and undead are not on good terms." What did I tell you? :D Tolkien vibe!

So who got through my post till the end... Please, please get to know those game series. I didn't mention it at all above but It's also a genius of gameplay. It's a platformer with (some) fighting and (a lot of) puzzles. Also. It's thrice (:D) fun in coop.

AND. Music. Won't say much about it either but It's a genius magical masterpiece. I guarantee you: Trine soundtrack will find its way to your playlist.

P. S. Will I do fanart on trine? Maybe... Maybe... You know, I just have that strange thing: some stories are "sacred" in my brain so I can't Just sit and draw cause I'm constantly stressed out if it turns out bad or worse: not how I imagined it. Same with Tolkien books, btw. In fandom since childhood, (if you count that, if not - from adolescents and first steps to the internet) and no single drawing. (not single real drawing at least)

But! I have Nine Parchments fanart :D

Oooh. And. I have THEM in frame. Art from my friend who gifted it to me at postcrossing some time after we played Trine 4 (and then the whole game series) together! It was such a pleasant surprise!

The end. ❤️❤️❤️

[wellthebardsdead]

Astarion: Lucy, you’re, a devil, correct?

Lucy: yep, still, coming to terms with that. What’s up?

Astarion: you offered to help me understand what’s on my back so- what do you want in return? Devils always want something in return.

Lucy: just you being my friend is enough.

Astarion: I?… that’s all?

Lucy: yep. Right then. So, your scars are one of 7, the others are on the backs of your ‘siblings’, the other spawn cazador sired. It’s part of an infernal contract between him and the arch devil Mephistopheles. 7 spawn, 7000 souls. One, ascended vampire. He sacrifices you and the 7000 victims you and your siblings lured back for him and in return he gains power. The power to enjoy everything life has to offer, including walking in the sun. But, Mephistopheles doesn’t just set about making deals with mortals willy nilly. 7000 souls is no mere trifle even to the lord of the 8th, but he’d always want more, and he can get more himself if he had a vessel to possess out of the hells.

Astarion: he intends to possess cazador or- whomever completes this ritual?

Lucy: exactly.

Astarion: I see- wait- 7000 souls? The ones we lured ba- no, no they’re already dead though?

Lucy: undead. And underground. Caged in a dungeon only accessible through a lift in his private study.

Astarion: an underground dungeon? Look- I- Ugh I know I was a prisoner there for 200 years but I was still allowed to roam about most of the palace. I think I’d of heard about a hidden lift and a secret dungeon.

Lucy: Sebastian.

Astarion: what?…

Lucy: he’d never been kissed. You taught him how to.

Astarion: h-he was… one of my firsts… how do you know-

Lucy: a hundred and seventy years he’s been down there. Feral, hungry and afraid… the Gur children you kidnapped are down there too… they’re all down there… and I hope when the time comes you’ll make the right choice Astarion… as for how I know-… I still don’t know how to explain it… goodnight Astarion.

Astarion: I, g-goodnight. Thank you, for this.

*a few days later*

Lucy: *back at camp after killing Yurgir, poking the fire as Raphael approaches her from behind* hello dear.

Raphael: Alright. Who do you have spying on me?! Who sent you and how?! Are all these cambions so subservient to you?! Subservient to a point where they willingly guided an entire caravan of refugees to last light inn just to be certain none of them would get killed?! Who are you?!

Lucy: I told you, my names Lucy, and it’s not my fault your moves are predicable. Your spy Korrilla is ridiculously bad at hiding too.

Raphael: how do you know her name?!

Lucy: *smiles enjoying seeing the vein in his forehead pulse* I told you. I know things~ and I know now, you, owe us a favour for getting rid of the orthon. Just, like, you, promised~

Raphael: *clenches his jaw* I- Arghh, fine. I despise verbal contracts. What do you want?

Lucy: nothing, yet. Goodnight. *smiles walking back to her tent leaving the devil looking like his heads about to explode*

Raphael: You- ARGHHH! *turns to leave*

Astarion: Wait, you owe us a favour and I’d like to cash in on it.

Raphael: oh? And what is it you want?

Astarion: when the time comes for me to face down Cazador… I want the means cure myself, and all the other spawn he sired of vampirism.

Raphael: *brain just stopping as he tries to think of how he’ll explain this away to his father without being skinned alive* Surely you’d like something else-

Astarion: we had an arrangement did we not? I want a cure.

Raphael: oh gods, fine. Fine… I’ll see what I can do.

[lunelfy]

The journey so far...

A snippet from Boone's journal, written from his perspective.

∙ Assimilated a parasite through my eye. Utmost uncomfortable I can say, could've at least considered putting it into my ear.

∙ Almost befriended an army of walking brains. They were uncannily friendly.

∙ Lae'zel thought I was a dragon, I felt deeply flattered, if she hadn't attacked me for that reason.

∙ Found a lovely lady inside a tube. She has a thing for tinky toys.

∙ Got confused whether to fight a devil or to jump out of a floating spaceship. We barely just made it, but, we made it. Lae'zel however disappeared as fast as she appeared.

∙ Found Astarion, he used my good manners to initiate a backstab manoeuvre. He was however blocked by my paladin's merciful aura. Now we are friends :]

∙ Found a Gale hand stuck in time and space. Behind the hand was an actual Gale. He's funny. I like him.

∙ Shadowheart is watching my back every move, baptizing me with approvals (until another lady comes along...).

∙ We clumsily fell through a hole in the ground, into a dungeon. Things that happen in the dungeon, stay in the dungeon. I'm talking about dead people. What do they call those, oh yes, corpses? What is dead should stay dead, especially walking skeletons.

∙ A mysterious book with a massive lock smiled at my Paladin's magic spark.

∙ We found an undead necromancer. He's friendlier than my well-behaved neighbours visiting the church. He rewarded us with some sentimental treasures.

∙ At a couple of more turning vases, we emerged above the ground. On our way to find camp, rest, and return to the dungeon where we found a booby trap that we are dying to dismantle (not by actually dying by it).

[egittae]

21th of Ethereal Moon, Imperial Year 1135

Well, this wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this.

An old song and dance by now in his mind, revolving around the same topic, questions and answers each time only to reach a conclusion that too wasn’t new.

The impossibility that was his revival, that it could mean- why did it even happen. Days where he spent thinking if this was an act of defiance against the Goddess where he ripped the pen from her hands and continued to write page after page in the book that was his life long after the epilogue had been completed, or if perhaps this was part of her plan all along and she simply chose to give him a second chance as there was something out there he had yet to do, and he could only truly die after he sees it done.

In both cases, the result too led to a wall. If he defied the Goddess, how come she hasn’t dragged him back to death yet? If this was her intention, then how come people much more significant than him- literal saints and greater kings and queens from the past, weren’t offered the same grace?

Sitting down on his bed, holding the shabby paper calendar he had on his desk, his eyes remained fixated on the date, moon and year. The number almost alien to his brain as it didn’t match any of the couple of memories it was able to gather.

Almost half a decade had passed.

Half a decade in which he didn’t exist. He wasn’t asleep or lost, just ceased. Only to return now, his organism seemingly unbothered by the fact he should’ve rotted away and become one with nature at this point- instead, it kept going. It wasn’t perfect, Lambert could tell whatever it was that happened to him did take a toll on his general health, but he was still alive and surprisingly healthy for a man that had been dead for years now.

The conversation he had with Matthias earlier, one he had actually thought to himself a couple of times before, returned to his mind. Lambert should be completing fifty years of age now- but how can he, when at least four of these years were lost? Was he fifty, or forty-six? Such a simple and almost stupid question to be stressing over, but one that sent his mind into absolute disarray because it was the most real proof of how abhorrent his situation was. Lambert could just say whatever number he wanted if others asked, but in the end he knew, in his own mind, that he…didn’t know the real answer.

Wallowing would only get him so far, in the end. Putting the calendar aside with a sigh and leaning on his elbows against his thighs, he stared at nothing in particular. It was only then that he figured- perhaps, the best way to approach his dilemma.

He closed his eyes, falling back into the fairly disorganized archive of memories that was his mind- searching for nothing specific but a key moment all the same. What he found were not one, but multiple short instances- all spoken in the tone of a joke, never taking the situation too seriously. He didn’t have to.

Lambert! Get down from that tree, you dumb arse- you will fall and split your head open! Have some more faith in me, will you? I can just walk it off anyway! Not if you die! Then I’ll get to not only walk it off but also haunt you!

–

And what would you do then? If you were to fall in combat. I have taken more than enough precautions for that to not be the case- and in the odd chance it does, I do have contingency plans on paper. Is that so… Yes. But please, Krima. Have more faith in me, will you? I am not so careless. Besides, I am not in the mood to let the Goddess drag me away so soon! I will just have a talk with her and she will let me go. Lambert, do not joke about this! Oh, you dummy…

–

If you were to die and then come back, what would you do? Haunt my brother. Stop always saying you’ll haunt people, Your Highness! Every single time! Hehe, that is the fun part, is it not? Hmm… It would feel creepy, wouldn’t it? Imagine, being fully aware that you’re a ghost…or an undead-! I think…I would feel really powerful.  Eh? Yeah, it would feel powerful, would it not? To meet the end, and then go back from it. The one boundary no warrior has ever gotten back from! The coolest king ever! I think I would wear that with pride.  With pride…

–

Maybe, instead of letting it plague his thoughts so much, he should just wear his defiance of death with pride. As his younger self, many years ago, would've wished.

[hmdeath]

Hello!

So this is not a question but rather just me rambling and fangirling over Astarion, his story and especially your fic "Unravel".

I love it so much, really! You're doing such a phenomenal job writing it and I'm getting all excited whenever there's a new chapter!

So when I was on my way to work yesterday a song I used to love but hadn't heard in a long time started playing. It's also called "Unravel". It's actually an english cover of one of the openings from the anime "Death Note" by Jonathan Young (I love his music, omg).

And I was like "oh funny, just yesterday there was a new chapter of this really cool fic called "Unravel" as well."

So when I started paying more attention to the lyrics I thought that the song was quite fitting for Astarion and especially your fic!

I mean, of course not every line of the song is fitting! I thought about it like "what if the 'real' Astarion was aware of everything ascended Astarion did to Hikari and in general?"

So here are the lyrics:

Oh, can you tell me, can you tell me the way the story ends?

A monster in my heart, a ghost inside my chest

I′m broken down, the world around us surrounds my suffering

(He is a monster, he's but a ghost of what he was before. Also I believe A!Astarion is truly suffering, he has never been happy since the ritual. But there's also nothing he can do about it on his own, because it's just the way he has to be after it.)

You smile and laugh at me, but you don't see a thing

Damaged and broken as I am, I′m trying not to breathe

Unraveled, I'm not unraveled by the truth I finally see (Freeze)

I'm breakable, unbreakable

I′m shakeable, unshakeable

Unraveling since I found you

And now I′m turning to dust in a world that's twisted

Don′t come searching when I go missing

Close your eyes or just try to look away, don't want to hurt you

(Like... Hikari didn't have to return to him and spawn!Astarion probably wouldn't have wanted her to endanger herself even if it was so 'save' him, right?)

We live in the world someone else imagined

The ghost of what′s left of me all but vanished

Remember my heart, how bright I used to shine

(Okay, this is a bit of a stretch since he was undead before the ritual and his heart certainly didn't 'shine' that bright, haha 😂 but he did fall in love with her, so that's enough for me!)

Entangled in the loneliness

The memory of innocence

It's stinging me, it′s breaking me

The pain is spreading endlessly

I cannot move, I close my eyes

I try to breathe, I realize

I'm paralyzed, I'm paralyzed

Unravel the world

(Again, what if spawn!Astarion was aware. Maybe he is... Somehow? Or at least, he will remember when/if the pact is finally reversed and he is back to his former self.)

I′m not what I was then, don′t touch the infection

Entwined we will both die so stay away, and stay alive

(Same as above, she didn't have to come back to him. The infection could refer to the ascension and even to vampirism itself. Spawn! Astarion would never have wanted Hikari to be turned into a vampire herself.)

I'm breakable, unbreakable, I′m shakeable, unshakeable

Unraveling, I won't infect you

And now I′m turning to dust in a world that's twisted

Don′t come searching when I go missing

Close your eyes or try to look away, don't want to hurt you

We live in the world someone else imagined

The ghost of what left of me all but vanished

Remember my heart, how bright I used to shine

Please, just don't forget me

Just don′t forget me

Just don′t forget me

Just don't forget me

Don′t forget me

(I mean after all the shit Astarion's been through... Hikari (as his first true love) forgetting about how he truly was would be brutal 😭)

We live in a world someone else imagined

The ghost of what left of me all but vanished

Remember my heart, how bright I used to shine

Oh, can you tell me?

Oh, can you tell me?

A monster in my heart

And now there's nothing left

Sorry that this is so long 😂 but after my brain made all these connections to your story I couldn't stop thinking about it and I just HAD to let the brainrot run wild 🙈

I hope you're having a wonderful day and I'm really looking forward to the next chapter ❤️

WOW I LOVE THIS!!!!

I was definitely aware of the song - I mean how could I not be lol - but I'd never heard this english translation and he does it so well, first of all!! Second of all though OH MY GOD??!??!?!?! THIS IS TOO PERFECT???? IN EVERY SINGLE WAY??!??!!?

me waking up from the delirium of being disgustingly sick for the past 3 days to this glory:

[bizlybebo]

No sleep so BOOM MORE OC LORE

(Sorry to keep dropping these in your asks I am in fact a rabid animal. No pressure to read or answer these at all. Anyways tw for death, cruelty , depictions of hell, war and loss of identity, as well as implied child soldieryness)

Bernadette was an incredible soldier. She was incredible in combat, ruthless and efficient in dealing with anyone who stood in her way. But after almost 5 years of service to the imperium, an unknown traitor stabbed her through the back and killed her at 21. She then was hurled into hell, paying penance for her sins. After languishing in this torment for a year and a half, powerful demon that had admired her work in the material plane ripped her out of hell, knitting her rotting flesh back together and blessing her with his power so she could continue her work as a ruthless soldier and bring glory to his name. She accepted, because hell was horrible and she wanted nothing more than to get out. But now, after so long in hell, Bernie’s actions haunt her, and she is more terrified than ever that if the other shoe drops, the moment she exhibits the slightest nonconformity, her patron will unmake her and she will be trapped in hell forever, a reality she came to understand after testing the limits of her unlife.

Every time she went down, carelessly throwing herself into battle with haughty assumptions of her own invulnerability, she would meet in the same limbo-like where she first made her deal with they War God. She would sit there either until she was healed or until her undead body managed to start kicking again. But the more she died, the more this pristine, white living room began to rot around her, revealing an acidic, burning landscape behind it. The last time she got knocked down, this crawling rot had almost reached her, snapping at her ankles as if to drag her back into hell. Additionally, it took longer and longer for her to come back. When she asked War God about it, he just smirked and shrugged, talking about how his magic was cosmic, but still had limitations, and if she wanted true immortality, she would have to go to the creator deities. She also realized that the more she died, the weaker her grasp of her past self, personality and lives became.

So, she’s trying to be a better person while serving herself when necessary and trying to cure her dead body so she can get out of her deal. Whether or not she will return form her journey as the same person that left remains to be seen, as is if she can work to earn redemption.

(Up to interpretation but she is fully intended to be a less sympathetic/ morally grey character. She was actually written in response/in tandem with my listening of the grayscale arc. Anyways BOOM art)

LIVE VIXEN REACTION PART 2 (i cant flip the image in tunblr so i just turned it upside down</3)

OHHH FUCK. OHHHJ THISS IS SOOO COOLLLL. OHHHH REVIVED CHARACTERS OHHHH THE HORROR OF REVIVAL OH THE HAUNTING THOUGHT OF YOUR PAST PRESENT AND FUTURE OHHHH. OHH THIS IS SOOO COOL. PICKING THIS APRT WITH MY BRAIN AND EATING ITTT. also i need her

YOUR CHARACTER DESIGN SKILLS WILL NEVER NOT IMPRESS ME GAHHH.

goddd and her “immortality” is so grounded in such a cool way….. she can keep coming back but she will lose herself more and more and her body will start falling apart and it’ll take longer and longer to come back to herself….. exploding throwing up

[hungry-skeleton]

Person: oh, Ghost Roaster is your favorite skylander? Why?

My brain: okay apart from character design Ghost Roaster is legitimately such a fun and intriguing character. His backstory, when you really analyze it, is pretty tragic.

Ghost Roaster (or his original name, Olaf), was literally just a regular chef seeking out ingredients and ended up falling into the valley of the undead. This forcibly transformed him into who he is now, a skeletal ghoul. This isn't explicitly stated but it can be assumed that upon his transformation he was overcome with unfamiliar urges that lead him to eat an entire ghost village. The reason I say this must be what happened is because he was never said to be a bad or evil person before he fell in, his transformation is what gave him a taste for ghosts and this sudden change in his nature caused him to lose control of himself.

Following this he was chained for eternity so that all ghosts and spirits would know to flee from the sound of his ball and chain. I MUST point out how this is portrayed in game because it only exemplifies how sad his situation is. In game, they didn't make his chain float behind him like a ghost, instead they went out of their way to animate it grinding and sparking against the ground paired with nails on a chalkboard scraping.

So he's completely changed, succumbed to unknowable urges, and got chained for eternity but ohh no we cannot let him stop suffering!! So most skylanders become skylanders for some sort of heroic deed or special ability. So why was Ghost Roaster chosen? Well his flavor text provides 2 different reasons. 1, eon took pity on him. And 2, having a ghost eater on your side would be helpful. So Ghost Roaster did not become a skylander because he was heroic or powerful, he was taken in because eon felt bad for him and found his curse to be useful. Wow!! Fucked up!

BUT HE STILL CAN'T CATCH A BREAK! Because as implied by several other flavor texts around different medias, GR's fellow skylanders still don't trust him! Especially the undead ones, for obvious reasons. So after being taken in by a group because of how pathetic he is and getting avoided out of fear he then comes to realize that when he does actually do something good no one cares! This leads to the plotline of the comic Secret Agent Secrets where he, Boomer, and Voodood join the side of Spellslamzer after getting tired of being tossed aside for newer recruits. Ghost Roaster gets the most spotlight here as he is the most serious about joining the side of evil then the others (and rightfully so tbh!!). There is literally a point where Stormblade has him stuck and he essentially dares her to kill him since he doesn't matter. Goddamn!!! And after all that once he returns to the side of good what does he get for it! Not much! It'll probably happen again!!

Ghost Roaster is just such a wonderfully tragic and fun character I can't help but love him. Even putting aside his story his design and personality are just so made for me. I love this pathetic little ghoul so much and I want him to be happy.. But also since he's my blorbo I want him to suffer more

Me: I just think he's sillay

[dickfics69]

Emotional Motion Sickness | Part 5 | A Rickyl ficlet

Rick x Daryl

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 6 | PART 7 | PART 8 | PART 9

AO3

My Daryl playlist

Summary: Daryl gets sick before a supply run, and denies it vehemently. He is a big tantrum baby. Rick is constantly worried and drama ensures.

Chapter summary: Carl find Daryl in the woods. They talk and Daryl lets down some of his walls. Daryl falls a sleep and has another nightmare. They arrive at the house.

AU: This fic has some timeline and plot-point changes. They are still in the prison and the second Governor fight never happened. He died in the first one and the last few months have been them adjusting to all the new Woodbury inhabitants. Rick and Lori broke up when Shane was killed, but Rick still lost his mind when she died. Daryl and Rick have just recently gotten together. Farmer Rick era is lot shorter than in the show. An original character is introduced for plot furthering purposes.

Content warning: adult language, sickfic, mess, snot, bodily functions, hurt/comfort, vivid nightmares, adult content, 18+ for eventual smut (still deciding hehe

Word Count: 3.5k +

Always thank you to my bestie @dumbslxtclub

Chapter 5: I'm Stubborn and Brittle

Daryl held his pistol out, unable to stop his fever and fear from shaking the firearm. The immense pressure in his skull had evoked a throbbing in his eardrums that seemed to distort the noise of reality around him. He didn’t know what was out there. Maybe it was a deer? Maybe a walker. But the man rued his impulsive decision to leave his trusty bow behind, amongst many other things. The soft crackling of the woods continued, gradually sobering him up. With a sudden screech, two undead walkers came toppling towards him, faster than he ever imagined they could move. Daryl fumbled with the pistol, but didn’t trust his strength, so he grabbed a knife from his belt instead and rose to his knees, ready to stand, ready to plunge the blade through dark, thoughtless brains. 

*bang* *bang*

Two silenced gunshots echoed through the damp overgrowth, shocking the man out of his hallucinatory inertia. Two mottled, bloody bodies landed to either side of him, spraying undead crimson onto the fabric of his jeans. He half expected the presence of his boyfriend standing behind the gun, looking down at him with contempt and disappointment. But to his feverish surprise, there stood Carl. Carl. Carl, the thirteen year old man-child just saved the Daryl Dixon from becoming an undead zombie.

The boy stood there looking at the sickly man from a distance, his Beretta held up strong in front of him. Daryl struggled to articulate his words and could sense the worry pulsating from behind the gun.

“Carl…”

“Daryl! Oh my god!” The small man slipped down to Daryl’s level quickly, pocketing his firearm and reaching to check over the sick man’s body. “Are you okay? Are you bit?” His steadfast panic and vocal quality were not far from his father’s, an evolutionary concept that brought a small pit of warmth to the hunter’s stomach.

“Mb’kay, mb’kay Carl.” Daryl reassured, untucking his legs from underneath his body. “Ndo bites.”

“Okay, that’s good then.” The smaller Grimes replied, lowering his eyes and rubbing his palms along light-wash denim anxiously. Before either Carl or Daryl could say anything else, the boy sprang forwards and wrapped his arms tightly around the other man’s neck, avoiding tears of own. He sniffled briefly, retreating before the older man could return the affection.

“Why can’t you and my dad just act like goddamn adults?” Carl said exasperatedly, expelling pent up thoughts that had laid dormant for too long. “What dad did was really freakin’ dumb, but so is this! You dabbling in being walker bait now??”

“Carl, I-”

“Just shut up for a second, Daryl.” The boy was already on his feet, repeatedly painting a recurring image of loved ones passing their immense disappointment onto the ailing Dixon brother. ““Okay. You're not bitten, but are you okay?” 

Daryl shuddered a breath, fighting his emotions  for the millionth time that day. Carl was one of his favourite people in the entire world. A friend. A brother. A son. He knew on some level that Rick would maybe, eventually, begrudgingly forgive the shameful behaviour that Daryl had plagued upon them all. But Carl? The thought that he could ever let the boy down was too much for the hunter’s fever-addled mind to even consider. Looking into the eyes of the juvenile who had just saved his life, Daryl felt the familiar guilt-ridden burn forming a lump in his throat.

“I-”

“Daryl! I love you, but you look like fresh death warmed over. So please, for the sake of the run. Are you okay?” 

“Ndo, alright?! I feel like fucgking shit,” Daryl finally relented after hours of denial and withholding. He felt a fraction of his guilt leave a heavy leaden chest, like a jigsaw puzzle being carefully put away. The walls were down in front of another, his vulnerability set to be chewed upon by those who could see him for what he really was. 

“Jeez! Finally dude!” Pent up concern blasted out with a sigh, as Carl once again lowered himself in front of the hunter. 

“Mb’sorry Carl. It aind’t fair for us to argue in front of ya.” 

“S’fine Daryl.” Carl replied gently, grabbing the hand of his second father. “Look, I won't say anything to my dad, but you both really need to sort some shit out and pull it together!”

“I will, I prombise Carl.” He returned an earlier gesture and snatched the boy up in a tight embrace, relief flooding out of him with a wavering exhale. “Look, I kndow I ain’t been the best combpany today but-”

“I mean, if the curtains match the drapes.” 

Daryl knew what Carl had meant to say. If the shoe fits. It was an incredibly pure mismatch of speech that filled the man with fondness and melancholy alike. A boy forced to grow up too fast. He longed for Carl to have a childhood that he himself had never been privy to. But the boy had just shot down two fully grown undead humans. Innocence didn’t exist in this world. The muddled metaphor lingered at the front of Daryl’s brains, as he pulled away and stifled a laugh.

“Carl, that don’t meand what ya-hah th-hehink…ihit…h’Ngxxtsh…h’AAtchNGXshu…does.” A sentence rushed together with unanticipated irritation.

“Bless you.”

“Hmph.”

Another concerning whisper of danger echoed through woods, a harbinger of their mortal vulnerabilities. Daryl and Carl became completely motionless, muscles tensed with cat-like readiness. Aside from heavily congested mouth breathing, the only clamour to be heard was the new season drizzle percussing the fallen leaves on the forest floor. Carl went to move but Daryl halted him in an instant, a hand held up with a thousand warnings behind it. He was sick as a dog, but the man was still an expert in his field. When the air of danger had passed, the hunter gave the signal that all was okay and both he and the smaller man exhaled with a long breath, held in for a moment too long. Daryl stifled the urge to cough, the burning of infection etched hard into his throat. Danger could befall the two at any moment in time, and he sure as shit wasn't going to let a stupid cold be the cause of it.

“We gotta go now.” Carl whispered at a range only intelligible by lip reading. With a nod of understanding, the two of them were on their feet, moving briskly and silently through the wet overgrowth once again. Hands free from the heavy crossbow, Daryl brushed past the pocket of his coat, remembering the relief that lay inside. As stealthily as possible he cracked two tablets out of the forgotten blister pack, placed them on his tongue and swallowed them dry, as gracefully as possible. Daryl will-eat-raw-squirrel-meat Dixon loathed taking tablets, a plague upon him since childhood. No amount of delectable liquid could make the insufferable medicinal stones go down any easier. But at this juncture in time, they were a necessity and a privilege. He could feel the hard disks inching down his oesophagus, threatening to trigger his gag reflex and render the pharmaceuticals completely void of duty. But he pressed on, obligation keeping him distracted and moving hastily despite many an angry nasal protest. 

The grounding scurry back to the road felt far longer than the frenzied sprint away from it. It took a considerable amount of focus for the sick man to move his heavy legs in a coordinated fashion. But he got there eventually. Clean autumn daylight struck Carl first and then Daryl, eye’s adjusting to the clearing beside the road where the jeep was haphazardly parked. With a sickly squint, he registered Rick leaning against the driver's door of the khaki automotive, arms crossed in resentment and head hung with distress. Then he glanced down and realised several of the dead un-dead littering the bank of grass beside the car. Guilt surged as an obvious battle had taken place. Precise knife wounds articulated the heads of three of the walkers. Peri. A shamble of bodily matter was all that was left of the others, a trademark vignette of Rick’s Colt Python- loud and disgustingly destructive. A splatter of blood stained the fleece of The Deputy’s over coat, indicative of an avoidable struggle. ‘You almost fucking killed them, you piece of shit.”

Daryl stood fixed to the soil as Rick acknowledged him with a glare of towering rage. He gave his son a fatherly pat on the back as Carl moved out of site to rejoin the group. The older Grimes opened the driver's side door, about to say something, but shook it away and slammed the door on entry. Daryl knew where he belonged. 

Shivering from emotion, fever and exertion entwined, the hunter crawled into the back seat behind his lover, far beyond fatigued to say anything in miserable defence.  He curled up like a pitiful child, too exhausted to cry and too emotional to get on his high horse. Carl sat adjacent and watched him with temperate sympathy. Sympathy that irked him, made him feel helpless, weak, invalidated. He was irritable, ready to snap like a rubber band, if he wasn't so physically drained. The motor started and without anything to occupy him anymore, Daryl took inventory of his own symptoms. His entire head pulsated with congestion, shooting painful shockwaves at the slightest movement. Nostrils were quivering with rosy aggravated flesh and an ever present dull tickle was holding his nose at an unpayable ransom. His sinuses were blocked up beyond comprehension, leaving his air flow restricted to dry lips and a scratchy throat. A scratchy throat that continuously latched onto hooks of willful mucus, practically begging to be coughed up. The culminatory fever was arguably the worst of the sickly manifestations. Frigid shivers reverberated through bone and back, leaving the hunter yearning for a skerrick warmth long forgotten. The summit of ailments protested loudly, but Daryl’s eyes grew heavy and hot, daring the man to enter into quiet slumber as the hum of the motor lulled him into a drowsy limbo. Forehead  pressing against an icy window, the hunter finally succumbed to his own angry objections, and fell into a deep sleep. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wrists on fire with friction hung over his head, feet barely grazing the ground of the barn that had him dangling like a piece of meat ready to be consumed. A filthy rag was crammed so far down his throat that he could barely hear himself panicking. Screams of pain echoed around him, inside and out. The excruciating noises stopped and started suddenly, cruelly teasing the man who was slipping in and out of consciousness with them. He was not alone. A tangible evil stained the air around him. He did not remember capture, but even with eyes glued shut, he could sense a familiarity in front of him.

“Nicely done, son.”

“Piece of shit ain’t hard to hold down.”

“Take ya pick of weapons, s’time to have some fun!”

The distinctive voices of Daryl’s father and brother reverberated through the dingy barn, sending a shiver of primal fear down the hunter's spine.

“Oi crap hole! Open yer fuckin’ eyes, I wanna see the tears in ‘em when we beat the fuckin’ shit outta ya.” The paternal voice was right in front of him now, a drunken angry breath cascading over Daryl’s face. A force yanked the gag out of his mouth, a trail of saliva spilling down onto the hunter’s chin. 

“I said, open. Yer. Fuckin’. Eyes.” each grinding word articulated by a hard blow to the man’s stomach, leaving him winded and begging for air. But still he stayed blind to the torture awaiting him.

“Daryl, ya know what happens when I gotta ask ya a third time.” The voice was suddenly behind him now, instilling an instinctual fear in the hanging man. Realising that he wasn’t blindfolded, Daryl forced his eyelids open. A blurry sepia image of a man stood a hair away from his own face. After blinking a few times, the face of Rick Grimes came to focus a mere breath away. A sob of relief escaped a fragile man.

“Rick! Thank Christ! Please, please help me, my dad’s here, he’s gonna hurt me again. “ Ice cold tears streamed from tired eyes as Daryl as he reduced himself to a pathetic, pleading mess. But the monotone man just stood there staring down his victim. As Daryl made to plead again, an emotionless smirk painted itself across Rick’s face and an almost inaudible growl grated from the back of his throat.

“The fuck ya just call me ya worthless piece of shit?” Rick's mouth moved as normal but Daryl’s abusive father flooded out of his vocal chords, like a poorly dubbed foreign film. 

“He’s callin’ out for his lil gay boy fuck buddy!” Merle’s voice came flooding in from all around them but localised when Carl appeared behind the entity of his father. “Yer snivelling ain’t gunna work here, lil brother.” The tainted portrayals of Rick and his son danced in and out of focus, shifting their location with every frame of Daryl’s thought processes. 

The sudden wailing of an infant hammered through the space, a squirming bundle appearing in Rick’s arms. Judith. Oh god please no not her!

“No, no, no!” Was the only thing that parted the hunters lips.

“Don’t worry brother, we like the little bitch.”

“She’s a handy little lump for sure.”

Rick’s body unwrapped the swaddle, small arms springing out, desperately grasping for the open air. The infantile wail morphed into an inhumane, bloodthirsty guggle, as Judith’s face turned to unveil the nightmarish truth.

“Couldn’t save her could-ya son?”

“Never helped anyone in his life, Pa.”

“I think lil miss Grimes wants-ta tell ya something Daryl.” If he blurred his eyes, everything was fine, his love carrying his baby girl towards him. But there was nothing fine about this reality. His mismatched father stepped up close, an audible snapping emitting from the lump of flesh struggling in his arms.

“Time to repent, son.”

The vessel of his partner held up the tiny walker who took no pause before biting repeatedly into Daryl’s exposed shoulder. A howl of agony muffled as he willed himself out of consciousness. Accepting fate, he hung there like pathetic prey, allowing a tiny jaw to tear him to shreds over and over again. ‘Finally getting what you deserve.’

~~~~~~~~~

“Daryl…Daryl, wake up!” Carl tentatively nudged the volatile man’s shoulders, bracing himself for an explosive transition to waking life. A few shakes later and the sleeping man started to exhibit signs of waking.

Coming to, the hunter opened his eyes in daze, foggy with confusion. Thoughts collided together like a hammer to nail, jolting the man upright in his seat, hands coming to his face to rub away residual sleep and drool. Daryl stared unfocused on the seat in front of him, absentmindedly rubbing at his shoulder, trying to soothe the pain that had bled out into reality. Horrible words and grotesque images tumbled around in his brain, regressing the man into fearful rumination. The taste of blood spread over his tongue as teeth chewed anxiously into dry lips. His mental state was like that of a terrible hangover; paralysed by otherthinking and unable to stop the harrowing stream of consciousness that possessed him. Finally there was a break in the chain of dissociation, as a cold water bottle nudged the side of his leg. 

“Here, drink. We’re almost there.” The pubescent voice was music to Daryl’s ears, as he separated the nightmare from reality. Dissecting his subconscious was a painful task for later on when he was alone. For now, the calming voice of Carl Grimes was where it was supposed to be and that was enough for the hunter to breathe easier. Metaphorically, of course.

“How long was I… y’kndow?”

“Half an hour maybe. I was gonna wake you sooner but looked like you really needed it. Sounded like it too. You snore y’know?”

“Hmph.”

Crap. He had not intended to sleep for that long, or at all for that matter. Sleep wasn’t high on Daryl’s list of priorities normally. Always the last to fall and the first to rise. Waking up to Rick’s body warmth and steady breathing had definitely helped the man’s crusade against rest, but nothing could cure the hellish images Daryl had to endure whenever he switched off his mind to reality. Napping was a stone cold never. An embarrassed flush crept up through his already rosy cheeks. He felt pathetic and weak. Two feelings that had never been very welcome to Daryl. Another tap on his arm stopped the hunter from additional self loathing.

*You good?* Carl signed with his hands, a useful skill that Carol was slowly teaching them all to use in times of danger or, you know, concealing illness. 

*Yes*

*Feeling any better?*

*Yes*

*Really?*

*Yes.*

Okay, so Daryl only really knew how to sign one word, but it was all he needed at this moment. But for once in this bleary day, he wasn’t lying about his condition. He really did feel better. The jackhammer in his head had been dialled back to a low grade hum of pain. Fluid continued to occupy his lungs, but the need to expel it had lowered greatly. He was still disgustingly congested, but the continual tide of dripping snot had dried up somewhat, giving his ailing nostrils a break from the constant contact. Most relieving though was the simple sensation, or lack thereof, of needing to launch into a barrage of sneezes every five minutes. Daryl praised modern medicine and took a much needed sip of water.

“Alrigh’ we’re almost there. Looks like a thunderstorms a comin’ so we gotta make this quick and smooth. Y’all ready?” Rick’s commanding voice drew the eyes of all the passengers, he was taking the lead on this mission. Rick Grimes’ natural apt for leadership was a palpable force that Daryl was in awe of. The man had led them through victory after victory, unifying them all with wisdom and grace. Daryl would follow him anywhere. There was a bitter edge to The Deputy’s voice as he barely acknowledged the sick man behind him. The hunter had fucked up, and he knew he deserved every icy glare and remark that could be conjured and spoken. Still, penance hurts like a bitch.

The dark trees sallied past the window finally breaking when an expanse of iron wrought fence became visible. They were in the right place. The car veered to the opposite side of the road and was then parked in a dripping overhang of cyprus trees, well hidden away from threat.

They exited the vehicle one by one, knowing exactly what they had to do. Gathering around the trunk of the vehicle they all grabbed the necessary requirements for a successful raid. Empty duffle bags, silencers, water, trail mix, etcetera. Daryl went to grab his crossbow and found himself turning into Rick in the process. A satisfying physical connection, loaded with cascades of unsaid feelings. The pair were torso to torso, both wanting to lean in for more but resolving for far less. A bruised hand moved to grab Daryl’s in a show of affection, maybe to utter: hey, we’re okay. But it quickly pulled back into a fist of annoyance as RIck walked silently away, sending another aggrieved shiver down Daryl’s spine.

“Oi, Daryl.” The bearded man beckoned his poorly partner over to where he was stood, looking up at an old road sign, messily painted with words that read:

TERMINUS

SANCTUARY FOR ALL

COMMUNITY FOR ALL

THOSE WHO ARRIVE SURVIVE

“The hells that ‘bout?”

“I don’t know…” Daryl turned his head to look at Rick who was staring at the sign intently, rivers of unspoken words tumbling behind calculating blue eyes.

“Sounds too good t’be true”

“Yeah…but what if they got food? Better shelter? Doctors? What if…I can find a better place for us?”

“Ndah Rick, ya can’t thingk like that. The prison’s ours, it's safe, it’s hombe. Comb’on we gotta get mbovin’.” Daryl made to move, but his partner remained glued to the haphazard sign, a keen rumination bubbling through his subconscious. Words of comfort were not the hunter’s speciality, so in a bold action of normalcy, Daryl reached out and gently grabbed the back of Rick’s neck, softly running a thumb over some loose curls. A meek smile appeared in the corners of the Deputy’s mouth, as he came out of the momentary trance. Rick grabbed hold of the strong arm that supported his head and they both basked in the other’s glow of affection. Why couldn’t it always be this easy?

Three meaningful words danced adventurously on the tip of Daryl’s tongue. Three small words that might fix a mountain of mistakes. ‘I love you.” Daryl just say it!

“Hey, we gotta-” Was all that came out, riddled with hush and congestion. 

“-I know, I know.” Rick begrudgingly broke away from Daryl’s grasp and focused his attention to the group. “Alrigh’, the gate’s pretty locked up, so we jump the fence-”

“-Peri already picked the lock dad.”

“What? I didn’t tell ya t’do that!”

“Dude, chill, it’s fine.”

“I-”

“You were taking forever dad, what was so special about that sign?”

“I..er, s’nothin Carl-”

“Is it another group?

“Nah, it ain’t nothing.” The leader lied, trying to ignore Daryl having a coughing fit behind him and unite them as a group again. “Okay, com’on we gotta focus. Michonne said that house is pretty far into the woods, so we gotta be quiet and fast. I’ll take the lead, then Peri, then Carl and Daryl last. There’s gonna be a lot of walkers, so you see any you take them out silently. No guns. We move in silence, are we clear?” The last part of the speech was directed at Daryl who was trying to soothe a stubborn tickle in his nose. They all nodded in agreement.

“This is risky, but Daryl was right, we need a win today.” Rick picked up his empty duffle bag and moved first, a convoy following behind. Daryl brought up the rear, praying to some sort of deity that he could get through the next hour or so without dealing with any sort of involuntary bodily disgustingness. He detested the pity that had been forced on him all day and refused to let his illness humiliate him anymore, or worse, get anyone killed.