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king-candy-lovemail · 5 months ago

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stanley ipkiss x reader

requested: yes, by Phantom_Clown on wattpad <3

sorry for making the reader neurodivergent-coded i didnt mean to i swear...

When you had first started working at Edge City Savings, things had seemed bland- boring, even. You rarely conversed with your coworkers, strategically planning ways around having to interact with any of your peers.

What could you say, you were antisocial. Making halfhearted plans with 'friends' only to cancel last minute, finding half-assed excuses as to why you couldn't go to the fifth engagement party or baby shower in a row- these were your most refined skills.

These skills, of course, extended to your coworkers. Get-togethers, promotion parties, all the works. You found them to be simple and shallow pleasantries. Make faux promises but never RSVP, your life motto.

To be quite honest, you held a certain disdain for all of your coworkers. They were corrupt, face-value, backstabbing perverts. The one time you had dared to put your trust in a peer, some woman whose name you didn't care to retain, had embarrassed you in front of everybody ever incessantly begging you to come to a company party. She had told you it was a costume party, so of course, you dressed as immaturely and over-the-top as you wanted.

Let's just say that an extravagant cosplay of your childhood fictional crush didn't necessarily blend in with the slutty, chip-n-dale dancer nature of the party.

Though, despite your coworkers' various faults and shortcomings, you always had slightly less distaste in regards to one man in particular.

Stanley Ipkiss. With a last name you had mentally poked fun at for ages, you realized he wasn't necessarily as twisted and perverted as any of the other citizens of Edge City.

It all started when he had approached you that night at the costume party. He wore a half-hearted costume, just some callback to a cartoon character you were sure was relevant some forty years ago, as you stood there in your embarrassingly gaudy display.

"I like your costume," he chirped. You glowered in response, but upon laying eyes on his smile, you could immediately tell it was genuine.

"Oh. Thank you." Your tone was straight-to-the-point; there was no other way to be in your opinion. You always held that honesty was best, even if at the expense of others.

Stanley shifted uncomfortably, a drink in his right hand. You leered at it for a moment, not noticing the way the man's skin turned redder under your bored gaze.

"I suppose you're here with somebody," you deduced. Stanley straightened up, almost sploshing some of the liquid out of the cup.

"Well, yes, I mean... h-how could you tell?" He replied sheepishly, fidgetting with his shirt. You pointed to the cup he held, as though it was obvious.

"Clearly, you aren't drinking water. And I already checked all of the refreshments in this place- anything that isn't water reeks of alcohol. You can't drive yourself home after drinking that. Simply put, you would wreck and die." Your blunt delivery threw your coworker off.

"But, I mean... yes, you are right. I-I'm here with Maggie, heh... she's really swell, I mean... can you believe she said yes to coming here with me? I mean, only under the condition that she could bring a plus-one, of course! But he's pretty great too, heh!" Stanley's smile stretched across the majority of his face. You bit your tongue, wanting to point out how obviously the woman he had fallen head over heels for probably left him to go make out with her 'plus one' in the bathroom.

Instead, you opted for a much more subtle approach.

"You talk a lot." You hadn't predicted that the guy would practically deflate at your words, nearly dropping his cup from disappointment.

"Yeah, I guess I do... well, um, I don't want to bother you!" He began to scramble away as you tilted your head in confusion.

"Bother me? I never said anything of that nature." Both of you seemed confused now. Stanley stared at you, and you stared at something in the background. The noise of the party was beginning to get under your skin.

"Well, but, I mean... you implied it! You sound fed up with me, so..." he trailed off, most likely due to embarrassment. Your eyes widened slightly, and you grit your teeth.

"No! No, my apologies. I am not annoyed with you in the least. If anything, this conversation is all that's keeping me at this hellish party. I don't mean to come across as rude, my teachers always told me that I needed to work on it... I-I really just sound like that most of the time, I'm always told that I'm being mean, but I... I just say what comes to mind." You finally finished your ramble, and Stanley flashed you a goofy grin. You picked at your nails, staring down at the ground beneath you.

Stanley cleared his throat. "Well, good to know. Hey, you may be one of the most reasonable and intelligent people I've ever had the pleasure of working with. It was nice meeting you...?" You could tell from the look he had given you that he was asking for your name- you remembered what you had been taught growing up about tone of voice.

"(Y/N) (L/N). Th-that's my name, if you were asking for it. I know your name, though. You're Stanley Ipkiss. You're a clerk at Edge City Savings, though not many people choose to open up accounts with you. You only have one friend at work, but his name escapes me now. Mr. Dickey always picks on you and seems to hold some sort of grudge against you. You always have some kind of interesting tie to go with your suits, even if they're not very practical." Stanley seemed a bit taken aback by your overload of information, blinking rapidly to catch up with what you had just said. You bit the inside of your cheek, embarrassed by your sudden outburst. "Um, I'm sorry."

Stanley shook his head, chuckling a bit. "No, no, don't apologize! It's really amazing you remember all of that- in fact, it saves me from having to give any sort of introduction. I-I'll see you around, (Y/N)!"

As he walked away, you knew you had to leave the party as soon as humanly possible. From there, you spent the rest of your night in your apartment indulging in your most intense interests until you passed out fron exhaustion, totally wiped.

---

You weren't exactly sure why you had decided to show up at the Coco Bongo. Maybe it was your morbid curiosity of witnessing the lowest of the low just to make you feel better about yourself. You couldn't be sure.

Although, you knew deep down what your reason was. You had heard a few days prior that Stanley would be at the club. Your poor heart yearned for any reason to 'accidentally' bump into him, as your workplace crush only blossomed more and more. And so, you had made the executive decision between your heart and your brain to doll yourself up and try to 'accidentally' run into your crush at some lowlife club.

You had immediately regretted your decision. The music was loud, and the grimey guests were louder. Every woman who seemed to step foot on stage was immediately objectified, even if she had little to no talent.

You just felt awful. Every wolf whistle only helped the bile in your throat to rise another inch.

That was, until, you heard a literal wolf whistle.

You spun around in your seat to be greeted with some kind of... lime green abomination.

"The fuck?" You muttered to yourself.

Well, upon further inspection, only its head was lime green. It donned some sort of yellow suit and matching fedora. It was gawking at the woman onstage, though it took the act of gawking to the extreme.

"Um, excuse me," you began. The 'creature' turned its attention towards you. Once you were sure it could hear you, you continued. "Could you really not make such a fuss? I'm having a difficult time right now."

A flash of recognition seemed to pass over the thing's eyes. It opened its mouth to speak, before literally clamping its lips shut. By zipping them together.

Muffled words from the green guy fell upon your deaf ears as you closed your eyes in frustration and turned away, resting your head in between your hands.

"God, why do I resign myself to such unfavorable fates?" You questioned yourself, assured nobody would hear you.

Of course, though, you were wrong.

The masked being sprung to your side, snaking a hand around your shoulders.

"Look, (Y/N), it's really not so bad. You and I here, together, we could have the time of our lives! The other guy was a wimp, but I can show you what a real fun time could be together," it purred, winking in an exaggerated fashion. You narrowed your eyes, smacking the warm hand off of you.

"How do you even know my name?" You hissed. The thing seemed to freeze up (again, literally) at your question. At this point, you were confused as to how the entire clubs eyes weren't on the two of you. A lightbulb flashed above its head as it thawed itself out, drawing a rose from its back pocket.

"Ma cherie, your name is written in my heart." You were confused by the sudden French accent. At this point, you were too afraid to ask.

You stood up suddenly, swatting the rose away from you.

"Look, I came here in the hopes I'd find somebody, but clearly he isn't here. Now if you could please let me leave." Your bluntness didn't seem to offend the... man?... surprisingly enough. If anything, it seemed prepared for your sharp tongue.

"Who are you here for?" The genuineness of its tone struck you, and for some reason you felt compelled to spill your guts to this strange thing.

"Well, he's just my coworker, but I've been developing some kind of weird crush on him that I know can't be reciprocated, and I overheard he'd be coming here so I wanted to see if I could 'accidentally' bump into him and make conversation and maybehewouldseehowawesomeIamandaskmeoutonadate but anyways it really isn't that important, and it was a farfetched dream anyways, so um... I think I'll be going now, anyways, um, thanks!" After your confession, you tried to hightail it out of there. However, the thing stretched its arm out (cartoonishly so) and grabbed your wrist, pulling you back.

"What's his name." The demand immediately set you on edge, and you felt more vulnerable than before.

"Stanley... Ipkiss. Um, why?" You murmured. A smile crept onto the masked face, and you tried to ignore the familiarity of the grin.

"Oh, him and I go waaaaaayyyy back! Oh, I just gotta get you two together!" It announced. You shook your head, pulling your hands away.

"No, no! You can't tell him, ever! Now if you excuse me, I will be on my way now!"

You had convinced yourself the interaction meant nothing. You tried to ignore the nagging feeling in the pit of your stomach, and brushed off the meeting as something to never be repeated. Your brain tried to fight against any common sense that nothing about what happened that night was normal. And for a while, it worked.

That was, until, The Mask had made a name for itself in Edge City.

---

After it had been revealed to the city that Stanley Ipkiss was The Mask (and then was, for whatever reason, pinned on Dorian Tyrell, which wasn't something you were willing to buy into), you wanted to quit your job. The embarrassment was simply too much to bear. You saw Stanley every day at work now, and knew that you had basically confessed to him that night.

You did everything in your power to avoid him. You would rather talk to Mr. Dickey than him- you could take being berated, as long as it meant you didn't have to confront any feelings.

But of course, your life could never be easy.

"(Y/N)." You knew that voice- you had spent hours of the day memorizing it. Your head snapped up from your desk to meet Stanley's eyes.

"I'm not going to talk about it, so forget it. Go be with Tina, or whoever it is you like."

Stanley chuckled dryly at your response. "That's what I love about you: your bluntness. Among other things, of course. Your killer personality, your honesty, the way you tend to ramble... all very endearing things that help me fall for you."

Your face burned, and you refused to look anywhere besides your desk.

"Listen, this isn't very funny. Let's just both forget this happened, okay?" You spat. Stanley crouched down to your level, gently turning your head to meet your gaze.

"(Y/N)..." Stanley whispered, smiling softly. "I don't want to forget, okay? I feel the same way that you do... understand?" He nodded and ensured you were really taking in everything he'd said.

You couldn't help the slight soft smile that'd crept onto your face at his words.

Stanley's breath hitched slightly, breathing out a chuckle. "What a beautiful smile," he muttered. Your smile grew even wider, and you covered your mouth quickly with your hand.

Your face flushed even more as Stanley pressed a kiss to your cheek, clasping your hands in his own.

The same bright smile you had become infatuated with was now beaming back at you as he said,

"I love you."

#clarice fic #x reader #stanley ipkiss #the mask #stanley ipkiss x reader #the mask x reader #jim carrey x reader #jim carrey #90s movies #gender neutral reader #neurodivergent reader #ipkiss x reader #stanley x reader

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littlegodzilla · 2 years ago

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hii, could you write a fluffy smut where daryl is a virgin, very inexperienced and ashamed about it? so basically reader taking his virginity, but in kinda slow steps to make him comfortable and showing him everything. but daryl being untouched since forever so he is really horny hahah. you know just smut but in a fluffy way with i love yous and reader praising him.

Hi anon!!

Sorry for taking me so long! I was busy with other stuff and I needed more inspiration but now with some help and good ideas, I'm already here!

I hope you'll like it!!

Enjoy!!

***************

First Time.

Virgin!Daryl Dixon x Reader.

One shot. Anon Request.

Prison Era.

Warnings: fluff smut. Lost of virginity. Shy Daryl.

Words: 3000

*****************

"That's right babygirl, look at me, I'm going to make you a mess. You're going to moan and beg, and when you're desperate, I'm going to fuck your cunt so hard you'll be sore for a week."

Daryl has to admit he never thought you could like that kind of reading.

You join the group at the camp outside Atlanta, in fact you were already there when he arrived with Merle at the quarry. You arrived with Dale, your neighbor outside, where you had your farm with your fiancé, he didn't survive and you fled with the older man. The first day you met, Daryl discovered he had a little kink about glasses, he came up to you to bark at you to move aside, he had to prepare the meat he had hunted and when you lifted your head out of your book, he felt a violent tug inside his pants; the confusion on your face, your glasses halfway up the bridge of your nose, your cheeks slightly reddened made Daryl lose his own mind and run away from you as if you burnt.

Little by little he realized that you were a kind, funny, straightforward person, you didn't care what anyone thought of you and you were never shy about flirting with Daryl. He also didn't need to be very smart to realize that you liked him and you were trying to guess how far you could go before he got upset. Truth be told, Daryl wasn't upset, more like frustrated and embarrassed. He's never been with a woman, at least not like this, it's not because he's not interested, he's just never been attracted to the female friends Merle has introduced him to, but with you it's different, after what happened at the CDC, your friendship grew stronger, you kept fooling around with him, joking with each other, but Daryl always set boundaries, he never felt quite confident to take the jokes to something more serious and real.

After you found the prison and made it habitable, you found a small enclosure with a library for the prisoners, there were books of all kinds and you spent much of your free time there, sitting in your armchair, curled up, with your lamp to one side and your glasses brushing the edge of your nose. Sometimes Daryl would stop in town when he was looking for more supplies and bring you new books to read, which you always thanked him for.

But he found that one by accident one day when he came looking for you to go to lunch with the others. It was already late, Daryl hadn't seen you all day due to the different guard and patrol schedules you had, so he thought it was a good excuse to go looking for you to see you and find out how you had spent the day. When he entered the room, he didn't discover you in your armchair, as usual, but he heard you rummaging through the shelves. Curious he came over to see the book you were reading and those were the first words that caught his eyes.

"That's right babygirl, look at me, I'm going to make a mess of you. You're going to moan and beg, and when you're desperate, I'm going to fuck your cunt so hard you'll be sore for a week."

"And what did ya expect, lil'brother?" Merle's voice rattles his brain. "What would a virgin like ya be? Almost forty years old and ya haven't even touched a tit." He is reminded by his subconscious in his brother's voice.

Daryl isn't an idiot, he knows there are such books, just like porn magazines, there are also books with erotic and sexual themes, but he has to admit he didn't expect to find you in a place like that. Much less that you would read that kind of stuff.

It's pathetic that his own mind humiliates him like that, but he can't deny it, he's never touched a tit, never even seen one, at least not live, but he'll never deny that he wishes he could see and touch yours, feel your soft skin, their shape, feel how soft and moldable they can be under his fingers.

He grunts and shakes his head. Ever since he found out you liked those books, his mind hasn't stopped flying, wondering if you really like that sort of thing, the dirty talk, the nicknames, having your hair pulled and tied up... he swallows hard feeling his crotch arouse at the thought of it. He clenches his fists tightly and leaves the prison for a walk around the prison yard to clear his head and not go crazy.

**********

You haven't seen him for hours, after last watch it's like he's disappeared, you're not sure if something is wrong with him, maybe you said something that upset him, or he's just isolating himself because he needs it, if so, you'll turn around and leave him alone.

"Daryl, are you here?" you ask opening the library door.

You're actually surprised to find him there, lost among the bookshelves, with a book in his hand, flipping through it. It's not that you thought Daryl couldn't read, Dixon hid more secrets and qualities than many of you knew, he just never talked about it, the information he always revealed about himself was limited, and you always found it fascinating.

"Daryl?" you insist, in case he didn't hear you, he turns slowly and looks at you intently, chewing on his lip. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I was just havin' a look 'round..." He lifts the book in his hands and you open your eyes wide. "I didn't even know these places had books like that."

"Well... actually, several of those were brought to me by you." You smile and now he's the one who's surprised.

"I guess you took them all without looking at what exactly they were about...I just organized them and put them on the shelf." You smile as you see some relief on his face.

"Me? I didn't... When?" he stammers in confusion, feeling his face heat up.

"Do ya like...? Do ya like these books?" he asks you and you pick up the one in his hands.

He's cute, you know that's a complicated word to define Daryl Dixon, but in your eyes, he is. He's rough and coarse, always ready to bark to defend himself, he's never bitten, at least not the one he's loyal to, but he has that side, that nervousness, that awkward chewing of his lip when something gets out of his control, the eyes of a scared little animal, looking for a place to run away. You would love to be able to hug him and hold him in your arms until you tell him that everything was okay. And other times you'd love to kiss him and let your passion run wild, but there was something about him that always made you stop, despite the intensity of your gazes, despite the fact that you were sure you both felt something. Daryl was never too close, too long.

" 'Lost Morals' Not bad, more intense than I thought it would be when I picked it up." You laugh seeing him nodding his head. "They're just an escape, keep the mind distracted I guess... sometimes the guards get too long and boring..."

"Yes, they are, sorry."

"Don't be sorry, it's not your fault, it's the world we have now, nothing more." You smile at him again to calm him down and dare to stroke his arm. Daryl doesn't pull away, in fact he moves a little closer to you.

"Ya like those things? What it says there..."

"You mean the sex? Maybe sometimes it's a little over the top, but that's the great thing about literature, isn't it? Letting our imaginations run wild, to other worlds, other times, tasting kinks we didn't know we had..." You shrug, Daryl's gaze on you still intense, neither moving, nor opening his mouth, just listening to your opinion. "And you?"

"I've never read one..." He shrugs. "I didn't have time for that shit, actually..." He grunts a little, but you're not bothered by his coarse words, that's just the way he is. "We didn't have many books at my house either..." He whispers, now more embarrassed.

"Okay, if you want I can read you some." You propose.

"I can read, I'm ain’t that stupid." He grunts offended, now he does look annoyed.

"Sure, I don't... I'm sorry, I didn't mean..." You throat clears, lowering your gaze. "A-And the sex?" you dare to ask seeing him recoil again.

"Daryl..."

"There hasn't been much of that either..." He confesses.

Oh. Is he implying what…? No, he can't be. You don't think Daryl is like Merle by any stretch of the imagination, but you're sure that, at some point, at some time, Daryl has had a girlfriend, a Lover, at least something passing to have fun with. You open your mouth to say something, but close it again because you detect a glint in his eyes that shuts you up.

Oh.

"What?" his voice sounds hoarse and low, he's raised his defenses again, against you, you have to admit that hurts. "Gotta somethin' to say?"

"No, no... there's nothing wrong about that... not everyone..."

"Not everyone? Gonna make fun of me? It's fuckin' forty year old redneck virgin." He barks and now he's totally glued to you. "Come on, what yer waitin' for?"

"So what yer gonna do then?"

"I'm not going to make fun of you!" you reply wanting to calm him down. "Daryl you are important to me, I would never make fun of you, much less hurt you." You lick your lips feeling your heart racing.

You can smell him, he's so close that through your nose the scent of his skin, his sweat, the dirt on his clothes, the permeated air of the forest, tattooed on him, not to mention the smoke from his cigarettes, the leather of his vest.

"I-I... I could teach you..."

"Teach me?" His voice again sounds hesitant. Perhaps he hadn't expected that answer. "And what can ya teach me, huh? Yer just a bookworm."

He narrows his eyes from the watchtower, it isn’t just because the sun is cruelly hitting his pupils, it's because Axel is hovering around you like a vulture. That morning there are more corpses hovering around the metal fence of the prison, some of you have gone out to get their attention and kill them to get them out of there so that your protection doesn’t fall. You are one of the ones there. With an iron bar you are piercing the skulls of those things that fall like broken sacks to the ground. Axel, one of the prisoners that Rick let live, is by your side, helping you, when you have a group, he comes out of the fence and takes them away to burn them, with Oscar's help, that man is huge and can carry the bodies without problems.

"Maybe, but you'd be surprised what this bookworm can do." You stand up for yourself and push him away from you, maybe he's embarrassed, but you're not going to let him insult you any more than necessary, you've already apologized.

*************

"Like ya?" again Merle's voice in your head makes you grit your teeth. "'f course, yer a much better catch."

But for his taste, Axel is too close and with the crossbow sight he has seen you laughing with him and that gives him heartburn. You can't like that guy, you deserve something more, something better…

"I didn't say that..."

"Ya dun need to say it, lil'brother, I'm in yer head." He hears him chuckle and tries to push those thoughts out of her mind. "If ya wanna get him away from yer girl, put one of yer arrows through his head, from this distance ya dun even need to aim."

"Shut up, I'm ain't gonna do anythin'."

"I know, as usual." Again his sneer makes him growl, conscience is supposed to be a good thing, yet his is bitching the hell out of him. "I'm not yer concience, I'm yer fear, that one that lives in yer subconscious that won't let you near yer girl." Merle speaks again. "What are ya gonna do if one day she shows up naked in front of ya, would ya run away?"

"I said shut up!" He shouts to nothing.

"Daryl?" Rick peeks out the door of the tower, looking worriedly at his friend. "You okay, man?"

"I-I'm fine." He shakes his body, trying to appear normal.

"You sure? You've been a little... weird for a few days." He walks over to his friend who shoots an arrow, knocking one of the Walkers over the fence.

"I'm fine, Grimes." He mumbles.

Again his steps have led him to the library, again with that book in his hands. He puts the crossbow aside and sits down on the couch there. It is a sofa bed that you found in one of the offices of the prison police, probably used for the long nights of guard duty, to be able to rest if things were quiet. It took a while to get it there, but you had turned that place into your refuge, and although everyone passed by looking for something to entertain themselves with, they respected your privacy and had accepted that this was your room.

"Okay, sorry..." He gives him a sidelong glance and then looks over to the fence where you and Axel are standing. "They make a good couple, don't you think?" He tries to see Daryl's reaction.

As he expected, his friend grunts something under his breath, picks up his crossbow and storms out, slamming the door violently. Rick can't bite back the smile that comes out on his mouth. Daryl is hard to read, he has so many layers that getting to the deep end is tricky, but sometimes, just sometimes, you catch a glimpse of what's going on in his mind, like in that instant. It was funny to find out, at first you didn't think anything of it, but over time you discovered that Daryl didn't take his eyes off you, that he was always close and your friendship was gaining more and more trust, and now this. He's jealous of the recluse and Rick wonders where it will all go.

***************

"Daryl?" your voice sounds worried now and he flutters his eyes open.

Daryl opens the book, running his eyes over every line, every word. He frowns slightly, chewing his lip. The sentences, the narrative, begins to dance in his mind, becoming an almost real vision.

"Daryl." He hears your voice and lifts his head from the book.

His breath catches in his throat as he discovers you standing in front of him, your hair down, tousled, wearing only lacy black underwear and your glasses. Those damn glasses drive him crazy and he doesn't even know why. You walk slowly towards him, your whole body wiggling with every step and catching his breath as you stand right in front of him.

"Daryl..." You call out to him again, his gaze connecting with yours.

You slip one leg between his, rest your hands on his shoulders and sit on his thigh. His breath hitches as your lips almost brush his, he can't move, he's totally petrified.

His breathing is heavy, like he's been running a marathon, his brow is furrowed in a confused frown, and you're startled for a second. You've walked in there and he seemed so immersed in what he was reading, he hadn't even heard you call out to him, and now he looks frightened, like a little boy discovered playing a prank.

"You don't have to feel embarrassed..."

When you get a little closer you discover the book in his hands and if he was scared he now looks terrified, he wants to hide the book, keep it away from himself, you smile and pick it up turning the pages.

"I-I ain't feel embarrassed, I wasn't reading it, it was just there." He defends himself by getting up from the couch.

"I know you, Daryl, and I know it's complicated for you all this, I don't know what's going through your mind or why you feel so uncomfortable, but you don't have to be embarrassed when you're with me or feel threatened. I really like you, Daryl, and I know you know that. I-It's not just a physical thing, I've learned a lot of things about you, some of them just by looking at you. You're someone who deserves everything good that happens to you..."

"Yeah, well your body doesn't say the same..."

You both look down at his crotch, his hard cock, sticking to the fabric of his pants, making it clear that whatever it was he was thinking about, it has had an effect on him. You watch as he swallows several times, his breathing quickens, his eyes searching for a way out. You sigh, adjusting your glasses to the bridge of your nose, crossing your arms, challenging him with your gaze. Daryl is still breathing heavily, his hands twitching nervously, his lips turned into a thin line.

"Stop it... All the good things that happen to me? What good things have happened to me, huh? Tell me, how many good things have happened to me since y'think ya've known me?"

"Daryl, look at me..." You ask holding his chin, but you don't force him, you let him do it himself. "Please... You deserve so much..." You assure him. "You don't know how many people love you... how much they admire you; you're faithful and loyal.. you're a good man, Daryl..." you cradle his face in your hands, but he still won't look at you. "Let me prove it to you." You ask and brush your nose against his forehead.

"We have this place, you've opened up to us, you have friends, a family, a place where you belong..." You take a deep breath. "You have me... if you really dare to take that step..."

You move a little closer, you raise your hand pushing a few strands of hair away from his face, he's not able to look at you, but he leans his head towards your hand, enjoying your touch, your thumb brushes his cheek feeling his stubble tickle you.

"What if it's not what ya expect? What if a-ain't...?" he still won't look at you, but you allow yourself to kiss his forehead.

"Stop thinking, Daryl." You ask him.

"Wait..." He gasps holding your hands.

You finally get him to lift his head to look at you, your gazes connect, you smile wanting to relax him a little more, you move closer and kiss him very slowly, you hold his hands placing them on your waist, feeling him tremble against you. You kiss his lips several times, before he kisses you back, he opens his mouth and the kiss becomes a little awkward and wet, Daryl accidentally bites your tongue, but soon you take control and he is a quick learner. His hands clench tighter around your waist, his mouth devours you, his tongue tangles and plays with yours getting goosebumps on your skin. You break the kiss to look up at him, your thumb brushes his lips, you peel off several of the layers of t-shirts you're wearing, left with your tank top and bra. Again Daryl's breathing quickens, his hands want to touch you, in fact his fingers brush the edge of your t-shirt wanting to tug at it, to hide his hand under the fabric and feel the soft touch of your skin, but he holds back as you begin to unbutton his vest.

"I mean it, Daryl, you don't have to be ashamed of anything..."

"Ya dun know..."

"I-I wanna touch ya..." He whispers as if afraid to hear his own voice.

"I saw them..." You confess to him and he looks at you with wide eyes. "At the farm, when you were knocked unconscious... I helped Hershel heal you..." You look at him apologetically, but he just sighs letting go of your hands letting you continue.

You are in no hurry, you remove his vest and then his shirt, your eyes keep looking at him, he doesn't seem to know what to do or where to look, he is anxious, but at the same time he feels lost. A sigh escapes his mouth as you kiss his neck, your fingers brushing his chest, his belly, brushing his bulging pants that make his hips jiggle.

He growls low, swallows hard and grabs your shirt to pull it off over your head. His eyes roam slowly over you, tickling you as he brushes his fingers against your belly, but you hold back, let him take his time, let him study you meticulously, let him enjoy what's in front of him. You've been looking forward to sharing something so intimate with him for so long, now you're in no hurry.

"Do it, I'm all yours, Daryl."

"Somethin' wrong …?"

You close your eyes and smile when he dares to kiss your neck, imitating your steps, with his mouth half open he distributes soft and wet kisses on your skin, your neck, your cheek, your shoulder. His hands knead your skin with a certain desperation, he runs down your back, squeezes your ass, a small moan escapes you at the feel of it and he pulls away to look at you.

You kiss him and move at the same time to the sofa bed again, and sit him on the edge of the mattress.

"No, I like what you do to me." You smile wanting to get that fear out of his mind again.

He feels a little anxious, chewing on his lip again as you kneel in front of him to unbuckle his shoes and remove his pants. Your eyes don't leave him, studying his every gesture, in case he gets too uncomfortable and you need to stop, but he's watching you intently too, even raising his hips to make your job of removing his clothes easier.

"Wow, Daryl... Why did you have this hidden?" you try to joke and he snorts.

You can't help but be a little surprised by his size. Slightly curved, somewhat veiny, bigger than average, or at least that you've ever held in your hands, to be honest. You bite your lip with desire and look at him again, now your gaze is laden with lust and you can almost see his cheeks take on a reddish tinge.

"Wanna me to go with my dick free?"

"I'm sure you'd have made more than one girl's day." You laugh and he lets out a chuckle.

"Yer crazy, shut up..." He mumbles feeling like his face is going to explode from the heat.

"No..." He says to you and you look at him confused. "Don't take them off... I-I like it..." He falls silent not knowing how to say it.

You smile seeing him more relaxed, you spread his legs a little further apart and position yourself in the middle, your hand takes his size and you move it slowly, up and down, Daryl gasps and pushes his hips back up, but stops when he sees you are about to remove your glasses.

"Oh, do we have some kinks?" you joke again and your hand tightens a little on the head of his cock.

Again Daryl gasps, letting out a hoarse moan, his body jerks, uncomfortable at his own sounds, but you lean into him and your tongue licks his length.

"Stop, stop..." He wants to warn you, but doesn't have time, when he pulls your head away, which face is stained by several white spurts. "Oh shit, s-sorry!"

"Fuck..." He slips out between his teeth and his fingers grip the sheets tightly.

You glance sideways at him and your lips close over his tip, sucking slowly, never taking your eyes off him, Daryl closes his eyes tightly and his thighs tremble, your mouth, wet and warm, runs up and down his length, as far as you can encompass, starting a light pumping up and down. The pleasure is intense and unexpected, Daryl has masturbated on occasion, but with the end of the world, other priorities became more important and his own relief and pleasure took a back seat. Which causes him to now have little control, feeling his balls tighten.

You can't help but laugh at the sight of his concern, you gesture for him to calm down, grab a T-shirt from the floor and wipe your face with it. He continues to look at you shyly and embarrassed, you kiss his tip and slowly sit up until you can kiss him. This time the kiss is more intense, Daryl holds your cheeks to keep you glued to him.

"We can leave it here if you want." You offer, but he shakes his head.

"Wait, come here." You tell him by laying him down next to you.

"I wanna make ya feel good too..."

You nod, getting up to remove the rest of your clothes, but he stops you, his hands unbuttoning your pants as you remove your footwear to make his job easier. You lie down on the bed, Daryl pulls your jeans down to leave you in your underwear. He crawls onto the mattress on top of you. Again he leaves several kisses down your neck, his fingers pull down the straps of your bra, you arch your back so he can undo it and let the garment fall down the side of the bed. He breathes in deeply, his eyes recording in his mind every curve and line of your body. He kisses your collarbone, down the line of your cleavage, his hands cup your breasts, as he has done your ass before, massaging them eagerly, squeezing them between his fingers, the sensation a little uncomfortable and you have to stop him when his teeth bite down hard on you.

"Did I hurt ya?"

"No, but every woman likes different things." You try to calm him down.

"Y-Ya like it?"

You hold one of his hand to guide it to one of your breasts, with your fingers you show him how you like it and how you want him to try to do it, he quickly relieves your hand with his, pinches your nipple, massages the round shape of your breast, you gasp and sigh when he does it with both your breasts at the same time.

"Y-yes, it feels good, Daryl." You praise him and he grunts against your ear.

You smile removing your last undergarment, you hear Daryl snort loudly behind you, his hands release your breasts and he moves down your belly squeezing and caressing your skin to your thighs, spreading your legs apart to get a better look at you, you feel him caress your groin getting closer to your core, you hold his hand and indicate how he should touch you.

"Wanna touch ya more."

"Can I..." He starts to say releasing you for a moment. "P-put yerself against me, so I can touch ya better." He clears his throat and you look at him in surprise, but you do as he asks.

He leans against your headboard, you against his chest, you spread your legs and he circles your body, again his hand massages your tit as you instructed earlier and his other hand moves down to your core, stroking you very slowly. You sigh and close your eyes.

"I-I'm doing it right?" he asks you without stopping moving his fingers.

You moan louder lifting your hips, holding his hand by your wrist, you bite your lip feeling your legs tremble as he touches you in exactly the right place. Daryl doesn't look away, immersed in your movements, in your every reaction, wanting to know everything he's making you feel, making sure he's doing it right. You move his hand a little more and the pressure on your nub becomes more intense, your new moan longer and longer, as the pleasure shakes you.

"Yes, yes..." You gasp as he moves his fingers a little faster and squeezes your nipple harder.

His fingers begin to move slower until they stop when your legs close, he gently pulls his hand away, rests one on your thigh, the other on your belly, his lips kissing your cheek and neck still feeling you tremble against him and you breathe raggedly.

"Daryl! Daryl!" you cry out his name stirring in his arms closing your legs when the pleasure is too much.

"Are ya okay?" he asks against your ear and you nod your head.

"Do you want to fuck me, Dixon?" You ask wiggling your hips against his finger, and he nods his head. "Say it."

"Oh yeah I am, Daryl. You've made me feel really good." You assure him and turn your head to kiss again.

No doubt he's already become a good kisser, it doesn't surprise you either, he's always been quick to learn and to experiment on his own, it's natural for him. Without stopping kissing you, his hand from his thigh goes back down to your pussy and his fingers run along your folds, feeling how wet you are, carefully, groping, his finger presses at your entrance, inserting it slowly.

You stop your hips slowly, remaining seated on his lap, challenging him with your gaze, he is still breathing heavily, but his pupils are dilated in absolute desire. You smile and rise up releasing his cock, you hear him sigh before you lie down on the mattress and he gets on top of you, making room between your legs. You hold them open letting him take control, pressing down with his tip, entering little by little. You bite your lip at the feel of it, he glances sideways at you before moving out again and thrusting a little harder. You arch up and move a little with him, inviting him to go faster, he holds your knees and starts to move harder and faster, his eyes locked on how his cock moves in and out of you, panting, increasing the movement of his hips a little more, your moans increase your hands touching you, squeezing your nipples and searching for your clit touching it quickly looking for your own relief.

"Wanna fuck ya... wanna make ya feel good again..." He stammers still not confident enough. You smile and kiss him pulling his hands away from your body.

You settle back down, you get on top of him leaning on his chest, you move your hips against him, rubbing his cock against your clit hearing him gasp. You take his cock sitting up slowly, feeling it work its way inside you. Daryl holds your waist and digs his fingers into your skin feeling the pleasure growing in his body again. You rock your hips adjusting to his size, then moving a little faster on top of him using his chest for support. Daryl's hands run down your body, caressing your skin, wanting to help you with the movement, you hold his hands and guide them to your breasts for him to massage them as he knows you like. A louder moan comes from your mouth, you arch your back in pleasure. Daryl massages your breasts, squeezes your nipples, his eyes riveted on you watching your face morph into different grimaces of pleasure each time his cock hits inside you in just the right place. You open your eyes wide when suddenly he slaps your ass.

"I said I wanna fuck ya." He says now with more confidence in his voice and you feel your insides tingle.

"I-I'm gonna get something to clean ya up..." He whispers.

You know he is close again, his thrusts become more urgent and clumsy, he looks at you before pulling out and jerks his length in his hand, cumming, splashing and staining your lower belly and thighs, soon after your body jerks and you yourself reach your own climax. You both need to catch your breath, Daryl doesn't move until he is fully aware of what a mess you are and grunts low.

"Are you okay?" you ask without raising your voice too much, he shakes his shoulders mumbling. "What's wrong?"

"Okay..." You smile feeling adorable that his embarrassment has returned.

He gets up slowly, his gaze sweeps around the room before he enters the bathroom and pulls out a damp towel with which he wipes the remnants of himself on you and then wipes himself off as well. His eyes are glued to the mattress, avoiding any eye contact with you. You smile and hold his chin kissing his cheek, you rest your forehead on his shoulder and hug his waist.

"Y-ya didn't have to..." He starts to say again.

"Daryl, I've told you before, you're important to me." You sigh feeling hurt that he has so little confidence. "I love you..." You confess to him. "It's no a secret, I've always tried to get your attention, do you really think I would do this with anyone?" you don't want to sound offended, but you're surprised by the look he gives you.

"And Axel?"

"Axel? No, of course not. He's a nice guy, but he'll never touch me like that, I'll cut his hands off first." You assure him and see a small smile form on his mouth. "Were you jealous?" He remains silent and you can't help but laugh. "Daryl Dixon was jealous? Really?"

"Shut up, it ain't my fault, he's always right there with ya, what did ya wanna me to do, go up to him and tell him to stay away from my girl?" he defends himself and your smile grows wider.

"Your girl, huh?" You tease him and wrap your legs around his waist, still sitting next to him, sticking closer to him.

"Yer my girl..." He nods staring at you now and you feel goosebumps rise on your skin. "I-I love ya..."

You sigh and kiss him intensely, Daryl reciprocates without fear now, holding you by the nape of your neck, wrapping his arm around your body, sitting you on his lap, to lie on the mattress again.

The library is no longer your refuge. Now is yours.

The End.

Hope you liked it!

See you in the next stories!

#my stuff #norman reedus #normanreedus #mine #ask me #daryl dixon #smut #daryldixon #twd fanfiction #virginDarylDixon #anon requests #anon asks #smut request #daryl dixion x reader #daryl dixon x female reader #daryl dixon x you

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taliesin-the-bored · 2 months ago

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"What's the deal with Taliesin?"

A somewhat lengthy ramble about the most powerful (or most arrogant) character in Arthurian legend

One the one hand, his powers exceed Merlin’s—Merlin describes himself as “second only to Taliesin” (in “Ymddiddan Myrtin a Talyessin”), and Taliesin claims to have profound knowledge of the cosmos dating back to Creation (he says poetic inspiration was created at the same time as fresh milk, dew, and acorns). He knows everything and can shapeshift into pretty much anything, if the catalogues he gives are anything to go by. He survived being swallowed alive, being thrown in the sea ("Ystoria Taliesin"), and (it seems) going on a raid of the Otherworld during which all but seven of Arthur’s many warriors died ("Preiddeu Annwn"). Then or at some other point while he was in Annwn, he pierced 8,000 men with spears he got from Heaven ("Cad Goddeu"). That puts his casualty count above that of anyone else I can think of in Arthurian legend (They fall "by the hundred" to Bedwyr--"Pa Gur"--but by "forty score hundred" to Taliesin). For all we know, he's indestructible; from what he claims, he's omniscient.

On the other hand, he sometimes seems like Sir Kay Xtreme Bard Edition with Extra Arrogance. In The Book of Taliesin, he has a really bitter (one-sided?) feud with other scholars and monks (some variant on "pathetic men of letters” appears many a time), who he accuses of ignorance because they don’t know the answers to various questions he never gives the answers to himself, and he loses or alienates everyone until the only person who visits him is a dude named “Goronwy, from the dales of Edrywy” ("Cad Goddeu"). Not much is known about this Goronwy, though it’s been speculated that he’s the speaker in “Claf Abercuawg”, in which case he’s an ailing societal outcast and probably couldn’t get anyone to talk to him except Taliesin. There’s a strong pathos to this—time, and maybe hubris, came with a fall, leaving him somewhat like a washed-up starlet or a burned-out wunderkind, abandoned now that he’s no longer the shiny new thing.

On the third hand, which I don't have but Taliesin could probably manage if he felt like it, much of this is from his point of view, and we have no way to prove he's telling the truth. When he tells his own origin story, he claims that he was Frankensteined together by enchanters at the dawn of time. This flatly contradicts "Ystoria Taliesin", so either there are multiple canons for his life story, he's talking as the Awen rather than as himself (in which case he's still contradicting himself--he also says it's a creation of the Lord), or he's lying about some of it. Why he would want to is anyone's guess, since he is quite powerful regardless.

If we don't take Taliesin at his word about his ability to kaiju battle giant toad monsters ("Cad Goddeu"), or take it with a grain of salt, then what are his accomplishments apart from self-preservation and repaying a life debt to Elphin? I am by no means an expert on him, but in what I've read, he does almost nothing in anyone else's story. It's almost like, apart from one or two times, he isn't able to find a way to use his powers for anyone else's good.

Then again, what is his primary power? Shapeshifting seems obvious (too obvious). He uses it for self-preservation (which is valid), for the heck of it (maybe), and/or for really dubious ends (see "Angar Kyfundawt" if you really must know, but trust me, you don't want to). Fighting is a less talked about ability of his. He can cause a lot of destruction (according to himself). It's not really clear what he fights for, though the various legendary kings he hangs out with are probably implied. Then, there's...

...the Awen. Inspiration. Poetry. He can do poetry, and he can do it very well. That is what he boasts about the most, and his boasts seem pretty justified. He’s Taliesin Ben Beirdd, Taliesin “Chief of Bards”, not Taliesin “the Shapeshifter” or Taliesin “Best of Warriors”, even though he may be both of those things. Shapeshifting only benefits him, and he's seen the horrors of war more than most people: his close friend Merlin killed his own nephew in a battle. When Taliesin fights, he kills terrifying numbers of people, maybe without full control (whether he's fully cognizant while he's using his powers is an interesting question which I won't get into right now). Perhaps that's why he doesn't interfere with others' adventures much: he is too powerful to do less harm than good for the people around him and for the narrative tension. Or maybe he just doesn't feel like it, or he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, or they just don't want him there anymore, or his role as a teller of stories is more important than his role as a person in them.

#I should note that Taliesin is not exclusively Arthurian #but him being a better fighter than Lancelot and everyone and it almost never mattering is entertaining to me #I mention “Cad Goddeu” a lot in this #It's not that there aren't other poems with a lot of its features #but it's a particularly good one #and there are a number of details there that I haven't found anywhere else #I'm also midway through a TBoT reread at the moment #I don't post enough about Taliesin #and he's underrated #so l'll do what I can for my horrible bard #This might be my longest post thus far #taliesin #taliesin the bard #taliesin ben beirdd #the book of taliesin #hanes taliesin #arthurian legend #welsh mythology #medieval literature

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tieflingfingers · 2 months ago

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What and who: Astarion tries his first attempt at close quarters. Thomasin isn't happy about it. Summary: Thomasin awakes to find a silhouette hovering over her. Between blades, blood, and bickering, Astarion tries to find a way to feed himself without breaking the mild trust they have. Warning/Content: Re-write of first bite scene, character lore, and Astarion character study. Adjacent to horror/angst/humor/the seed planting of fluff. Vague mentions of abuse/trauma. Part of campaign remix, but can also be read as one-off. Word Count: 4,925 Ao3 Link

In the depths of the Dales, where agriculture and pillagers roamed free, lived a forbidden courtship. Proof of peace and harmony sprout from its bud. It was the birth of a child. One whose cheeks were pink and supple like her human mother. Like her mother before her and those before them. Skin stained shades of raspberry as though she, too, was grown from the same acre of land. Soil rich enough to build a lineage of women feminine yet sturdy.

Paternal instincts didn’t come naturally to the infant’s father, but not out of his own volition. He was a drow softer than the Underdark would foster. Intimacy was prohibited. The gentle touch of sun-warmed flesh even more so. Only a handful of meetings left a legacy he’d never know. A daughter bathing in light not afforded to him whilst he was swept back underground.

But, living on farmland proved rich with experience. The child braided ribbons into her hair to keep strands out of her eyes while tending crops. Hours under the sun left imprints on her skin that mirrored her mother. Skin decorated by a labor of love. Speckled and peachy against silver tints.

"There’s so much to see in every plane, Thomasin,” her mother interjected between lullabies.

Perhaps her parents were both stricken by their own nagging wanderlust. Thomasin heard countless stories of travels beyond her young comprehension. Stories of a drow that defied Lolth. Not by mighty bloodshed, but a gentle demeanor. The defiance of a man wanting nothing more than freedom. Details that were mulled over so often, he began to feel more like a fairytale. His character evolved with the human’s fallible memory.

Some evenings, the drow was heroic against his raiding caravan. Other times, he simply was a man whose fingers ached for acceptance. All of it, all of him, muddled together, fed Thomasin like breadcrumbs. They were memories she could cling to, even if he existed only through anecdotes and physical letters left behind. He was folklore.

Lifetimes away from her original roots, Thomasin became the conduit of their dreams. She’d witness the vastness of their plane. Places where adventures never ended. But, her mother never truly warned of life’s woes. How merciless it could be, even when fruitful.

Thomasin spent the evening concocting medicinal magic. They were common procedural spells that ward off inflammation and voided the need of stitches. As content as her new companions were, it wore the half-elf down, and so she retired to her tent earlier than the others.

It wasn’t long until she was tucked away underneath a makeshift blanket. Sleep hadn’t always come naturally, so she took advantage of exhaustion. Her dark hair sprawled around her head like a halo, strands entwined and unfurled from restless slumber. But, no matter how hard she tried, her mind remained partially tuned in to life outside her tent.

Thankfully, it was nothing more than banter around a campfire. They rejoiced in comradery fueled by dinner whose foundation was primarily red wine. It eased tension. Let their playful jabs and jokes wash off their backs. This possibility of protection comforted the half-elf a bit.

So, Thomasin remained in her nest. At forty-five years of age, she figured fatigue stemmed from her human half. The same that made her frame worn yet strong. Travel brought city inclines, grassy hills, and crouching through thistle in the name of foraging. But, no matter how much she pushed herself, she was constantly decorated.

Easy on the eyes. It was a habit, more than anything. A default state of being.

Curated fashions were collected over years. Gifted, stolen, sewn, swapped, and saved. Pigments made cheeks looked pinched and sparkles smeared over scars from unfortunate scraps. Her hips were wide when seasonal harvests were plentiful. Her posture bordered between straight and feminine. It was as though every aspect of her persona had been created from decades of standing in front of a mirror.

Starting this new journey, as involuntary as it may be, she was thankful for what piece of home she carried. The belongings of an abandoned home still packed in her bag after getting abducted by mind flayers. Scarves made of fine stolen silk, whose weave snagged. Books with split bindings lovingly re-bound by bundling pages until whole once more. Their contents ranged from fictional anthologies to sappy romance to guides of edible flora.

Residing next to potions, bottled perfumes soaked into cork tops. Her violin slept in the corner. Its body had been as plucked, popped, and rewound as hers. Simple blessings.

Eventually, noises dwindled. Those outside finally laid to sleep. The forest began to rustle louder, as though it had been waiting for their commotion to cease. To be able to exist in its most natural state. It harmonized. Branches creaked and native berries were plucked by gusts of wind. Whenever the unknown awoke Thomasin, she reminded herself of her mother’s saying.

“We are a guest to nature. The nocturnal world has always lived with us, just as the light does."

What she lacked to consider, was the nocturnal entering her den.

Cast shadows were almost tactile in their density, hovering atop her skin. An ever faint sensation. One that resurfaced her hypervigilance born from syndicates. And, for a split second, she caught a glimpse of the greyed silhouette above.

Dread set in.

Before her was a tale as old as time.

Domineering men proving she was just consumable company.

There was no hesitation in her reflexes. No need to identify who it was. No time. Words fled from her lips in rapid succession. The spell, readily accessible, flowed from an unnatural tongue. It was a series of broken common, deep, and high drow. Unintelligible horrific statements. The whispers trickled in a river of flowing smoke, its blue haze snaking its way into the figure’s skull.

As the weave infiltrated their thoughts, it illuminated streams that spilled down the planes of their face. Down their cheeks like painful tears and pouring from an agape mouth as though squeezing the last remnants of a well’s ground reserves.

In a full blown panic, the figure gasped. Thomasin wouldn’t prolong the forced terror, but she knew even a single second of torment felt like hours. The pressure entangled within her foe’s temples and dragged its ephemeral claws around an already battered brain.

Out into the moonlight, Astarion stumbled from the mouth of her tent. He had flung himself backward, landing square on his palms. He stared back at Thomasin, but it was apparent he was still recovering from the sudden retaliation. He appeared disillusioned. Frightened in a way that made her uncomfortable.

Thomasin scuttled to the entrance with ragged breath. A small dagger embedded so deep within her fist, her knuckles grew white and sharp. Although her blade had become a beacon of last resort rather than an eager desire. Chips and wear along its metal mumbled its victims, but that couldn’t defy the obvious shaking of her hands and the memories of every time she’d fallen victim, herself.

In the darkness, the light from her cryptic illusions mellowed until both elves peered at one another in shades of livid grey. Before her, Astarion was shivering in place. Jaw slackened and back hunched. He knew he had to simply endure. Magical cruelty was unyielding, but the clutches of the Weave always dissolved before he did.

Thomasin recognized her chance to approach. Survey the feigning of undeath she figured he existed within. His humanity, stunted. Stagnant. She peeked her head out further like a writhing animal curious about a writhing beast. As though her quills plunging him into fright was an act of wry mercy.

Astarion’s knuckles appeared speckled in shades of bruised plum. Its fruit’s tender exterior tumbled, prodded, and thudded against the dirt before truly ripening. His heavy breath revealed the sheer discomfort his posture took to maintain. It was as though his frame ached under the weight of its growing hunger. They were wordless pleas of pangs. Pains of a pallid complexion.

Eventually, Astarion melted into his body once more. Pupils no longer dilated and dissociative. No longer forlorn. As his fingers eased from their strained grip into the grass, his gaze flicked back up to hers. It reeked of exhausted predation.

“Gods—shit,” he muttered. “It’s not–”

Thomasin’s intuition begged for civility. Her history beckoned her to protect herself through any means necessary. It boiled to a froth from her gut. Words clamored to be free, vitriolic in her throat. Syllables bashed against her teeth. But, she ground them down until the unbridled anger condensed into something meek. Uncharacteristically so.

“Astarion- Please. You promised,” Thomasin whispered.

His eyes trailed down to the dagger she still held tight.

“You don’t have to use that. Blades among friends is never the answer, honestly” His voice cracked. “An old-hat solution. Passé, even.”

“I-” She looked around the camp with bleary eyes. It was still. Oblivious in each tent’s drunken slumber. “Is this from all that dessert wine you found? Fucking hells- you have ten seconds to plead before I wake the others.”

“Ten seconds?” The elf swallowed his distress, struggling to smooth its ridges with his usual temperament. “Going back on a promise? I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I’m not some kind of- oh, I don’t know.” His hand twisted about in the air in search of answers. “A ne’er-do-well? I thought we were better acquainted than that.”

His lilt was slithering back into his grasp. He even let out a light titter.

“Thomasin. Darling. You’re beautiful, but I am no ill-intentioned monster.

Astarion shifted to tend to the impact upon his wrists, wringing his hands around sore joints. Thomasin watched him repress every line of dialogue that would fail to placate her. But, there was overcompensation in his eyes. After their tumultuous days, little strength was left to press down the fatigue he forcibly polished like an ever rotating stone wheel. He was stuck with the excess. Nothing but powdered iron and rust.

The elf’s ears drooped at the unnerving silence between them. He caught her hesitance. But, even her reluctance to strike couldn’t mask the sheer adrenaline coursing through her. And before he knew it, Astarion found himself pulled by his linen shirt collar.

His back slammed against crackling wicker. It was the mat flooring of her tent. Wavering between fragility and disorientation, he found himself straddled and pinned by the half-elf’s knees. One restrained his forearm whilst the other dug into his open palm. His fingers curled under the crushing weight.

“Absolute bitch- I need that!” Astarion hushed himself, but not before hissing through his teeth. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

Next was the fine point of a dagger nestled between his jawline and jugular. Any quick movements would prove deadly to Astarion, if he wasn’t careful, but the act of unrelenting threat grew muddled. It wasn’t her voice that faltered. Nor her commitment. It was the droplets that hit the elf’s face under her. Gravity pulling what laid along her lashline with little consent.

“What were you thinking? Sneaking up on me? Inside my tent? I wanted to consider you more than some… tawdry dandy�� The lack of tact. I’m not afraid to end you where you lay, you know. Those weren’t falsehoods I spoke of.”

“Wait- There are few things I have a difficult time wording,” Astarion uttered. “Nothing awful, terrible, of course. I wouldn’t dare ruin the company we keep. Sometimes actions are more via–”

The microscopic tilt of Thomasin’s hand shoved the blade deeper against his neck, cutting shallow within the flesh. She was terrified, but couldn’t allow herself to voice it. Every word of his tasted like milk and honey. If only there weren’t gall in his heart and fraud in his deeds.

Astarion gasped and pulled his shoulders upward as though he could make distance between them. “Ah! Easy there. No need to spur a horse going full speed. Listen-”

A huff jut from his nostrils. His eyes closed to shield himself from the consequences. Each sentence raced behind the next, detailing the confession that finally caught up with him. The reason for his comeuppance.

“You remember that ghastly sight we saw on our walk earlier? That hog . You remember the one, yes? The one with those curious little wounds on his neck.” A weak laugh fluttered out, making the wound sting more. “Exsanguinated. Perhaps… the stories of creatures going bump in the night aren’t entirely as they seem. That-Perhaps… Perhaps! Just maybe, vampire spawn live amongst you just as your peers.”

Astarion opened his eyes to witness her reaction, although it was not as extravagant as he expected. It was quiet contemplation wracked with desires. For mercy. Possible bloodshed to solve it all.

After years of prowling, he was left to his own devices. No masters or gods to tell the elf what to do or how to act. No higher powers to blame. No scripts for the circumstance. No one to pick up the pieces.

“I could have guessed as much,” she finally spoke up. “You lack subtlety, I fear.”

“Look. I won’t be saccharine about all of this. I am not in this state of being out of choice . I-There are powerful people in Baldur’s Gate, you know this. Cazador resides in the high mansions of the city, maintaining his control through slavery. I was only lucky to be plucked from his clutches.”

The muscles in his face struggled to maintain a calm. His dignity, visibly pained.

She paused, recognizing the name from word of mouth. The rare occasions she associated with the upper echelon, where her escorting brought forth gifts of fresh seafood, fresher furs, and the freshest hearsay. She was suddenly grateful she’d never accepted invitations to the grand castle in the sky.

“Do you survive off animals?” she asked.

“Typically, yes. I’ve existed under strict rules for as long as I’ve been riddled with this disease.”

He averted his eyes and recalled the list of his master:

“‘First, thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures.

Second, thou shalt obey me in all things.

Third, thou shalt not leave my side unless directed.

Four, thou shalt know that thou art mine.’”

Astarion’s glanced and lit up at the sight of her expression softening.

“Though… quenching my thirst has proven difficult out here, “ he continued. “Every day I grow weaker. It gets more and more difficult to fight beside you all and hide such ailments. Aha… Color me… desperate.” The admission was bitter to taste.

Thomasin unsheathed the blade’s tip and pressed her thumb against Astarion’s wound. The gentle touch did not heal, but rather pondered over the damage. It was a souvenir of who she once was.

Astarion didn’t let his guard down further. He couldn’t. She had no reason to spare him the quickened death of a dagger through his chest. The obvious answer was self-preservation. Yet, she was suddenly tender, despite her weight heavy atop him. He let out a weak laugh. The reality was, he was still alive.

“Vampirism seems to have an odd relationship to the city streets,” Thomasin said. “I came across your kind every so often, but rarely did we speak. I imagine murdering the harlots would put a damper on your ability to blend into flophouses…” She grabbed his jaw, turning his face to assess the gnarled scar on his neck. The trauma of a blistering bite. Under it was an elf he once was. “I suppose part of me wanted to encourage whatever humanity is left inside you.”

“I… Well…” he mumbled, uncertain the comments called for offense or flattery.

“...Did you want to feed off me?”

He inhaled sharp, nodding his head in her clutches. “Yes! Yes, I would, very much so. Not a drop more than you are willing, of course .”

“Will… I turn?”

“No, I am merely a spawn. Transforming you into some thrall isn’t in my… vampiric wheelhouse.”

Thomsin felt coziness in the unconventional path. Dangers were plentiful and often more perilous than the man sitting before her. What was more indulgent than snake oil? The grey morals that provide true, unfiltered respite. The enticement of taboo relief. A thought that would later morph into regret if she didn’t take the chance. She yearned to finally relax. To finally feel something. Or nothing. Anything.

Although she’d never admit it to herself.

After short deliberation, the half-elf freed Astarion and positioned herself beside him. A shaking hand tucked her weapon back into its sheath. Her knees pulled into her chest. And, as she was about to consent, a noise escaped her throat. A whimper. Biology voicing its disapproval.

“Ah-What should I do?” she whispered.

“Just… let me take the lead. You sit pretty.”

Astarion sat up and gathered what energy he had left. He groaned and articulated his fingers, instructing his limbs to cooperate once more. Gradually, he oriented himself behind her with a slow stalking grace and encouraged her shoulders to rest against his chest.

It was as though a spark livened him. Not a sensation of excitement from pocketing coins or fulfilling lewd fantasies. This felt different. The vampire never had the luxury of an artery so willing and gifted. Wrapped in a bow, so to speak. Yet, he had an epiphany.

Every fiber of his being had subconsciously prepared itself for another death. His master professed this fate. He could already hear the joyous cackling Cazador would make upon finding his withering starved body in the forest. It was everything he promised upon escape.

Even if he wished to disobey, Astarion had never fed upon a victim nor been taught to. Rodents' bodies were compact, whereas living speaking anatomy had nuance. In fact, he’d only witnessed feasts from a distance with palpable envy. One could recall wounds, but where would be best to bite? How could he ensure she was preserved, leeching life without the inevitable corpse on his hands?

Astarion proceeded to mimic those dining in the halls of his home. The decorum was different, but that wouldn’t matter. The elf proceeded to wrap an arm around her waist for support and gently brushed aside long strands of hair. They ran down her clavicle like a cascading curtain, revealing her neck.

"How much will it hurt?" she asked.

Seconds went by. No answer. He was enamored by the mere concept of a meal. Stone still, ferality awoke within his brain, although he eventually snapped back into reality. He felt like a starving animal careening toward rats for sustenance. He was.

"It's only a pinch. A nick. Just…” His words trailed off, voice low and heavy. “Just relax yourself against me. I'll keep you steady.”

"What if you go on a count? I breathe in and out a few times?”

“Sure- Yes. Let us count.”

There was impatience in his tone being strangled. The elf was fueled by tunnel vision. Unshackled hedonism. Still, he played along.

“One.”

“Two.”

And not a syllable more.

Thomasin’s flesh being punctured felt like the hissing of an unkempt fire. Dried kindling snapping and sparking against moisture in the air. She yelped. The wound in her neck pulsated in a way she'd never experienced, uncomfortable and siphoned. Excitement of the unknown had all but culminated into panic.

But, if there was one about the half-elf, it was that she was stubborn. Her nails dug into his shirt, pawing at the linens for his cold embrace. They searched for any semblance of safety. Through creases and cuffed folds, they landed at his wrist and etched a codex into his skin.

Astarion's body began to writhe against her in pure intoxication. With his hand guiding her head, he rose to a kneeling position, fulling taking control of the dance macabre. The footwork proved messy, but style was far from his mind. Never had the finer tastes in life been so abundant. Every sense was sharpening. Every emotion, ecstatic.

The elf’s eyes had nearly glazed over until a pain brought him back. It was Thomasin’s nails. He realized her composure was crumbling.

"Keep counting, love,” he managed through a tongue coated in the blackened blood pooling at his lips.

Diving back into her neck once more, Thomasin finally let go. The pain that once seized her neutralized. What now resided was a bloodless calm. Their hearts raced at uneven beats, momentarily syncing until they passed one another. Hers slowing whilst his engorged with borrowed life. He ventured into an aggravated fervor at the expense of a bard’s descent into the dirt. The oozing ebb and flow of building delirium. An amalgamation of every misstep and the bottles of whiskey that couldn’t quite wrap them in creature comforts.

She did as she was told and crept into a languid submission, head rolling any way his body contorted hers.

Back to counting.

Two. Three. Four.

The numbers coinciding felt more like concepts than measurements.

Five. Six. Seven.

Internal dialogues began to devolve. Abstraction. It washed over her. Abrupt and startling like tumbling into a cold lake. Although its cool waters rejuvenated where her soil never knew rain. Repose began to blossom.

Eight. Nine. Ten.

Thomasin clutched onto him as a safety net. She ran her fingers along his shirt. They trailed over every stitch, discovering mending he’d sewn by hand. Bumps and valleys.

By now, the sounds of his neglected appetite were fading into the ether. Numbers had lost meaning and she had to find new ways to remain grounded. First, it was the threads. Then, the slowing repetition of her heartbeat. They were the last ways of documenting how unsubstantial seconds passed by.

Time was trivial in the face of the physical.

Sensations lured her forward with warm euphoric dreams and brighter visions of the past. For a moment, she couldn’t identify the emotion heavy in her chest. Whether they were death’s temptation. But it wasn’t long before she realized they weren’t all acidic.

They were shades of colored wax she used to liven monochromatic children’s books. They were the light noise of tin cans tickling your ears as they clinked down cobblestone walkways. The mythical society of dust particles floating indefinitely against a window’s evening light. The stray fuzzy knits of her favorite sweater and the lingering scent of perfume from hugging close friends.

They were the protective glow from oil street lamps guiding her way home. The giggling and tingles of bubbles popping from steins of beer. Fogged mirrors from steaming rooms with a hot bath and the way sounds muffled when sunken into a wooden tub. Stories told under the covers, fairytales to romantic confessions, until everyone fell asleep to dwindling candlelight.

These all lived in a hypothetical mist that rolled in. More of a fog, like those she experienced during her childhood winters in the Dales. How she’d begun the exchange with Astarion was unimportant. Details melted into something viscous. Consumed how the two had even met.

Her fingers were still moving as far as she could understand. The atmosphere felt heavy against their journey, but they operated as their own entities. Their coordination, unsteady, persisted out of habit. The stripped down basics.

Repetitive motion. Color. Air. Pressure. Darkness. Enveloping darkness.

“Stop,” she mumbled. “Please.” Words seemed warped from her lips, unsure she had even spoken them aloud. They felt incorporeal.

Hunched over her, Astarion was coursing with vitality he’d didn’t know how to tolerate. His fangs were hooked and mania was the only voice in his head. It wasn’t until he noticed her shallow gasps of air in his arms. How her muscles no longer fought against him. The desire to simply finish her screamed at him, but he found the strength to pull himself off.

The elf’s grin framed his pointed teeth in their glory. He chuckled in his daze, unsure if her pathetic grasp for life were to be laughed at or pitied. She was food. An object. For once, he didn’t share that feeling.

Astarion scoot back to let her head rest in his lap so he could revel in his dinner. Although, his fantasies couldn’t help be bombarded with the reality of her death on his hands. It all conflicted. Anxieties had been buffered by his bloodied delectation.

He slapped her cheek twice, printing her blood against her flesh in a hasty spattering.

"C'mon. You haven’t lost that much.”

To no avail, the elf snapped his fingers over her shut eyes. He jostled her side to side. Pressed his hand against her neck, hoping to calm the flow unleashed. Soon, he noticed thin ribbons of red staining both of their clothes and caught himself staring at the blood wet between his fingers.

“Wake. Up. Don’t make me start asking gods for favors.”

Despite a faint pulsing thump against his hand, her responses were absent. Even looking at her made him uneasy. He wondered if holding his gaze for too long would unlock parallels between him and this random young woman. A thought that would anger him if not for being appeased by his leeching.

Suddenly, he considered her backpack and yanked it to his side, digging around for anything of use. He needed to stop the escalation. A potion. A salve. A deity with a worrying sense of humor.

Within, a diamond shaped bottle glittered. One he recognized. It was commonly consumed among mortals for hangovers, bar fights, or the lucky escape from an owlbear. The concoction healed minor injuries and illnesses in a foul swoop. Thomasin’s sickness was more dire than half a bottle, but it was still a victory to toast to.

Astarion tucked a pillow between his thigh and her head to create elevation. And, with a gentle tug by the pad of his thumb, he lowered her bottom lip. Its glittering elixir slowly but surely ran down her throat.

“Aha, wonderful. There you go. Watch your pretty little head.”

It took a minute or so, but Thomasin’s eyes finally flickered open. She had been unceremoniously thrown back into the realm of the living, where she lay in a veil of crimson strewn across her face. The land smelled of iron much richer than she remembered. But, her comprehension of her surroundings faltered.

“Do you know how irritating these stains are going to be to get out?” Astarion said, taunting her, egging her on to get a reaction.

Thomasin’s body suddenly flinched. A ragged titter. The half-elf was at least somewhat responsive.

“Wasn’t it wonderful though?,” she whispered, nearly inaudible.

Astarion’s ears perked up. Crisis had been averted. He was prompt to pull a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the remaining evidence of bloodletting. With fresh water from her canteen, he soaked the fabric swatch and grazed it over her shoulders, chest, and neck. It wiped away what streamed down her arms. What dripped down her back. A courtesy of aftercare, wringing the tainted water into a bowl between each cleaning.

Once she acknowledged she, too, was alive, she resigned herself to slumber. His touch was oddly gentle. Comforting. The mindless task allowed him to think clearly for the first in centuries. Although he was unsure what to do with said thoughts. Knowing what he was feeling had become impossible over the years. Trusting them, even more so.

The longer he studied her face, the more he considered it helped repress the urge to kill. It forced him to humanize his prey. A concept he wasn’t privy to. A new novelty.

The elf ran his hand along her cheeks and admired her freckles through backhanded compliments not spoken aloud. He traced along the thick scar across her nose, pressing into the curl of her lashes to reveal her blinded eye, and conjured stories of how it came to be. Then, his trail took him up. The space where her fringe often fell and covered her forehead.

Right atop her brow, a tattoo had been intentionally hidden. The pattern consisted of four shapes laid in a row, overlapping one another in mashed thieves cant. Its black ink had faded. Damage that could only come from years of sun and forcible scrubbing.

“Everyone in Baldur’s Gate is owned by someone,” he mumbled, twisting his head every which way to decipher the tattoo’s meaning.

Eventually, he grew bored of solving her mysteries and situated himself in the corner of her tent. From the sullied water bowl, he wiped his own face with a dampened cloth, sneaking self-indulgent licks of what was left on his forearms. Only then did he notice he was shaking.

But the only person that could judge him was comatose. Her chest gently rose and fell with each rickety breath, but she would awake in the morning. For now, he'd keep an eye on her. What if she choked in her sleep? Stopped breathing altogether? He would be blamed.

It wasn’t difficult to busy himself in the confines of her tent. He was used to much more unwelcoming atmospheres where dangers lurked. Threats much more vile than him.

As he rid of incriminating stains, the water bowl grew dark and rich. What the elf had cobbled together was a fine wine of his own. Stealing an empty glass bottle, he began to store the liquid away for a rainy day. A treat for later.

Even engulfed in his usual unease, he couldn’t help but laugh. Maybe it was amusement. Maybe fatigue like before. Disbelief, even.

One thing was certain.

By the gods, he was rightfully fed.

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dr-spencer-reids-queen · 4 months ago

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Retaliation: Part Two

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.2k

Summary: Everyone can see just how much you're suffering, Spencer more than most. When he confesses to the team about your nightmares, Derek takes matters into his own hands.

Warnings: canon violence, canon language, canon talk of death, methods of kill

Season Five Masterlist

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Criminal Minds. All credit goes to their respective owners. If there are any warnings that exceed the normal death/kills from the show, I will list them.

News of another murder comes in at the house that belonged to Dan Otey so your entire team heads over there immediately. The only people left behind by the crime are Dan's wife and son who are upstairs. Dan is dead on the ground downstairs, and Schrader and his partner are long gone.

You turn to the front door and see Dale and his partner come in. You can't get much out of the partner but you know it's a man with brown hair. Dan and his wife are trying to protect his crying son but they ordered her and the son upstairs. The partner goes up there to make sure they are taken care of while Dale shoots Dan downstairs. God, will you ever be able to escape this feeling? Will you ever not take other people's pain and think it's your own?

"His wife and son were home," JJ whispers. "The partner took them upstairs while Schrader destroyed the place. Emily is with the wife right now."

You walk upstairs and stay outside the bedroom door where Dan's wife is. You don't make yourself known but you're close enough to hear their conversation.

"Dan had turned everything around. He was clean. Life was finally good, but I was always afraid to believe it, you know? Because then he could be taken away."

"I'm so sorry for your loss. Did you get a good look at the man Dale was with?"

"Uh, white, mid-forties, short hair? I don't know," she sighs.

"Have you ever seen him before?"

"Dale, yes. The other guy, no."

"We're trying to figure out how Schrader knows his partner."

"I have no idea."

"How did they talk to each other?"

"They didn't. Dale trashed the place and the other guy took us upstairs. He kept pushing me and Jason. I didn't know what was gonna happen," she sniffles.

"Did he hurt you?"

"He just scared us. He locked us in the back room and told us to shut up. Jason wouldn't stop crying."

You stare at the wall in front of you and let the tears fall down your cheeks. God, you hate crying. You wish you never had this gift. It's two AM by the time you get back to the station. Derek is in one of the empty office rooms talking on the phone so you gather with the rest of the team to talk about the case.

"Schrader gets off on power. Power, money, and revenge are what motivate him. He spent eleven years in prison and comes out as a murderer who needs a partner, somebody as bold as him. Where did they meet?"

"Schrader was away and patient. The minute he got out, he hooked up with his partner before killing Stacy on his way to kidnap his daughter. What's missing from his day?"

"The money," you say quietly. "He took his daughter but left the money. It doesn't make sense. Did he have another plan on how to support himself in Canada?"

"He's only known a life of crime. He's incapable of change. Time away proved that," Spencer says.

"Otey's wide said the partner locked them away like he didn't want them to get hurt. He was protective."

"They're both dominant personalities, but they sound like they played good cop/bad cop. It's been four hours since the accident. Do you still think I'm in shock?"

"Let's find out. Y/N, would you do the honors of giving a cognitive interview?"

"Sure," you mutter and get up.

You bring Emily to an empty office to give yourself some peace and privacy.

"Are you doing okay?"

"Fine. Let's just focus on you."

"Y/N..."

"Emily, drop it. I am not talking about this with you. Okay?" She nods and you grab her hands so you can focus on her energy and her experience. You'd rather be alone right now but you're the only one who can see clearly what happened. "Start from the beginning. Just talk about it and I'll pull what I need."

She begins the story of what happened and you use her energy and words to paint yourself a pretty picture. You close your eyes and picture yourself in the backseat of the car, next to Schrader.

Emily was in the passenger seat and Bunting was driving the car. The road was dark and lonely but that didn't stop Schrader from yapping his mouth the whole time. One small four-door black car passes by and he's looking out the window as if he is looking or waiting for someone.

Another car passes by them but this time, it's a big truck. It looks like a worker's truck with yellow lights attached to the top, only they were off. As soon as the truck passes by, Schrader takes off his seatbelt. He bends over as if he is sick and lifts himself out of the seat to pull his arms under himself so he can get his cuffed hands to the front and not the back.

Emily thinks he's actually sick but she can't see what you can see. When Schrader gets his hands in the front, he puts his seatbelt back on. Suddenly, the worker's truck from before comes crashing into the side of the car where Bunting is.

The car flips multiple times down the ditch where Derek found the car. Emily is pretty out of it but Schrader leans over and wraps his cuffed hands around Bunting's neck and starts to strangle him. Once Bunting is dead, he climbs over the seat and fishes for the keys in Emily's pockets, but she is too dazed and hurt to do anything about it.

Someone comes from the truck and Emily believes it's someone coming to help. However, he opens Schrader's door and helps him out, saving him. His partner. No matter how hard you try, you can't put a face to the partner. All you know is that he's a white man wearing jeans and boots.

They struggle for a bit and you know it's because Schrader wants to kill Emily. She knows there is a partner. She's seen both of their faces, but the partner won't allow it. He drags Schrader away before anything else can happen. That's when she gets out and crawls to the street where Derek intercepts her.

You let go of Emily's hands and take a step back from her to collect yourself. She looks tired from having to relive that but she'll be fine. You leave the room and address the team, telling them everything you saw.

"The partner took Otey's family upstairs and protected them from Schrader, just like he did with Emily," you finish.

"Do we really think a good guy hooked up with a criminal like Dale Schrader?"

"Y/N, can I talk to you for a second?"

You look back and see Derek in the empty office where he was making his phone call. You leave the group and join him inside, and he closes the door behind you.

"Am I in trouble?"

"No. I'm not going to beat around the bush here. I know you're not okay even though you say you are."

"Derek, can we do this some other time? Or never, I prefer."

"Y/N." It's the way he says your name so softly that makes you shut up and willing to hear him out. "I've noticed you're spaced out a lot, distracted, and anxious. I know what happened at the house of our last case. I see it here. You're terrified. You're living in fear."

You can't say anything because you know it's true.

"What's your point, Derek?"

"Look, prison changes people whether you're in there for years or two and a half months." Again, you can't say anything about that. "You don't have to talk to me about this but you will talk to someone."

"What do you mean?"

Derek hands you a paper with people's names and phone numbers on it.

"Those are therapists the FBI are willing to send you to to help you out. You can choose who you go to."

"I'm fine--"

"No, you're not. You'll have weekly sessions until the therapist deems you okay."

"Derek!" He only shrugs in response. "You're really forcing me to go to therapy?"

"No, I'm not forcing you to do anything, but you'll go if you want to keep your job."

He leaves the office and you look at the paper in your hands. You scoff angrily and watch him talk to the team as if he didn't just order you to go back to a different kind of prison. This time, it's an emotional one.

By the time six AM rolls around, you're not any closer to figuring out who the partner is or where Schrader might be. You're on your fifth cup of coffee while everyone else is having their second. You might be killing yourself with the caffeine but you need it if you're going to stay awake.

"So, how did Schrader get this guy to sign on?" Derek asks.

"Good people do bad things. I'm just saying, it happens."

"Maybe, but this partner wouldn't let me die. He protected Otey's family. On the same day, he helped a convicted felon escape custody. His loyalties are all over the place," Emily sighs.

"The guy sounds desperate. Maybe he needs some money. I mean, Schrader's got a lot of it still out there. He could have promised him a cut."

"I don't know," Emily disagrees. "He's an accomplice to three murders and a kidnapping. Is there enough money out there for you to sign on to something like that? I think it's something bigger than the money. Maybe Schrader's threatening him. Whatever it is, it'd have to be big."

What's the point of discussing with the team anymore? What's the point of anything? You're too tired to think so you're too tired to actively engage with anyone on the team. You'll do what you can to help but you'll need to be told what to do instead of taking initiative which you used to have.

"We caught Schrader because he kidnapped his daughter. He was emotional and his guard was down. Clearly, family means more to him than we thought. Schrader's ex-wife forced him to give up custody of Jenny. Maybe he wants this guy to know what it feels like to lose his family, too."

"It sounds like revenge to me."

"Maybe it is."

"Do we have anything on Schrader's case? Any potential victims?" JJ asks when she walks into the station after getting some sleep.

"The usual--judges and lawyers."

"They're all accounted for this morning," Derek says.

"If it's revenge, then it's gotta be someone who put him away. If it's not the officers who put him away or the judge who sentenced him, then who is it?"

Hotch gets Penelope on the phone.

"Garcia, I need the names of every law enforcement agent Involved in the Schrader case."

"You know everybody."

"Yeah, but I want every single employee the year that he was arrested."

"Give me a minute."

"A whole minute? Come on, baby girl, are you losing your touch?" Derek grins.

"Oh, watch your pretty mouth. Personnel records come at you now."

Maybe Schrader is using someone on the police force as his partner, someone he is threatening.

"Who is still active?"

"Most."

"Would he risk using an active officer?"

"Depends on how much he hates them. Has anyone retired?"

"Two of them. Mat Massey and Jeff Messick. Both are married with kids, white, and in their fifties," Spencer reads from the file Pen sent over.

Why are you even here? There is nothing stopping you from getting up, walking out of this building, and never returning. Wait, there is one. Spencer. He's been so kind and good to you. You could never leave him no matter what you're going through.

"Can I see those pictures?" Emily asks. She shakes her head when she doesn't recognize either of them. "They aren't the partner. Why wouldn't he go after one of the officers who arrested him? It makes the most sense for revenge."

"Wait a minute, guys, listen to this," Derek says. "There was a witness who never testified on Schrader's behalf. He might have seen that as a betrayal. When he gets out of prison, he can use him to get what he wants. Garcia, I want you to run a history on a witness from the Schrader case, Joey Short."

"Alright, Joey was born in 1966 in New York City. He didn't hold a lot of jobs except for in construction. He was in and out of rehab."

"Where is he now?"

"His last known address was ten years ago."

"Did he do time?"

"No."

"Come on, Garcia. People don't just disappear. This guy's got a history with a lot of holes in it. He went to rehab. You know, maybe this guy had to walk the walk."

"He was undercover," Hotch says.

"That makes sense. Those guys are up for anything, and they take big risks professionally and personally. It explains his behavior, too. Good guy doing bad things."

"Garcia, what's his real name?"

"It's not here," she says after a few seconds.

"If Schrader can find it, so can we. The guy needed to be Schrader's friend so they're probably around the same age. Look for academy graduates in the early nineties. Did any of them not go into police work?"

"Baby, I don't follow you," Penelope frowns.

"If he went undercover, then anything tied to the academy would have to be severed. I mean, the guy graduated but had to immediately start working his history as Joey Short. He went into construction, made his contacts in the bank robbery world, and then he met Schrader. He earned Schrader's trust, turned him in, and got out of the game."

Penelope works quickly through the list of men that fit the description Derek gave.

"Okay, here are a couple of guys that look like they dropped out."

"Are there pictures?" Emily asks.

"Sending them to you now."

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #criminal minds #criminal mindsfic #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds angst #criminal minds series rewrite #criminal minds season 5

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curiositasmundi · 6 months ago

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Nel metaverso succede che la nostra presidente del Consiglio, quella che non muove un dito per fermare la carneficina a Gaza, vada ad accogliere Chico Forti in aeroporto, dopo aver organizzato il suo rientro in Italia con un jet dell’aeronautica militare. E lo accolga con tutti gli onori: sorrisi, tweet ufficiali e l’immancabile foto di rito mentre chiacchiera amabilmente con lui, prima di affidarlo al sottostante Tg1 per un bello spottone elettorale. Chico Forti ha scontato 24 anni di carcere in Florida e il fatto che il governo abbia ottenuto il suo rientro è un fatto positivo, nessuno sperava che morisse in una cella in America, lontano dalla famiglia. Ciò non toglie però che Chico Forti, oltre a essere un italiano tornato in Italia grazie a questo prodigioso governo, è un assassino. Uno spietato criminale che nel 1998 ha sparato in testa con una calibro 22 a un uomo, Dale Pike, per un affare immobiliare saltato all’ultimo momento. Ha lasciato la vittima nuda, in un boschetto, per simulare un omicidio a sfondo sessuale. Ha cercato di sfangarsela mentendo alla polizia e pure a sua moglie dicendo che non aveva mai incontrato quell’uomo per poi – di fronte a prove schiaccianti – ritrattare. Aveva un movente, non aveva un alibi, possedeva la pistola calibro 22 e sia i tabulati telefonici sia la sabbia trovata nella sua auto (che lavò accuratamente dopo l’omicidio) lo collocarono sul luogo del delitto. È stato condannato all’ergastolo, si è sempre detto vittima di un complotto della polizia, ma ha sempre negato l’autorizzazione a pubblicare il verbale del processo. Da anni in Italia c’è una credibile corrente innocentista i cui elementi di spicco sono Jo Squillo, Andrea Bocelli, Le Iene e lo Zoo di 105 che ha convinto parte dell’opinione pubblica (totalmente disinformata sul caso) che Chico Forti sia un povero innocente fregato dalla polizia americana. E quindi, la nostra presidente del Consiglio, ieri ha pensato bene di fare campagna elettorale accogliendo un assassino come fosse il papa. Poi è scappata via. Aveva fretta. Probabilmente doveva andare a trovare altri due italiani di cui andare fiera: Rosa e Olindo in carcere.

Selvaggia Lucarelli sul Fatto Quotidiano

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pianotunerwolverhampton · 1 year ago

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Tuning a vintage 'Dale Forty & Co' Upright Piano Upright Piano dating from the early 1900s.

Dale Forty & Co Cheltenham, Birmingham, Cardiff

Piano tuning and servicing Eastfield, Wolverhampton

https://www.matthewjamesrichards.co.uk

#eastfield #wolverhampton #daleforty #pianotuning #pianotuner

#dale forty #Eastfield #Wolverhampton #piano #piano tuner #piano tuning #piano music #pianist #upright piano #piano tuners #wolverhampton #music #piano tuner wolverhampton

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newsatsix1986 · 3 months ago

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A sombre shot of Sam Reid and John Leary as Dale Jennings and Murray Gallagher from No More Lies, as well as some others ❤️

Next Thursday, it will have been three years since No More Lies first went to air on the ABC. It’s a funny feeling, seeing all these Season One episodes reach their third year anniversaries, as I have such strong vivid memories of watching this show as it first aired, whilst we were in lockdown. It truly doesn’t feel like that long ago, but according to time and mathematics, it is.

No More Lies really did strike a nerve. It’s brilliantly brave and searing storytelling around the plight of HIV and AIDS affected people and how the media represented - or rather, misrepresented - their stories and circumstances. This is why I love The Newsreader so dearly. It hasn’t portrayed the 1980s through rose-coloured glasses, and has sought to elevate the stories and perspectives that were either misrepresented or not represented at all during the time. It also demonstrates how easy it is to fall for misinformation, and I genuinely believe that this episode is a great lesson in media literacy. The whole show itself, but in particular this episode, should be used in schools and universities.

A part of my paternal family history is my Dad’s younger brother, who was a young gay man who contracted HIV during the 1990s. This was the decade in which medical treatment and antiretroviral therapies became available to significantly prolong the progression of the virus to AIDS in HIV-affected patients. He was thankfully able to benefit from these therapies and medications, which bought him two decades of life, longer than our Russ and Caroline would have lived for.

We sadly lost my paternal uncle Christmas 2012, when he was only forty years old. Through watching this episode with my Dad, it gave me the courage and the instigator for a discussion about my uncle’s condition, how people responded to it, and how it impacted his life. I’ll forever be grateful to No More Lies, and especially to Michael Lucas and Kim Ho, for giving me the opportunity to have this discussion with my Dad, which I had been hesitant to have for at that point nine years. Never underestimate the power of good media and the conversations and connections it can bring about. 💖🌟

#dale jennings #sam reid #murray gallagher #john leary #helen norville #anna torv #noelene kim #michelle lim davidson #adam lindell #tim draxl #russ the newsreader #geoff walters #robert taylor #rob rickards #stephen peacocke #caroline gibson #alexandra schepisi #the newsreader #nas1986 s1 story a day

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topazy · 1 year ago

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Tomorrow's promise

Pairing: Shane Walsh × reader, Rick Grimes × sister reader

Warnings: Swearing

Chapter: 2.07

You struggle to swallow down the food in your mouth as Glenn steps in front of the rest of your group while they eat breakfast. Both you and Maggie had begged him not to tell anyone else about the walkers in the barn, but he had made his mind up.

“Carl notices that you've stopped chewing. Are you okay, Aunt y/n?”

“Hmm,” you finally manage to swallow. You tip your plate and push the rest of your eggs onto his. “I’m fine, just full up.”

Carl smiles at the extra food. Rick raises his brows. He was always able to tell when something was wrong but knew not to ask in front of other people. His attention moved to Glenn, who was nervously rubbing at his face. “Um, guys.” One by one, everyone looked up at him, expecting you. You stared down at the ground while waiting for the bomb to drop. “So... the barn is full of walkers.”

The group is silent until Shane insists on seeing it for himself. Glenn leads the way, and the whole time you remain quiet.

Once you reach the barn, Shane looks through a small hole in the wooden panels. Furious, he storms back. “You can’t seriously be okay with this, Rick.”

“No, I’m not, but we’re guests here. This isn’t our land.”

“Oh, god. This is our life, man!”

“Lower your voice,” Glenn says.

The group starts to argue among themselves, trying to figure out what to do, but you remain quiet. Only focusing on Jace, who seems to be oblivious to raised voices around him. You only start listening again when Carol says, “My daughters are still out there.”

“Okay,” Shane breathes heavily into his hands, something he always did when trying to compose himself. “Okay, I think it’s time that we all start to just consider the other possibility.”

“Shane, we’re not leaving Sophia behind,” Rick says sternly.

Daryl steps forward. “I’m close to finding this girl. I just found her damn doll days ago.”

Shane lets out a sarcastic laugh. “You found her doll, Daryl. That’s what you did. You found a doll. Man, look, I’m just saying what needs to be said here. Now, you get a good lead; it’s in the first forty-eight hours.”

“Shane, that’s enough; Carol doesn’t need to hear this,” you say quietly. Seeing how wound up Shane was getting, you tried to take his hand to pull him back, but he stepped closer to Daryl.

“Let me tell you something else, man. If she was alive out there and saw you coming all methed out with your buck knife and geek ears around your neck, she would run in the other direction, man.”

Rick steps in between them first, then Andrea and Lori follow, trying to separate the two men from fighting. Not wanting to risk Jace getting hurt, you step back, watching as they swing for each other. “Beating the shit out of each other isn’t going to help!”

Rick manages to push Shane. “Now, just let me talk to Hershel. Let me figure it out.”

“What are you going to figure out?”

Seeing Shane storming towards your brother while screaming, you stand in front of Rick and push your hand on Shane's chest. “Enough!”

Shane glares at you but steps back.

“If we’re going to stay, if we’re going to clear this barn, I have to talk him into it. This is his land,” Rick says.

“Hershel sees those things in there as people,” Dale chimes in. “Sick people. His wife is his stepson. I talked to him yesterday after Glenn told us.”

“And you waited the night?” Shane asks, his anger practically radiating from him.

“I thought we could survive one more night. We did. I was waiting until this morning to say something, but Glenn wanted to be the one.”

“This man is crazy, Rick, if Hershel thinks—you told us. Who else knew?”

Dale doesn’t answer him.

“Who else knew, man?”

You gulp down, “I did.”

The group falls silent again. Your brother looks at you with disappointment in his eyes, while Shane gives you a look of disgust.

—

“Y/n! Y/n! Stop walking away from me!”

You continue to walk towards the stables to feed the horses, ignoring Shane as he runs after you. You only stop walking when you reach the bucket of food for the horses and pick it up. You felt bad for not telling Rick, but you didn’t feel any remorse for not telling Shane.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Huh?”

You finally turn to face him, “because you’re an asshole.”

Shane looks taken aback, as if he’s silently asking, What did I do? You start to walk away again, but Shane grabs your wrist, causing you to drop the bucket in your hand. His actions surprise and frighten you since Jace is in the sling wrapped around your chest. “Stop walking away from me and talk.”

The glare in his eyes is deadly. You snap your wrist out of his hold and step back. “What happened to you, Shane? You’re so angry all the time. You’re like a different person.”

“I’m a different person.” He scoffs. “There was a point where you told me everything; you actually treated me like a partner you trusted.”

“I don’t trust you, not anymore.”

“And why the hell not? I’ve done every goddamn thing I can to protect my family! Everything I do is to protect my family.”

You let out a snort while shaking your head, which irritates him further.

“What? You don’t think so?”

“Lori’s pregnant,” Warm tears fall down your cheeks, and even though you feel as if you’re breaking on the inside, you continue to laugh. “Which means my brother will find out everything, and it’s going to break his heart.”

Shane’s voice is a little softer than before. “You never told me there are walkers in the barn because you’re still punishing me for something I did when I thought you were dead.”

“No, I didn’t tell you because you scare me.”

“I scare you.”

“Did you point your gun at Rick?”

The softening in his eyes disappears and is quickly replaced by rage. Shane places both hands on your upper arms and holds you tightly—too tightly. “Just wait—” The second you let out a whimper of pain, he let go, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Everything okay?” Carol asks, stepping out of the stable.

You smile at her and say, “Yeah, we’re fine.”

If Carol can tell you’re lying, she doesn’t let on. Her eyes were swollen from crying. She walks over to you and brushes Jace’s hair back with her finger. “And how’s this little man been today?”

You were thankful for her interruption. You glance up at Shane and see tears shining in his eyes. He mumbles something, then walks away in the opposite direction.

—

You chew on your bottom lip, noticing Shane storming in your direction, although he seems far too distracted to actually notice you. You had volunteered to do multiple jobs that day just to keep busy and stay out of his way. Right now, you and Carl were boiling water to purify it before refilling the canteens. You watch as Carl lowers the comic in his hands and pouts, looking up.

“Hey, Shane.” He gets to his feet and asks, “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

Shane glances at you before walking over to Carl. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I know you think Sophia’s dead and that we should stop looking for her. But that’s bullshit. You’re bullshit.”

You let out a deep exhale and said, “Don’t cuss at your uncle.”

“We’re going to stay here until we find her.” Maybe it was the fact Carl was wearing Rick’s sheriff's hat or the tone of his voice, but it was the first time you saw him as a teenager and not a little kid.

“Do you think that’s what we should do?”

“It’s what I know we should do.”

Shane shrugs. “Then we stay. That means we have to do whatever it takes to make that happen. Hmmm?”

“Like help out with chores?”

You notice Lori looking over, trying to listen in. She was cutting vegetables while sitting in the sunlight, but the conversation taking place was worrying her. “Carl! Come here for a minute.”

“Go see what your mom wants.” You take Jace out of the sling and hand him to your nephew. “Can you take Jace with you? My back is killing me.”

He takes his baby cousin into his arms without argument and walks towards his mom. When he’s out of earshot, you look to Shane, who has now crouched down so he is level with you. You twirl a piece of grass between your fingers. “What you said to Daryl this morning was cruel. He’s risked his life just the same as the rest of you searching for that little girl.”

“I know.” He rubs at his face. “You were right before; I am so angry all the time. I’m just so mad at the way things are recklessly being handled.”

“Don’t do that; don’t try and find an excuse for your behavior.”

“I’m not, but having those walkers here on this land is risking all our lives. If they burst out of that barn during the night or when hardly anyone is around, then whoever is there is dead.”

“I know, I agree the walkers should be dealt with, but this isn’t our home. If the Greene’s think this is the way we can’t stop them,”

“Then what should we do?”

“Move on; I mean, this place is great, but it isn’t safe.”

Shane leans forward and brushes your hair behind your ear before cupping your face. “Then why are we arguing when we agree on this?”

“Because we still aren’t being honest with each other. I’m only going to ask you this once: Did you kill Otis?”

His silence gives you the answer you feared most. “Why?”

“We were pinned down; my ankle was busy, and he was slowing me down. The dead would have gotten him anyway; he couldn’t keep up. So I shot him. I didn’t want Otis to suffer being torn apart, so I shot him in the chest. At that moment, all I could think about was getting back to you and Jace and saving Carl. Now you may think I’m a monster, but you’ve never had to make that call.”

It was hard to tell if he was telling the full story or not, but you made yourself up except for that explanation. “What about Rick? Did you point your gun at him?”

“Absolutely not. I don’t always agree with Rick, but I love him like a brother. He is part of our family; I’d take a bullet for him.”

“Good,” you swallow thickly. “I need to tell you something else, but you can’t get all hotheaded about it.”

He lets out a chuckle. “What?”

“Hershel is going to check Jace’s hearing later today.”

“No, absolutely not. That man is crazy.”

“He saved Carl’s life.”

Shane looks at you as if you have grown a second head. “He keeps walkers in a barn! He’s not even a real doctor.”

“I don’t care what you think about him. Hershel is going to help me find out if Jace has hearing issues or not.”

He nods his head and says, “Okay, I can respect that. Um, I’m going to see where the others have gotten to.”

As he walks away, you can’t help but feel unnerved by how calm Shane seems.

—

Daryl comes out of the bathroom across the hallway the same time you step out of the bedroom. “Hey, did he get much sleep?”

“A couple of hours,” you say. “How are you holding up? Is your head feeling any better?”

“Yeah, I can hardly feel the graze now.” Daryl steps to the side to let you down the staircase first. “I’m sorry about yelling in front of Jace; I shouldn’t have done that.”

The corners of your mouth turned up. “Shane was being a real ass. I’m sorry about what he said.”

“You’ve got nothing to apologize for,” he shrugs.

You step outside to see Maggie, Glenn, Carol, T-dog, and Andrea standing by the porch. “What's—Shane, why do you have so many guns?”

On instinct, you move your hand to shield Jace as Shane starts handing guns out to the rest of the group. He ignores Maggie when she tells him her dad will make everyone leave when he finds out, but he still continues to hand the guns out and rant about how this is the way things need to be now. Knowing there was no talking to him, you stay out of it until he tries to hand a gun to Carl, even when Lori tells him no.

You snatch it from him. “Lori has just told you he’s not to take one. This isn’t your call to make.”

The now familiar glare returns to his eyes, but before either of them can say anything else, T-dog points to the tree line and says, “Oh shit. What is that?”

Rick, Hershel, and Jimmy emerge from the tree line, pulling poles with walkers attached to the opposite ends of them.

Shane starts running towards the barn, ranting and raving. You freeze on the spot until you notice you’re the only person left standing and start running behind them. This was insane; you had no idea why Rick was risking his life like this. You reach the barn just as Shane pulls out his gun.

“Hey, Hershel, man, let me ask you something. Could a living, breathing person walk away from this?” He fires three rounds of bullets at a walker, causing everyone to jump back. “That’s three rounds in the chest. Could someone who’s alive just take that? Why is it still coming?” He fires two more shots. “That’s its heart; it's its lungs.”

“Stop it! You’ve proved your point!” You beg.

Shane fires one more bullet, aiming for the walker's head. Hershel falls to his knees; it was clear he hadn’t fully come to terms with not being able to save all these people, and you couldn’t blame him after seeing the devastation on his face.

“Enough risking our lives for a little girl who is gone! Enough living next to a barn full of things that are trying to kill! Enough. Rick, it ain’t like it was before!” Shane hisses the last words at your brother while edging closer to the barn. “Now, if y’all want to live, if you want to survive, you've got to fight for it! I’m talking about fighting right here right now.”

The moment Shane begins to pry open the barn doors with all his strength, you quickly run to Lori, who is standing in front of Carl protectively, and give her Jace. For a split second, you shared a look of understanding; you both knew what was about to happen.

You run to stand beside Shane and fire at the walkers that come out of the barn with the rest of your group. None of you wanted to do this, but you were left with no choice. When the walkers are all dead and the gunfire has stopped, the only loud sound is Jace’s wailing. Shane goes to take a step in Lori’s direction, but you block his path. “Don’t even—” Your gun slides from your fingers and hits the ground as you see the last walker come out from the barn. Sophia says, “Oh my god.”

“Sophia! Sophia…” Carol runs towards her daughter, sobbing, but Daryl holds her back, and she crumbles to the ground. “Oh, no. Sophia, Sophia.”

Your eyes well with tears hearing her heartbroken sobs. She was just a little girl. Hearing your brother's gun click, you close your eyes.

She was just a little girl.

#the walking dead #shane walsh x reader #shane walsh x you #shane walsh fanfiction #tomorrow’s promise #shane walsh #shane walsh/reader #shane walsh fanfic #the walking dead fandom #the walking dead fanfic #the walking dead x reader #the walking dead x you #the walking dead fanfiction #rick grimes x sister reader #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixion fanfiction

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inbabylontheywept · 1 year ago

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Dale of the Dales: Part 1

The Dales were home to the hillfolk, a happy people, but also the only group shorter than the gnomes. Commander Alfonse Sprocket had been prepared to discuss the surrender of Honnillee with someone quite a bit… shorter.

“Welcome, welcome, how do you do? I’m Dale Chesher, named after these self-same lands, yessiree. Something to drink?”

The situation was so surreal that he didn’t fight against the warm mug of tan liquid forced into his hand. He took a sip and winced: The tea was far too sweet, syrupy even.

Alfonse hadn’t actually met a human before this moment. Apparently, they didn’t take to the altitude of Gnicaea very well. Most of the trade the two cultures experienced came second hand from the dwarves, who were friendly enough, but prone to exaggeration. When he’d heard the dwarves talking about the scale of a human, he’d written it off as a cultural tendency to lionize their friends.

Apparently, he had failed to give his fellow mountain-folk appropriate credit. The man in front of him was easily twice his height, and thrice his breadth.

“You’re the mayor of this town?”

Dale shrugged.

“We got maybe a hundred folk down here in Honnillee, we ain’t nearly so formal as that. If someone needs to be in charge for a spell, we let em’, but it ain’t a lifelong deal. Titles go to yer head like cheese goes to yer thighs, that’s a Chesherism, free-a-charge.”

He swept a hand towards the dining room, cutting off the Commander from further interrogations.

“If you got any more questions, it’d be easier to ask them sittin’ down. If the Gods wanted me to spend my life standin’, they wouldn’t have given me such a soft ass, that’s a second Chesherism for ya. Our folk don’t dine much together, more’s the pity, so we’ve got two options so far as the table’s concerned: We got a booster chair you could use to sit at my very own personal dining set, carried all the way from the Malantai, or I could sit criss-cross-applesauce here at a table that the Midford’s lend me for the evenin’, bless their teenie-tiny hearts hearts. You’re the guest; choice is yours. ”

The avalanche of words was hard to keep up with. Worse, the man didn’t even seem to be doing it on purpose: His face was placid, almost serene, and his every movement had a sort of lazy-summer-sluggishness to it.

He could do this all night. Alfonse, on the other hand, could feel his strength draining with every moment he wore his ceremonial armor. He was supposed to come here armed to the teeth, plated in silver, an angel of war in a land of peace. He was supposed to be terrifying.

Craning his head almost forty-five degrees up just to make eye contact did not make him feel very terrifying.

Less than thrilled by the prospect of craning his neck the whole night, he weighed his options: He could accept the use of the booster seat, which would put him at eye level, although he wasn’t sure how he would manage to get up there. Perhaps a ladder would be produced? Or, if none were sturdy enough to handle him in full armor, perhaps a ramp?

Alternatively, he could use the standard size table, which would leave him with an aching neck to match everything else.

Easy choice.

“I would like to use your dining set, Master Chesher. The craftsmanship is remarka-”

He was cut off mid-sentence as Dale casually scooped him up, crossing the entire room in three easy strides before dropping him casually into the chair. The indignity of it was almost as infuriating as the casual display of strength was intimidating.

Almost.

Fear held his temper in, but it did little to curb other emotions. His mouth was desperate to say something about what had just happened, and the odd lingering smells in the upholstery of the seat gave it an outlet.

“I...Why does my chair reek of boiled peas?”

Dale shrugged, slightly embarrassed.

“Ah, well, normally this here seat is used by babs still sprouting their fangs. Boiled peas and carrots are delicacies for em’, but you know how it is when you’re feeding a ween, they wind up wearing as much as they eat! And they eat a good deal sir, a very good deal, humans don’t get this big by being dainty-like. Been a long time since I’ve had any runnin’ around the house though. Miss my little scamps.”

Ah. So this was a child’s chair. He hadn’t counted on that. He deflated in his chair before forcing himself up right again, consoling himself.

Ah hell, it wasn’t like the shock and awe had been working well anyway.

“I see. Well, Master Chesher, are you ready to discuss the details of your hamlet’s surrender?”

Dale winced.

“My boy, I done told you: I ain’t a mayor and Honnillee ain’t mine. It ain’t anyone’s. Only people with any claim to the ground near here at them that’s buried underneath it, there’s a third Chesherism for ya.”

“I am not a ‘boy’, and we’ve heard this claim from the hill-folk before. All that you’ve said is both well known, and highly contrary to how Gnicaea sees things. This document isn’t going to write itself Master Chesher, so if you would quit stalling and-”

Dale exploded up, his chair miraculously keeping its balance even as it slid across the room and slammed into the wall.

“It’s called hospitality, Alfonse, and you may not get our ways but under this roof you sure as sin are gonna respect em’! Now this is how our evenin’ is gonna go: We’re gonna eat our vittles like civilized-folk cuz I’m an old godsdamned widower and I baked you a shepard’s pie with the late wife’s recipe, first time I done touched an oven in ten years, and I cried into it thinkin’ about her, so you owe me big for that, you hear? Then, we’re gonna have two drinks apiece out on the porch because it is a nice summer evenin’ and a man can be too sober for a thing just as easily as he can be too drunk, and you sir strike me as a man that’s been two drinks too sober since he was born. We get those done, evenin’s yours. And if you even think about talkin’ any more business before those’re done, I swear, I swear, I’m gonna hang your shiny metal ass off that chandelier over there and leave you there until the sun doth rise or my house doth burn, whichever comes first. Are we clear?”

Alfonse blinked once, twice, three times. He’d been in the military a long time, climbed his way from boot camp all the way to the top. He’d been happy enough when he reached a rank where he didn’t get reamed on the daily, but it’d been so long that he’d dealt with anything besides excessive ass-kissing that he didn’t know what to do. To be honest, it was actually pretty damn refreshing.

He realized that Dale was still waiting for him to speak.

“Crystal clear, Dale. Just got one question for you.”

The human glared at him, suspicious as he’d ever been.

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“Does it get any easier?”

Dale’s face twisted up in confusion.

“Does what get any easier? Bein’ an old grump? Every damn day.”

Alfonse scratched the back of his head. Yeah, that hadn’t been a very clear question.

“No. Being a widower.”

There was a pause as Dale searched his face for any sign of lying, even a hint of manipulation.

He couldn’t find any, and the suspicion gave way into a begrudging sympathy.

“Ah. No. You just get stronger. Gimme a moment, this’ll be easier to talk about while eatin’ pie.”

Alfonse nodded, watching as the giant left. He was surprised at how empty the room felt without him. They’d barely been talking for two minutes, and he already felt closer to this stranger than he’d felt with anyone back home in years.

He had a moment to think back on how the dwarves described humans, beyond just their height, and couldn’t help but marvel at the accuracy. To think that this was the one thing you could trust a dwarf to be honest about. What was the phrase that he’d heard at the tavern, all those years ago...

Humans bond with strangers like they’re friends, friends like they're family, and family more than life.

He wondered where he stood on that list. It'd been a while since he'd had a friend.

#fantasy #creative writing #writing #gnomes #the gnome puns in this get pretty egregious #gnicea? come on #and at some point I reference gnobles #humanity fuck yeah #humans are space orcs #except somethings they're just ground orcs #hfy #Babylon-HFY

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graceisinthelibrary · 10 months ago

Note

In my excitement I sent you the ship kiss ask without naming a ship ( I think you might have an inkling of which ship lol) but to be official

Siegfried and Audrey

Prompt 34 - to pretend

So, here it is... The prompt was "Pretend" and Siegfried's trying to pretend not to be jealous....

It had all started so innocently, Siegfried thought. One moment you offer them a sherry and a roof over their head, and the next day they are trying to charm your housekeeper.

At first it was only a drunken hug the boy couldn't remember anything about on Boxing Day and on New Year's Eve it was a bouquet of pink roses on Mrs Hall’s small desk. The flowers had replaced the Christmas card from Gerald Hammond, which had actually been quite welcome. If only the flowers would end where the card had met its maker.

Siegfried eyed the present development with suspicion, but not with jealousy, because he wasn't jealous. Of course not. But he knew that this kind of friction could cause serious problems in a working space. He couldn't have his assistant drool over the woman who ran this household with such delicious precision and care.

Aside from that Carmody was just a boy and Mrs Hall a grown woman who had to endure a lot of heartache lately. Carmody may have a crush on her, but Siegfried knew his beautiful housekeeper and it was obvious that she wasn't interested in being wooed by a lad of twenty-two. It was unheard of anyway, was it? A woman of over forty and a lad of twenty-two?

No, he wasn't jealous, because it was unthinkable something romantic could develop between the two of them. He would pretend not to notice the boys’ lingering glances for the time being, but would keep his peace and be ready in case he had to set Carmody's head straight.

“Something wrong, Mr Farnon?” she asked, tearing him out of his daydreams. She was sitting opposite him, watching him as he stared at the impressive bouquet.

“Oh no, nothing, Mrs Hall. I just admired the flowers on your desk. A rare treat in January.”

“It is, innit? Mr Carmody brought them in the other day.”

“Delightful.” That may have sounded more sarcastic than intended. He the crook of her eyebrow and sensed an equally pointed answer directed at him arriving.

“Does it bother you? Only last week you brought me an amaryllis, if I remember correctly.”

“Well, for Christmas. Amaryllis is a flower that's usually gifted for Christmas while roses…” His voice trailed off and he shrugged and gulped down his tea.

“Yes?” She wondered her arms crossed over her chest.

“Well, roses imply a certain…expectation.”

“Do they?”

“In my humble experience.” Boy, he was digging himself into a hole. Her amusement was obvious and he quickly tore his reading glasses from his nose.

“Where's my list?” He asked, busily patting his jacket pocket.

“By the phone, where it lives.”

“Yes, I see, where else…” He rose and determined to leave this embarrassing moment behind he fled the kitchen. He found the list and was almost disappointed when he saw only two names on it.

With a sigh he turned around and startled when he found she was standing right in front of him. Her blue eyes, sparkling and mischievous, were challenging him.

“Is there anything else, Mrs Hall?” He cleared his throat.

“No , just be careful. There's a lot of snow up in the Dales. We won't want you to get lost in a snow drift.”

“You know me, Mrs Hall. I'm always prepared.”

“Course, you are.”

She leaned in, a little too close, and placed a soft kiss on his cheek. Her scent reached his nose and bewitched him. His heart skipped a beat and he had to blink several times, unsure if he was dreaming.

“He brought the roses as a thank you gift from Mrs Pumphrey,” she said nonchalantly as she straightened his tie.

“I knew that.”

She gently patted his collar and smiled tenderly at him. “I’ll see you for lunch.”

“Well, yes, of course, you will.” Rooted in his spot he waited until she had vanished around the corner, before he dared to move. He felt hot and cold while his brain tried to understand what had just happened to him. Her kiss… Her telling him the flowers were a present from Mrs Pumphrey. Did she think he was jealous about a boy like Carmody?

Ridiculous!

#acgas 2020 #all creatures great and small #siegfried farnon #audrey hall #siegfried x audrey #fanfiction #writing prompt

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the-name-is-z · 9 months ago

Text

SKELETONS | ch. 4

daryl dixon x f!oc

masterlist

a03 link

Summary: The group heads out on a search for answers or maybe even a cure. Warnings/Information: AMC's The Walking Dead OC Insert | 18+ Advised | strangers to lovers; the slowest of slow burns; gore; angst; horror; humour; m/f; descriptions of gore, violence, zombies, death, mourning, injury, infection, abandonment (consensual)

Chapter 4 - The CDC

“Everybody listen up.” Shane called. “Those of you with C.B.s, we’re gonna be on channel forty. Let’s keep the chatter down, okay? Now you got a problem, don’t have a C.B., can’t get a signal or anything at all, you’re gonna hit your horn one time. That’ll stop the caravan. Any questions?”

“We’re, ah… we’re not going.” Morales stated, glancing at his family before he turned back to Shane. The rest of the group had packed their things, the line of cars trailing out of the camp in preparation for the journey. Iris stood with her arms crossed, watching the group.

“We have family in Birmingham.” Morales’ wife explained, hugging her daughter close to her chest. “We want to be with our people.” Iris wouldn’t say it out loud, but two less children to care for is a significant advantage for survival. These people weren’t exactly prepared for this kind of life. Hell, was anyone?

“You go on your own, you won’t have anyone to watch your back.” Shane warned.

“We’ll take our chances. I gotta do what’s best for my family.” Morales said with a nod.

“You sure?” Rick asked.

“We talked about it.” He confirmed. “We’re sure.”

“Alright.” Rick nodded. “Shane?” He asked, glancing down at the bag of guns.

"Yeah, alright.” Shane agreed. Rick fished through the bag, handing Morales and his wife a gun and a box of ammo. “Box is half full.” Daryl looked none too pleased about the exchange. He scoffed, turning away to prepare his things before he exploded again.

Morales and his wife exchanged goodbyes and hugs with the people in the group they’d become close with, and little Carl even shed a few tears for his friends. Iris nodded to Morales, shaking his hand despite never really speaking. They walked to their own car, and as the group filed into the available cars, they said goodbye to the camp.

Dale and Glenn led the caravan in the RV, Rick, Lori with the kids in the second car. Jacqui and Jim were in the back of the RV, treating the symptoms of the infection while they drove. Carol, T-Dog and Andrea followed in an old van, then Iris and Shane in Shane’s jeep. Daryl brought up the end in an old pickup truck, his motorcycle carefully strapped into the bed.

“So, what’s your deal?” Shane asked, one hand on the window frame of the door and the other on the wheel.

“My deal?” Iris asked, raising an eyebrow at him. She’d tied her hair back with the bandana, her knives strapped tight to her hips and legs. She’d agreed to ride with Shane with the expectation he would interrogate her about her life, and because she was comfortable holding her own if the caravan was overrun.

“Yeah. Conveniently show up and join the camp, right when we need you, huh?” He asked, eyeing her from the side. The corner of Iris’ mouth pulled upward and she rolled her eyes.

“Rick made me a deal.” She explained. “I helped get Glenn, I back you up, and a good portion of the guns in that bag are mine.” She gestured vaguely to the duffel in the backseat, and Shane tensed. In complete honestly, Iris didn’t know where her loyalties lay, and Shane was very aware of that. These people didn’t know her, and she didn’t know them. If it came down to it, would she really stay?

They rode for another hour in silence, every so often the radio crackling as Shane checked everyone was good. Dale’s voice came up soon after, explaining that he was pulling the RV over. Iris hopped out of the jeep quickly, coming up to see steam rising from the RV’s grill.

“I told you we’d never get far on that hose.” Dale muttered, putting his hands on his hips as he sat back and examined the damage. Rick sighed, adjusting his hat in the hot sun. “I said I needed the one from the cube van.”

“Can you jury-rig it?” Rick asked.

“That’s all it’s been so far. It’s more duct-tape than hose. And I’m out of duct-tape.” Dale replied, making a face.

“I see something up ahead.” Shane called, peering through a pair of binoculars. “A gas station if we’re lucky.”

“Y’all, Jim— it’s bad. I don’t think he can take anymore.” Jacqui warned as she ran out of the RV. Iris frowned at the gravity of the situation. No one had decided what to do with him should he not make it to the CDC.

“Hey, Rick, you want to hold down the fort? I’ll drive ahead, see what I can bring back?” Shane offered.

“I’ll come. I know what to look for.” Iris added.

“You know what the RV engine needs?” Shane asked suspiciously. Iris rolled her eyes. Her entire life, men never accepted she knew anything about cars.

“I was a mechanic, once.” She stated. To reassure herself, she peered through the grate of the RV, nodding. “I’ll see if I can find some other replacements. There’s a hell of a lot of duct-tape in here.”

“Gotta keep it running somehow.” Dale shrugged, chuckling. Iris nodded, offering a small smile.

“I’ll come along too, back you up.” T-Dog offered. Shane nodded.

“Y’all keep your eyes open, now. We’ll be right back.” Shane called. Rick nodded, taking off his hat as he followed Jacqui into the RV. They loaded into the jeep, driving up ahead to the gas station.

It was old and abandoned, that was for sure. An old clock that looked like a bottle cap ticked loudly through the place. It’d been looted, but there were a few water bottles and packages of jerky that T-Dog filled his backpack with. Iris found a patch for the radiator hose. Not one that was made for an RV, but it would work if she could fashion it properly. She also grabbed another few rolls of duct-tape while Shane waited outside, guarding the door with his gun.

When they returned, Rick was sitting on the steps of the RV with his head in his hands.

“It’s what he says he wants.” Rick explained as they stood around outside the RV. Jim told him he wanted them to leave him here. With his family. How long they’d been gone, Iris wasn’t sure, but they really should limit their liability risks.

“And he’s lucid?” Carol asked, incredulous.

“He seems to be.” Rick confirmed. “I would say yes.”

“Back in the camp, when I said Daryl might be right, and you shut me down,” Dale said quietly, “you misunderstood. I would never go along with… callously killing a man. I was just gonna suggest that we ask Jim what he wants. Iris said the same.” He gestured to her and she nodded. “I think we have an answer.”

“We just leave him here? Take off?” Shane asked, rubbing a hand over his face as he turned to Rick. “Man, I’m not sure I could live with that.”

“It’s not your call.” Lori stated. “Either one of you.” Iris let a small smile play across her lips. She liked Lori. She didn’t put up with the alpha male pissing contest bullshit they liked to play at.

With that, Shane and Rick hauled Jim out of the RV, carefully trudging up the hill at the side of the road and placing him at the base of a thick oak tree. It cast a good amount of shade over the area, and Jim sighed as he practically sunk into the earth. Iris stayed back at the RV while Daryl patrolled the area and the rest of the group said their goodbyes.

None of them were particularly comfortable with the situation, but if it was what Jim wanted, it was for the best. And deep down, Iris knew they knew it was best for their group. It was emotional for all of them, that was evident. Even Daryl went to apologize quietly before they all went back to their separate vehicles. Iris watched Jim stare up into the sky, and he seemed to sigh in relief as the caravan pulled away.

When they arrived at the CDC they were overwhelmed by the smell of the bodies. Iris fashioned her bandana over her face once more as they armed themselves in preparation. Most of them seemed completely dead, but you could never be too careful. Swarms of flies surrounded the place, maggots festering. The roads had been blocked off in a perimeter around the building, barricades of sand bags providing protection to the National Guard whose bodies they now stepped over.

Rick led the way as they passed the bodies, tanks, military trucks. Everyone moved in a large group, keeping quiet apart from coughing as they walked to the building. Carol and Lori continuously whispered encouragements to their kids, who had hands over their noses, mouths and eyes. The doors to the building were covered with metal grates, all of which seemed bolted into the ground.

“Nothing?” Shane asked as Rick rattled the grate. Iris took note of the security cameras around the place, searching for any indication of activity. Shane pounded angrily on the door.

“There’s nobody here.” T-Dog muttered.

“Then why are these shutters down?” Rick asked argumentatively. Iris tilted her head. He had a point. But whoever had been inside could be long dead.

“Walkers!” Daryl called out in warning. Sophia, Carol’s daughter, began whimpering in fear as they all turned toward the dead.

“Watch the noise.” Iris warned as they cocked their guns. Daryl stepped forward with his crossbow, taking care of the closest one, a man in an army uniform.

“You led us into a graveyard!” Daryl snapped, scowling at Rick.

“Shh!” Dale warned.

“He made a call.” Shane snapped back, grabbing a shotgun.

“It was the wrong damn call!”

“Just shut up. You hear me? Shut up. Shut up!” Shane growled, shoving Daryl backward and pointing a finger to his face. He whipped around. “Rick, this is a dead end.”

“Where are we gonna go?” Carol asked, clutching her daughter to her closely.

“Do you hear me? No blame.” Shane continued.

“She’s right. We can’t be here, this close to the city after dark.” Lori agreed with Carol.

“This place will be crawling soon. We’re making too much noise. Even the sound of the cars.” Iris said quietly, surveying their surroundings. They had their backs up against a wall here.

“Fort Benning, Rick. Still an option.” Shane stated.

“On what?” Andrea asked. “No food, no fuel. That’s a hundred miles.”

“125. I checked the map.” Glenn corrected. Iris raised an eyebrow.

“Forget Fort Banning. We need answers tonight. Now.” Lori snapped, trying to console her sobbing son.

“We’ll think of something.” Rick insisted as they all began shouting, pleading with him. Iris kept quiet, watching him. She glanced back at the shutters, freezing.

“Alright, everyone back to the cars.” Shane called.

“Rick. The camera. The camera moved. It’s recording, but it moved.” Iris said loudly, pointing to the camera.

“You imagined it.” Dale stated quickly, shaking his head.

“No way.” She pulled down her bandana, stepping closer. “Someone’s inside.”

“Look, it’s dead, alright? An automated device. Gears, okay?” Shane said, shaking his head. Rick walked up to the camera, looking straight into it. “Look around this place. You hear me? It’s dead. You need to let it go, Rick!” Rick shoved past him, slamming his hands against the metal shutters again.

“Rick, there’s nobody here!” Lori screamed.

“I know you’re in there! I know you can hear me.” Rick yelled into the camera. Shane was yelling at the others to run back to the cars. The dreaded groaning of walkers got louder with them. “Please, we’re desperate! Please help us. We have women, children. No food, hardly any gas left.”

“Rick. Rick!” Lori pleaded.

“We have nowhere else to go!”

“There’s nobody here.” Lori insisted. “Rick, please!”

“You don’t let us in, you’re killing us!”

“Come on, buddy, let’s go.” Shane pulled at him, the others already halfway to the cars with Daryl leading the charge. Iris stood, staring straight into the camera as they wrestled with Rick. Shane started pulling him as he screamed.

“You’re killing us! You’re killing us! You’re killing us—“ They all stopped as the singular shutter screeched loudly, sliding open. They all whipped around as it thudded, pressurized air moving around, hissing.

They kept their guard up, Daryl covering their backs as they hesitantly walked inside.

“Hello?” Rick called. The building was enormous, an architect’s baby, columns spiralling up to a pointed roof and huge walls of windows trailing upward. The lobby was the majority of spaces, with what looked like offices above. But somewhere, there had to be more. “Hello?”

“Close those doors. Watch for walkers.” Dale warned, Daryl shutting the pedestrian doors behind them. They all stopped, looking around the space, waiting.

“Hello!” A voice called from the opposite end of the lobby. He stood in the mouth of the hallway. The man had scruffy hair and was wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants, but the grip he had on the military-grade rifle in his hands was confident. “Anybody infected?”

“One of our group was. He didn’t make it.” Rick replied. They all kept their weapons up.

“Why are you here? What do you want?” The man asked.

“A chance.” Rick replied simply. Optimistically. Obnoxiously.

“That’s asking an awful lot these days.” The man replied.

“I know.” Rick agreed. The man’s gaze flicked across each of them, taking in the sight of their group.

“You all submit to a blood test. That’s the price of admission.” The man said lowly.

“We can do that.” The man put his gun down.

“You got stuff to bring in, you do it now. Once this door closes, it stays closed.” He said firmly, gesturing outside.

Iris, Shane, Rick, Glenn and Daryl all ran outside, gathering bags and doing runs from the vehicles. They each took one, finding it easier to be agile when they separated. T-Dog and Dale manned the doors, closing them tight and opening them wide each time they ran in and out. In a few minutes, everything was in a pile in the lobby. Rick gave him the go-ahead, and the man scanned a keycard.

“Vi, seal the main entrance.” He spoke into it. “Kill the power up here.” The grate slid shut over the doors as the key panel beeped and blinked red.

“Rick Grimes.” Rick introduced, offering his hand to shake. The doctor looked at him warily, making no move to shake his hand.

“Dr. Edwin Jenner.” He replied.

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