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psychotic-nonsense · 4 months ago

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There's not much Steve remembers.

There's a group of people walking through the woods, some older, some teens. He's amongst them. The sky is too dark and the trees are too dead. His hands are tight, holding something close. There's an air of panic, stress, hurry, caution. A mistake was made, and they need to escape.

Then instincts flare and the trees descend on them. Sharp rushes of wind, the shrill shrieking of something otherworldly. There's teeth and sharp whips and screaming and gunshots.

Then the swirling mass parts and the shrieks turn human, and Steve remembers the visceral fear of seeing the mass separate. One half rises, carrying a flailing, manic figure, and no no no Robin please no not Robin please no me take me instead you bastards not Robin please no Robin Robin-

Then the other half descends, whips circle his wrists, and the ground falls beneath him. There's screaming behind and before him as the earth fades away, and it's a cruel parallel, floating when all he wants to do is sink.

Robin's thrashing, Steve's thrashing. Their weapons have no use here, where teeth and whips maul them. Amid the pain, all Steve can do is plead to Robin, to forgive, to hope, to fight.

Robin finds the weak spot first. A quick succession of blind swings, a fierce thrash of flailing limbs. The bats scare, release her. But they're too high. Steve feels his throat go coarse as he watches Robin crash into the dead forest below, unable to differentiate the snapping between bark and bone.

Steve finds it in him to copy the act, do the same. And somehow, it works. Somehow, he's weightless.

There's a fierce pressure and the first snap he remembers feeling both on and within his skin-

And Steve wakes up.

It's not sudden, it's gradual. He feels the pains within him slowly throb to life, rousing him from sleep like an anchor rising from the sea. His left hand feels thick, and there's a burning poker laying across his forehead. His jaw feels wrong, and his eye stings and throbs.

His other senses slowly begin to return as well. He's laying down, his head tilted to his left, a bit cramped in the space as something presses around his shoulders. The material he's on isn't very comfortable either, some parts stabbing into his back, and there's a crinkling sound every time he breathes. He hears the faint rippling of water, and somewhere out there, it rushes fast and hard.

It's hell to even think of doing it, but as Steve returns to reality, his instincts rise to the surface, and he knows he has to get up soon. So he opens his eyes. He fights the involuntary tears, wincing as the stinging worsens, then wincing further when his face crumbles in the looping pain.

Finally, he can see a little. Where he is, it's thankfully pretty dark, with only a faint golden glow illuminating the area around him. His eyes strain to see through the darkness past the range of the light-

And then Steve notices where he is. A boathouse. The boathouse. The same one from a night that feels like a lifetime ago, rather than a few weeks. The start of their worst journey, the beginning of a friendship that would grow just to rot into a sour mess of guilt and loneliness.

He's laying within the same boat too...

His eyes focus on some motion across from him. A table covered in a lump of tarps and ratty cloths, and atop it sleeps a figure. Her face is scrunched up in pain, a patch of bloody fabric covering her cheek. One leg has been removed of all clothes, the ankle wrapped and foot elevated. Steve knows her, and instinct briefly overpowers everything else.

"Robs?-" Steve cracks out, his voice sore and rough. His body tries to rise, moving habitually, and he barely rises onto his elbows before the world pounces on him again. It's so strong and he's so weak that he can't move more than the closing of his eyes and the falling of his chin to his chest, can't make a sound louder than a whimper.

Suddenly there's a noise, there's movement beside him. The light glows just a tough brighter, and there's a base warmth suddenly pulsing through his chest.

It's a person, shushing him. Their hand is resting softly on his back, simultaneously supporting him and urging him down.

"Please, stay. It is better for you to rest."

The voice speaks softer than Steve can remember, but he still knows it. It's monotone, sounds ghostly, faint, quiet in a way that has nothing to do with volume, but it's still familiar. Still brings the memories around Steve right into the present, takes him back to that corpse, makes the presence around him feel more melancholic than scary.

Which is funnily enough, even more terrifying.

Steve can't move, can't pull his sight up to face what can't be reality.

"Apologies for the location. We cannot stray too far from the Gates."

The monotone changes to sound almost apologetic, more real, more like what Steve has been craving. It's what finally makes him cave, to turn his eyes to face the impossible.

Who he sees, what he sees, both crushes and rises his hope. Because past everything before him - the inhuman glow, the calm, plain expression - he finds exactly what he's been fighting for.

"Eddie...?" Steve pleads.

The blank face falls, just slightly. Like it's guilty.

"I'm sorry. No. Not quite."

(cleaner version below)

#MY SHOWER THOUGHTS KEEP GOING WAY TOO HARD #why did thinking of lore for vecna's generals create this completly different story wtf-#anyway eddie's body gets possesed by the original spirit of the upside down #it saves stobin from death and takes them to rest at the boathouse for safety #all bc of eddie's input bc dude's still in there #he just can't drive #I’LL EXPAND LATER BUT HERE’S THIS FOR NOW JHGVJYGCJYGV #also it’s stobin bc i couldn’t decide if the story was better with just steve or robin so fuck it let’s have the siblings suffer together #stranger things #steve harrington #robin buckley #eddie munson #stranger things au #platonic soulmates stobin #platonic stobin #stobin friendship #steddie #steve x eddie #implied bc it's me of course

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irisintheafterglow · 7 months ago

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HAND SIX - FLUSH

summary: in a season where you're determined to fly under the radar, newly-returned crown prince!touya todoroki has other ideas. in this hand, a suitor sneaks you out and desire rears its head.

wc: 2.7k

cw/tags: royalty!au/regency!au, fem!reader (she/her used), explicit language, joking death threats (reader gets salty during poker), league of villains found family cameos, emotionally constipated touya todoroki, a lil steamy toward the end wink wink

note: trying to write a poker game where you have to imagine the hands of two different players is,,,,challenging to say the least. but stick around until the end of this part for a welcome surprise :)) hope you like it!!

likes, reblogs, and replies are appreciated!

“You said you wanted to be my friend.��

“I wasn’t aware that meant sneaking out of my house!” Your hushed anger is lost among the gentle breeze of the branches outside your window. Your suitor and self-proclaimed ‘friend’ has perched himself on one of the heftier arms of the oak, rapping his knuckles against your window until you appeared. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“I can’t say I do; I have regrettably left my pocket watch at home,” he says with a poorly-hidden smirk. He frowns at your insistent glare and glances over your shoulder expectantly. “Well? Are you coming or not?” You abruptly shut the window, pulling the curtains shut and leaning against the dusty fabric. Your hand finds its way over your pounding heart and you hope none of the commotion Touya caused has awoken anyone else in the house. More taps against the glass make you slide one curtain to the side to reveal Touya yawning. Catching your incredulous expression, he merely winks before dropping backward into the darkness, disappearing among the nighttime shadows of the garden.

“Idiot. I’m being courted by an idiot,” you say to your stale bedroom. By a stroke of curiosity or plain irritation, you tug your sleeping clothes over your head and step into the pair of trousers you’d pilfered from your father’s drawers. A few minutes later, with your boots slipped carefully over your feet and a hood drawn over your face, you find Touya lurking next to the magnolias. “Care to enlighten me as to the terms of my current abduction?”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” he scoffs with a small smile. Touya’s smiles were few and far between, and you’d noticed he only seemed to smile so fondly when he was with you. “Hurry up, you’ll fall behind at the rate you’re moving.” You bite back a shrewd remark about your hastily-donned attire. Still, none of his words land as insults as he offers you his arm and, when you take it, skillfully navigates you between back alleyways and shortcuts.

“Where are we going?”

“Home,” he replies, eyes watchful as ever.

“The palace?”

“Not exactly.” He guides you through the creaking door of an abandoned textiles warehouse.

“As much as they despise my decisions during this season, my parents would be less than delighted if I turned up dead in a warehouse,” you comment as your suitor leaves you momentarily, fishing around in the darkness for a match and lighting a candle. The space itself is huge, an extensive balcony for a foreman running around the perimeter of the high windows, but the area Touya occupies is quaint enough to be homey. “Is this where you–”

“Hide?”

“I was searching for a different word,” you admit, “but that works to the same effect.” A small bedroll sits haphazardly in a corner, along with a pile of scrappy blankets and small pillows. The main event of the space, however, was the large work table where the single candle sat, the old wood covered in vials of various powders and solutions. You take a cautious step toward the table that was probably once used for cutting fabric, now littered with excess scraps of leather and tools. “What do you make with this stuff?”

“Salves, mostly, for the…you know.” His voice trails off and you nod when he gestures to the scar tissue on his cheeks. “A friend needed me to make some smoke bombs and I had the materials, so I started doing that too. Now, I just make whatever comes to mind.”

“These are where you find the formulas?” You flip through the pages of a thick, dust-covered volume about chemistry and eye another about something called pyrolyzing.

“Mostly,” he shrugs. “The rest of the time, I just put stuff together and hope it works.”

“That’s dangerous, Touya.” He shrugs again, fiddling with a wrench and adjusting the placement of a test tube.

“It’s alright. It’s why I do all this stuff here and not in the palace.”

“And also why I keep needing to buy this dumbass new warehouses,” calls a new voice from a corner of the large room. Touya snorts and rolls his eyes, peering at you with amusement when you unconsciously move to shield yourself behind him. “Don’t be afraid; if I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have made it out of your garden.” You stiffen beside Touya, who sends you a half-sympathetic look.

“Tomura, stop. You’re scaring her,” he states as the stranger, Tomura, steps into the light, a dry face hidden by long white hair spilling over a blood red cape. “Ignore him,” he mutters to you when you flinch as Tomura steps closer to the table. “If anyone actually wanted you dead, I’d roast them alive before they could breathe in your direction.”

“How romantic,” you deadpan and Touya chuckles. “He’s a friend of yours?”

“I’d say ‘working relationship’ at best,” he corrects and you let out a shaky breath, his quiet confidence overriding any unease caused by the weird man across the table. “Himiko here?”

“I was waiting for you to introduce me!” From another corner of the warehouse remarks a higher pitched, jubilant voice. A young girl with blonde hair tied in two buns swings down from the balcony, dancing over to you and shaking your hand with excitement. She’s short, but beams up at you so kindly, you’re taken aback by the contrast between her and Tomura. “Toga Himiko,” she states brightly. “You’re even prettier than Dabi described!”

“Dabi?” You glance at Touya, your confusion obvious. You can tell his walls are struggling to come down and you inch closer to him in an effort to sink them further, questions still rattling about in your brain. “Is that your alter ego?”

“Alter ego implies that Dabi and Touya are two different people,” he explains after an awkward pause. “But I think they’re one in the same.” You nod in understanding, not pushing the subject further even when he continues anyway. “These guys,” he gestures to the various figures approaching you at the worktable, “know me as the former. You have the privilege of knowing me as the latter.”

“And now you’re letting me know both,” you finish for him. He smiles softly again and hums quietly, grateful that you understand what he’s trying to do.

“Attagirl.”

“Thank you for letting me in,” you murmur. You stare into his burning blue eyes for a second longer before he turns away, clearing his throat.

“You’re not done quite yet. It’s poker night and I still haven’t introduced you to everyone else.”

Once the worktable is cleared and half a dozen wobbly stools are dragged over to it, Touya pulls a deck of cards from a hidden drawer. Tomura mirrors him, retrieving a box of chips and tossing it on the table. Toga sits to your right and Touya stays stationed on your left, occasionally letting his hand cover yours whenever you drummed the table anxiously. Even with his so-called ‘acquaintances’ causing chaos across the table, his focus only ever stayed on you.

During one of the last hands, you’re dealt an eight and a six of clubs. With a mediocre stack of chips and a sudden urge to challenge Touya, you push in a third of your stack after the initial dealing reveals a seven of clubs, a seven of spades, and a ten of clubs. With four out of five to make a straight flush, your odds were looking good and you prayed for a nine or a five of any suit.

You have to stop yourself from laughing when a five of hearts and a nine of spades is dealt. As nice as it would have been to have a straight flush, your odds with the straight weren’t terrible.

“Ah, shit. I’m out.” Tomura folds, sliding his cards to the middle of the table. “It must be an off night for me.”

“Yeah, me too,” Himiko pouts and follows suit, along with energetic Jin and stoic Shuichi. “Tonight sucks.”

“Whoever has the six and the eight will most likely win.” Shuichi is glum at the other end of the table after folding almost every hand so far. Himiko gives you a thumbs up and whispers loud enough that the whole group can hear.

“I’m rooting for you!” You give her an uneasy smile.

“It’s down to you two.” Kurogiri sits shrouded in the darkest corner of the table. You shiver and peek at Touya from the corner of your eye to find that he’s already looking at you, no doubt trying to read you. His unnaturally white hair catches in the moonlight streaming through the high windows, painting him like a portrait that would hang on the palace’s walls. There was an intensity to Touya’s expression that you found yourself wanting to push against, even when your current cards certainly gave no guarantees. You push all of your chips to the center without breaking eye contact and he smirks, copying you.

“Alright, reveal,” Tomura commands and you put your two cards down, a chorus of ooh and damn and I fucking knew it resounding around the table. Your straight put you in a relatively good spot, considering how the other hands of the night had progressed.

“Bold move, doll,” Touya drawls, running his tongue over his top lip. “But…” he says, laying down his two cards and grinning when your jaw drops to the floor. “That’s the one you were looking for, yeah?” You gape at the three of hearts and nine of clubs. The card that you needed to make your perfect hand was in Touya’s the entire time.

“Oh, you’re such an asshole. You are the biggest asshole to ever exist,” you groan and he scoops all of your chips into his pile with a self-satisfied grin.

“See, she gets it!” Everyone voices their assent in playfully bitter grumbles, muttering accusations of rigging the game and marking the cards beforehand.

“I am going to hide your body so far that your cells will never see the light of day again.” You point an accusatory finger at your suitor, who raises his palms in prideful surrender. “I hope you’re ready to feed the worms with your decaying flesh.”

“Yes, you fit in just fine here,” Tomura nods in approval.

“Don’t hate the players; hate the game,” Touya shrugs. Your continued threats are lost among the raucous laughter that echoes off the rafters of the warehouse. He gives himself the indulgence of looking at you, really looking at you. You were here, cackling with his friends like you’d known them longer than he had. He’d allowed you into his most sacred of spaces and you treated it with the same care you treated him. In the dim candlelight of the building with its rotten wood and blood-stained floors, you were still the same as ever.

Touya stares at you like you’d never looked more beautiful.

—

“I believe I’ve found a more entertaining poker opponent than you,” you remark slyly on the leisurely walk back to your part of the city. Clumps of stars peek out among the summer clouds, winking at you like the constellations holding secrets you couldn’t possibly fathom. Touya hasn’t stopped looking at you since the hand you nearly won, something you find is stirring a fluttering feeling in your chest.

“Have you, now? And who, pray tell, would that be?” His bicep flexes under your fingers, the placement of your hand on his arm fitting like two missing puzzle pieces.

“Now that I know Tomura is harmless, it’s much easier to read him than it is to read you. The same thing goes for Shuichi. Himiko…I think she tries her best,” you declare with a sparkle in your eye. “Kurogiri, however, remains a mystery to me. I don’t believe I saw the man’s face the entire time I was there.” Touya barks out a laugh and you once again hope no one is having a midnight cup of milk to find you both unchaperoned.

“You fit in well with them, all things considering.” You seem to take pride in his compliment. Seeing you so happy made him lightheaded, akin to when he swiped one too many shots from the palace cellar. “The only things missing are a few battle scars, but I won’t let you get any.”

“Why, you don’t think I’m tough enough for those?” You poke your tongue out at him and step away, drawing him to you in the cover of the alley like a magnet.

“Bold of you to assume I’d let anyone close enough to hurt you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, coming to stand in front of you until you’re backed up against the bricks. You’re nearly chest to chest and close enough to smell his cologne and the lingering scent of smoke. Your words drop to a nearly imperceptible level, but he hears them anyway. He always does.

“You know, we’re a long ways off from that duel in the courtyard,” you say quietly, heart pounding so loudly that you can’t meet his eyes. “I couldn’t have predicted that this would happen in a million years.”

“I had every intention to court you when I found you hiding behind that pillar,” Touya points out.

“I was not hiding,” you insist, taking the bait and ignoring the smirk that instantly appears on his stupid mouth. “I was just–”

“Taking a break, I remember,” he finishes for you. “No need to become argumentative about it again. It is in the past and I am pleased with how this arrangement has panned out.” Right. Your grin falters at the word ‘arrangement.’ You’d temporarily forgotten, if only for a few hours, that this was not real. Touya’s affection was fleeting, a memory that would fade into oblivion once his presence was gone too. His eyebrows furrow as he scans your face, looking for an indicator of what suddenly has you feeling sorrowful. “What ails you, my love?”

“I…I carry too much affection for you,” you admit, heat rising in your cheeks. You still won’t look at him. He hates when you don’t look at him. “An embarrassingly large amount, enough that it pains me when you reinstate that I am only an ‘arrangement,’ a business transaction.”

“I thought I said that you were more than that. You are more than that.” Touya grabs what little courage he has cowering at the bottom of his soul and yanks it into the open, gently turning your head to meet his eyes. Damn it all if he couldn’t tell you what he felt because he was scared. “You are…everything. To me.” Your breath hitches in your throat. His fingers find your face.

“I don’t understand–”

“You don’t need to,” he says. “You never could, nor could I. But I cannot take one more step or inhale one more breath without confessing how important you are to me. You are everything, and I swear on my life that what I say is true.” He pulls you closer ever so slowly until your own body closes the empty space, grabbing the back of his neck as a lifeline. You don’t know if he leans down first or you press up to him; but when you kiss Touya for the first time, it’s a match dropping into a dried forest. Months of frustrating, unspoken tension breaks the instant he touches you. You are a hellfire that he walks straight into.

“Touya, please–” Intoxicating, the way you say his name, and the drunken rush goes straight to his head.

“Everything…you are everything,” he rasps against your mouth, letting himself be burnt by his own selfish desires. Something in him snaps when your fingers find his hair and tug; the possessive grip on your waist tightens like you’d disappear if he let go. He kisses you until you’re breathless, until you’re forced to pull away because the only oxygen you’re taking is from his lungs. Even so, he refuses to let you go far, keeping his forehead against yours as you both regain control of your breathing. “I–I–”

“I know.” You stop him with a thumb brushing over his bottom lip. “You don’t have to say it.”

“I can’t say it yet,” he forces out. “I’ve never known how to.”

“It’s okay,” you reassure him, softly stroking his cheek with your knuckles. “Tell me when you’re ready. I’ll wait for you.”

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#dabi x you #dabi x reader #dabi x y/n #touya todoroki x you #touya todoroki x reader #touya todoroki x y/n #mha x you #mha x reader #mha x y/n #touya x you #touya x reader #touya x y/n #bnha x you #bnha x reader #bnha x y/n

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bullet-prooflove · 2 months ago

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The Cowboy At Your Door: Dwight Manfredi x Reader (feat: Bill Bevilaqua)

Tagging: @kmc1989 @skellyagogo @sca3a @kenbechillin @mandy426

Companion piece to:

Poker Face - Dwight's night takes a turn when he meets you for the first time at a poker game.

Dior - Dwight wakes up to the scent of Dior and lipstick on his chest.

Gunpowder & Roses - Dwight's enemies make a mistake when they come after you.

Hell of A Message - You send a message to your ex Bill.

There’s a cowboy at your door. One with a black hat, heated eyes and a smile that’s made for sin.

“I got your message.” Bill Bevilaqua says as he stands on your porch, his hands tucked into the back pockets of his Wranglers.

You tuck your hair back behind your ear so he can see the bruising blossoming across your features.

“I got yours too.”

His gaze darkens, his jaw tightening as he surveys the butterfly stitches, the busted lip. He reaches out, his fingertips tracing over the place where Joey’s ring split your skin.

“I’d kill him myself if you hadn’t done it already.” He tells you and you can see the sincerity of it in his eyes before you open your door and invite him into the house.

“We should talk.” You say and he doesn’t respond as he steps into your living room, drinking in the essence of you.

It’s the first time he’s been to your home. It’s light, airy and somehow cosy at the same time. Soft greys give way to berry and blush undertones creating a warmth that was never present in the house that you lived in together. His personality and heritage had dominated the ranch that you’d shared. It was always harsh, always masculine, the same way that everything was in his family.

“This is what our home should have been like.” He says as he turns to face you, his thumbs looped through the rungs of his jeans.

“There was never any room for me underneath all that toxic masculinity.” You remind him as you settle down into the stone grey love seat.

No there hadn’t been, not in the world you were both born into. You were the only child of Vinnie Cincinetti, head of one of the most powerful crime families in Oklahoma. You would have been a force to be reckoned with if you’d taken up the mantle, instead you’d been married off to the Bevilaqua syndicate because you weren’t the right gender to lead.

It may have been an arranged marriage but Bill had fallen in love with you almost immediately. Instead of being the pretty, little wife that sat at home and spent his money, you earned your own by running poker games and pulling in whales that thought nothing about throwing down six figures at one of the most exclusive card tables in the country.

It isn’t until he catches a snide remark from his cousin Frank that he realises that your success is making him look weak, like he can’t control his wife, that he’s not providing for her. The thing is, he’s never seen you as exhilarated as when you’re running those games. You’ve never been so happy, so engaged and he knows in that moment he has to let you go because you were destined to be much more than just a gangster’s wife.

So he divorces you, sets you free and he hopes that maybe one day, when you’ll return to him. It’s been five years since you left Kansas and you’ve still not come home. He’s starting to doubt you ever will despite the nights you’ve shared since.

He takes a seat on the sofa close to you, taking off his hat and setting it upon the dark wood coffee table.

“You need to meet with Manfredi.” You tell him, running a hand through your hair and shaking it out so it falls across your features. “Sort out this territory dispute before it turns into something.”

He sinks into the plush comfort of your couch, his gaze drinking you in. It’s only now as he looks at you that he realises you’re wearing a man’s dress shirt and it riles something inside of him.

“Darlin.” He drawls. “It’s already something. I can’t have New York coming here and stepping on my shit….”

“It isn’t really your shit though is it?” You respond, leaning forward and his gaze strays to the dip in the shirt you’re wearing. Your bra is visible, he can see the contrasting black lace against your skin. “You gave Tulsa to me.”

“You’re still an extension of the Bevilaqua Family even if we aren’t married anymore.” He reminds you, shrugging his shoulders.

“Tulsa is my playground.” You say fiercely before giving him a knowing look. “The real problem is you don’t like the fact there’s another kid playing in it.”

“No.” He says pointedly. “I don’t.”

You sigh as you recross your legs and he catches a flash of that tattoo on your inner thigh, the one that covers his mark. His family, they brand their property. Horses, drugs, their wives too. You hadn’t screamed when they’d forced it on you, you’d bitten down on his belt instead, stifling your agony. He still wears the damn thing around his waist, your teeth indentations still etched into the leather.

“I heard you got it covered.” He says gesturing to the space between your legs. “I want to see it.”

You sigh as you part your thighs, the dress shirt creeping up so that your black panties are on display. His gaze comes to rest on the greyscale dahlias inked onto your skin, they cover the entirety of the brand, obscuring it from view. He sinks to his knees in front of you, his calloused palm coming to rest on your thigh as his thumb traces over scarring underneath, the ‘B’ etched into your skin for eternity.

“I’ll always be a part of you.” He whispers, his lips ghosting over the edge of your tattoo. “And you’ll always have a part of me.”

Your hand rakes through his dark hair, grip tightening on the roots, making him moan against your skin. He’s been hard since he laid eyes on you, it’s the way he’s always been with you. He gets off on the coolness, the indifference, it only makes him try harder to earn your attention. You tug his head back to meet your eyes and his whole body feels like it’s on fire.

“So…” You say, your voice dropping an octave. “Do I get my meeting or not?”

He’d give you anything you in this moment because all he wants is to spend the night between your legs, his tongue thrust in your pussy until you see God. He wants to feel you coming on his cock as you use him like a fucktoy, like he’s nothing but a vessel for your pleasure.

“Bill.” You say, your voice like silk caressing his skin. “Do I get my meeting?”

“Yes.” He bites out.

“Good boy.” You murmur, your palm lightly slapping his cheek and his dick fucking leaks, smearing the inside of his underwear. “You can go now.”

“Dahlia…” He implores but he knows he’s lost because you’re wearing sitting here in another man’s shirt, your gaze already flickering to the clock on the mantlepiece.

“No Bill.” You say, indicating to the bruising on your face. “You don’t deserve my pussy tonight.��

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#dwight manfredi #dwight manfredi x reader #tulsa king #Bill Bevilaqua #Bill Bevilaqua x reader

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daryltwdixon · 3 months ago

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The Promise of Us: Chapter 5

warning: gore & violence

Hammers, bats, and batons lay heavy on the table between the two groups—T-Dog, Rick, Daryl, and you on one side, and the five prisoners standing across from you. Each man is testing the weight of the weapons in their hands, their expressions a mix of confusion and unease. They seem confused on why their using hand to hand combat weapons, instead of the guns they probably expected.

Rick glanced at you when you approached, his eyes lingering a little longer than usual. You can tell he noticed something—maybe the lingering paleness of your face or the way you’re gripping your weapon too tightly. For a second, you think he’s going to say something, but he only shoots a look at Daryl. Their silent exchange speaks volumes, and it’s clear they’ve come to an understanding. You’re better off here with them, facing whatever this is, than back in that room where the air is still thick with blood and panic. Rick looks exhausted beside you, his shoulders still tense, dark circles etched under his eyes. You wonder what kind of conversation he had with Lori after everything—about Shane, about the choices they’ve had to make. Lori hadn’t taken the news about Shane well, but in the end, she was in on the plan. Still, you can’t help but wonder what’s been going through her mind, how she’s processing everything. You’ve tried to make sense of it yourself, but it always leaves you more tangled than before.

For now, you shove that thought away. You’re finally clear-headed after the haze of panic that had threatened to swallow you earlier, and you don’t want to slip back into that spiral. The weight of your trusted knife in your hand feels grounding, solid. You focus on that—the here and now. The smell of rust and wood, the low hum of nervous breaths, the scrape of boots on the cement floor.

“Why do I need this,” the long-haired man—the leader, it seems—asks, holding up a metal rod—almost like a firewood poker— in one hand and a gun in the other. “When I got this?” He looks directly at Rick, the glint of the gun catching the dim light.

“You don’t fire guns,” Daryl says, his voice low and edged with warning. “Not unless your back’s up against a wall.”

“Noise attracts them,” you add, your voice steady but firm, “Riles them up even more.”

Rick steps in, his tone authoritative. “We’ll go in two-by-two—Daryl on point with T, and I’ll bring up the rear with you.” He gestures toward one of the prisoners, the one gripping a hatchet, as he lays out the plan. “Stay tight, hold formation…”

But as Rick speaks, a chill runs down your spine. You can feel the leader’s eyes on you, heavy and unsettling, like a weight pressing into your skin. His gaze locks onto yours, and for a moment, it’s like the air stills around you. You grip the hilt of your knife tighter, feeling the leather warm under your palm.

“These things only go down with a head shot,” Daryl says, bringing you out of your transfixed gaze locked on the man in front of you. There’s more conversation, but you palm your knife in your hand, holding the hilt steady, tightening your grip. The group is going over the basics for the prisoners, explaining the rules of survival. You already know them well enough. It still bewilders you how these men have managed this long without knowing.

“You ain’t gotta tell us how to take out a man,” the leader growls, his eyes narrowing as he looks up at you all from under his lashes, his head tilted low.

“They ain’t men,” T-Dog says, his voice hard, unwavering. “They’re somethin’ else.”

With that, the group starts to move. Everyone makes their way out of the cell block and into the hallways, the atmosphere tense and thick with anticipation. The sound of keys jangling in Rick’s hand echoes as he unlocks the door, each metallic clink reverberating off the walls.

As you make your way down the hall, you can’t help the soft spot in your heart as Daryl tries to help a few of the prisoners with their whereabouts. When one says it’s too dark in the hall, he shows him how to hold his flashlight up high in front of him. He’s whispering, telling them you’ll most likely hear the walkers before you even see them. He wants them to survive.

“It’s coming!” someone yells behind you, making you leap out of your skin. Rick immediately shushes him loudly, and you have to shake the feeling of your element of surprise completely being taken away.

There’s a clanging, a snarling coming from up ahead as Daryl holds his hand up in front, stopping everyone. It’s dead quiet other than the breaths of the group overlapping with the walker’s rattling breaths. Daryl steadies everyone as they come into view, and counts on his fingers to let them go after the two that round the corner. Before he can even raise his third digit, the men between you scream and rush forward in a battle cry. A zing of electric shock goes through you as you jump, nearly laughing at the ridiculousness of them. But as they run to the walkers, they only hit them below the neck, holding them back by the arms, the other going for their torso and chests. They seem to use all their energy in kicking, screaming, and beating them. You stare in astonishment once your nerves come down, blinking rapidly to make sense of what the hell they’re doing. All four of you stand back and just watch, and you meet Rick’s serious eyes as he looks between you. You shake your head, mouth agape as you watch.

❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥

You round another corner, and Daryl moves to the front as two walkers shuffle toward the archway leading into the next corridor.

“It’s gotta be the brain,” he explains, his voice calm, “Not the heart—the brain.” He releases an arrow, letting it fly straight into the forehead of the walker in front of him, then quickly reloads and fires into the next one.

More walkers start to filter into the corridor, one by one, and the prisoners finally get their chance to strike. Hesitant at first, they smash their weapons into the walkers' heads, clumsy but effective.

“Stay in tight formation—no more prison riot crap!” Rick snaps, his voice low and commanding as he keeps the group moving together.

As more walkers appear, you lunge for one’s head, gripping its neck to keep it steady until your knife sinks into its eye socket. You lurch back then move into formation again. The noise has attracted more walkers, and they’re coming faster now, spilling into the hallway in greater numbers. You can see the guys with less experience are starting to panic, their movements growing sloppy, overwhelmed by the surge. But one by one, you’re able to take them down.

A scream from behind makes you turn. One of the prisoners is in trouble, surrounded by a couple walkers. Rick darts forward, but before he can reach the man, gunshots ring out, deafeningly loud in the narrow corridor. The leader of the prisoners is firing, taking down the walkers with a few quick shots. The noise is jarring, bouncing off the walls, and you wince, pressing your hands to your ears to block out the worst of it.

One of the bigger guys stumbles against the wall, pulling his hand away from his shoulder, blood smeared across his skin. You feel a knot form in your stomach as you glance at the wound—it’s either a bite or a scratch. Either way, it’s not good.

“I’m tellin’ you, man, it’s just a scratch!” he protests as Rick flashes a light on the wound, his voice tinged with panic.

Rick’s expression hardens, exhaustion and dread heavy in his eyes. “I’m sorry, man,” he says, but the big guy keeps going, desperation creeping into his voice.

“I’m tellin’ you! I don’t feel anything! It’s just a scratch!”

A voice from the group pipes up. “You cut that old guy’s leg off to save his life!”

Rick shakes his head, his voice quiet but resolute. “Look where the bite is.”

But the man isn’t listening, his voice echoing off the cold walls. “Guys, I’m fine!” The rest of the prisoners shout, some begging to save him, others suggesting quarantine, anything. But deep down, you know it’s too late. The wound is too close, and everyone’s just grasping at hope that doesn’t exist.

“There’s nothing we can do,” Rick says, voicing what everyone is too afraid to admit.

The shouting continues, frantic and desperate, but then there’s a sudden clang of metal. The sound is harsh, final, and the next moment the big man crumples to the ground with a dull thud. You swallow hard as you look down at him, your breath catching. The silence that follows is heavy, watching him with bated breath.

Then, without hesitation, the leader steps forward, his expression unreadable. He raises his weapon and brings it down on the man’s skull, again and again, each blow sickeningly loud. The wet, brutal sound fills the hallway. You feel your chest tighten—not out of fear, but from the sheer brutality of watching a human life snuffed out in front of you.

You avert your eyes, turning into Daryl’s shoulder, letting your hand cover your face as you lean into him. His hand brushes your arm briefly, but he doesn’t pull you in. He stays there, still and solid, letting you rest against him without making it obvious, without saying anything. He’s just there, steady, as you try to block out the scene in front of you.

The thud of the leader’s final blow lingers in the air, and though you don’t look, you can feel the tension around you. Daryl doesn’t move or speak, but his presence is enough.

When the clanging of metal, bone, and cement finally stills, you pull away from Daryl, glancing up to see the leader standing there, drenched in blood. His hair hangs wildly over his face, matted with the splatter. His chest heaves with deep, ragged breaths, but his eyes are still dark, unfazed as he stares down Rick. The air is thick with tension, an oppressive silence hanging over the group as everyone stares, trying to make sense of what just happened.

For a moment, it feels like the world has stopped spinning, like everything is holding its breath. Then, as if the earth finally shifts back into motion, the leader steps forward, breaking the quiet. The weight of the moment lingers in the air, though, like something unsaid.

As you prepare to follow, you feel Rick’s hand on your arm, his grip firm but not forceful. You turn, meeting his gaze, and he leans in, his voice barely audible, almost drowned out by the sound of your own heartbeat.

“Stay close,” he whispers. “Get in back with Daryl and I.”

His words carry a quiet urgency, one you don’t question after what you’ve just witnessed. Nodding, you fall back next to Daryl, your knife still held up but tentative. Your fingers tighten around the hilt, but the weight of the blade feels small now, insignificant compared to the violence you just saw. You make note of the pressure of your gun against your skin in your waistband, making sure it's still there. The real threat might no longer be the walkers—it could be standing right in front of you, covered in blood.

Daryl glances over at you briefly, his face hard to read, but his presence beside you is a small comfort in the growing tension.

“You see the look on his face?” Daryl mutters as you approach him, his tone low but sharp.

“He makes one wrong move—” Rick begins, his voice steely with the weight of unspoken threats.

“Just give me the signal,” Daryl affirms quietly, his hand tightening slightly on his crossbow as you all move forward behind the group.

In front, T-Dog reaches for a door, pushing it open to reveal what looks like an old prison laundry area. The machines are long abandoned, covered in layers of dust, with piles of clothes and towels strewn in the corners. You make a mental note to return here later—supplies like that could be useful—but your attention is pulled back to the men ahead of you. Your eyes stay glued to them, the atmosphere thick with tension.

There’s snarling from the other side of double doors straight ahead of you, and the leader of their group is at them. You can see his chest heaving, working himself up to get ready for what’s waiting on the other side. Daryl gives him the keys, but instead of handing them off, he throws them to the ground so that they slide to the man’s feet. You watch wide eyed, taking in the man’s reaction.

The man’s lip curls into a scoff. “I ain’t openin’ that.”

“Yes, you are,” Rick says, his voice cool and authoritative. He steps forward, eyes locked on the leader, his presence commanding. “If you want this cell block, you’re gonna open that door—just the one, not both. We need to control this.”

The man hesitates, his hand twitching before he bends down and scoops up the keys. He approaches the door, moving slowly, almost like he’s considering his next move. You feel like the air is tightening around you. Something feels off.

As he slides the key into the lock, your heart begins to race, and before the thought even fully forms, you know what’s coming. Your stomach twists as he makes the move you feared—he yanks both doors open wide, unleashing the snarls of the walkers waiting behind them.

“I said one door!” Rick roars. But the man just snaps back, “Shit happens!”

You all coil into action, ready for the walkers to approach. As one comes towards you, its stinking breath putrid in the air, you lunge forward for it. But before you can reach it, a metal rod swings around, crashing into the walker’s skull just inches from you, slashing into its head, but not stopping. The rod swings through its skull and towards you, so close, it only takes a blink for you to register that you’re lurching back to avoid the impact, your neck craning away. The walker crumples to the ground, its body collapsing at your feet. Your heart pounds in your chest, the sudden violence and closeness freezing you for a moment.

You snap your gaze to the source. It’s him—the leader, standing just beside you, lowering the metal rod with a slow, unsettling smile stretching across his face. “Gotcha covered,” he says casually, winking at you, and his voice smooth but laced with something darker. His eyes glint with satisfaction, and the way he looks at you makes your stomach twist. Your lips curl and you bare your teeth at him for a moment, before you turn away quickly, forcing yourself to focus on the task at hand. But the feeling of his eyes on you doesn’t go away—it clings to you, like a shadow you can’t shake. Daryl catches the moment from the corner of his eye, his lip pulled back in a snarl as he looks at the man. But there’s more walkers coming in, and there’s no time to react. You keep moving, but that sick feeling lingers. The room is full of the noises of everyone’s grunts, metal clanging, bodies hitting the floor as you continue to take on the horde at the doorway. T-Dog uses his shield to pin walkers against the wall, dispatching them with swift, practiced blows.

But just as you think the leader’s game is over, he’s in front of you again. This time, he grabs a walker—a decayed man with barely any face left, just bone and patches of hair—and throws it straight at you. Before you can react, the walker is on top of you, its teeth snapping inches from your face. You hold it at arm's length, struggling to keep its filthy mouth away, but it snarls and spit flies in all directions. Your heart races, panic starting to rise—but just as suddenly as it began, it ends. Daryl is there, driving an arrow into the back of the walker’s head.

You shove the body off with Daryl’s help, rolling to your side and scrambling back to your feet in less than a second. You, Daryl, and Rick exchange a single glance, all thinking the same thing.

That motherfucker.

Everything quiets, the last of the walkers dropping to the ground with a sickening thud. The only sounds now are your ragged breaths, the metallic clinks of spent weapons, and the occasional creak of the prison walls settling. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and blood, heavy and oppressive after the chaos.

You stand there, muscles still coiled tight, recovering from your close encounter. Your heart is racing, your chest rising and falling as you try to steady your breathing. The image of that walker’s rotting face, its teeth snapping just inches from you, plays in your mind. But that’s not what has your blood boiling.

You stare daggers at the leader, his figure cast in the dim, flickering light of the room. He’s standing in the middle of the room, wiping sweat and blood off his forehead, completely unfazed by what just happened. That smug grin lingers on his face, and every glance he throws your way makes your skin crawl.

You can feel Daryl beside you, his presence steady, but there’s tension rolling off him. His eyes are sharp, following Rick’s movements as if sensing something in the air—an unspoken warning. You glance at him briefly, and it’s clear he feels it too. Something’s about to give. Rick is still standing by the man, his chest heaving slightly from the fight, but there’s a look in his eyes—something dark and calculating. He watches the leader with a cold intensity that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. You see his grip tighten around the handle of the machete, the veins in his hand pulsing as his fingers flex.

Rick stands in front of the leader now, who shrugs nonchalantly, glancing between you and him, “it was comin’ at me, bro,”

“Yeah…” Rick nods, glancing at you and Daryl before his eyes meet the man again, “I get it… shit happens,” Rick finishes, voice cold and final.

In one swift motion, he swings his machete overhead and buries it into the leader’s skull. There’s a sickening crunch, and the leader crumples to the ground with a thud. One of the other prisoners screams, his voice cracking with shock as the man’s lifeless body collapses. Rick kicks the body aside, pulling his machete free, his expression unreadable.

The group braces, waiting for the others to react. One of the prisoners—the one who screamed—lifts his bat, but Rick kicks him down effortlessly. Daryl raises his crossbow, aiming steadily at the man’s face. “Easy now,” Daryl warns, his voice low, a threat in every word. The man hesitates for only a second before turning and bolting out of the room, sprinting down the hallway with Rick on his tail.

You make a move to follow for backup, but Daryl’s hand grips your arm. “Absolutely not,” he growls, pulling you back firmly. His eyes don’t leave yours until you stop trying to follow.

Daryl turns his attention to the last two prisoners—the burly one and the strawberry-blonde—and barks, “Get down on your knees!” Without hesitation, both men drop to the floor, hands raised in surrender.

“We don’t have no affiliation with what just happened!” the redhead stammers, eyes wide with disbelief, “Tell ‘em, Oscar!”

The other man, Oscar, has his hands up next to his face, surrendering under the pressure of Daryl’s bow. He keeps his hands raised, his expression calm but defeated. “Stop talkin’, man,” he mutters, his voice hollow.

You and T-Dog both press your guns to the redhead’s skull, your breaths coming in quick, shallow gasps. Your grip tightens around the gun, your knuckles pale. The room feels heavy, the air thick. The silence stretches, every second dragging as you pray these two don’t do anything stupid. You’re not sure you could pull the trigger on this man.

Rick reappears within minutes, his chest heaving as he catches his breath, but he’s alone. His gun is already out, aimed at the larger man. The man trembles slightly, his voice shaking as he insists that they had nothing to do with the other prisoner’s actions.

“You didn’t know?” Rick’s voice is mocking, dripping with disbelief, “You knew. ” His eyes flash dangerously, and his gaze snaps to Daryl, “Daryl, let’s end this now!”

Daryl moves without hesitation, his knife pressed to the other man’s throat, ready to end it with a single slice. The redhead’s eyes widen, and the room crackles with tension. Rick is in front of you now, his gun at the smaller man’s head.

“No!!” you scream, your voice cracking as you lower your gun, stepping back from the man on his knees in front of you. You’ve seen enough death today, enough blood, enough people falling at your feet. You don’t need more.

The smaller man pleads, tears spilling from his eyes. “Sir, sir, you gotta listen to me, please! It wasn’t us! We weren’t like him!”

Rick doesn’t flinch, his jaw clenched, his gun unwavering. “Oh, that’s convenient,” he snarls, the fury in his voice barely contained.

The man shakes his head desperately, his voice trembling. “You saw what he did to Tiny! He was my friend !” He turns pleading eyes to you, voice cracking under the weight of his fear. “Please, we ain’t like that. I like my pharmaceuticals, but I’m no killer.”

When no one responds, he rambles on, frantic. “Oscar here—he’s here on a BnE! He ain’t even very good at it either!” His words come out in a rush, trying to explain, to humanize them. You piece it together—he either stole drugs, took them, or both. And Oscar? Breaking and entering. Neither of these men were killers.

You look at Rick, your voice quieter now, steady but pleading. “Rick—please.”

Rick ignores you and spins around, pointing his gun straight at the other man, the one Daryl has pinned with a knife to his throat. The weight of the decision hangs in the air. You glance at T-Dog, but he’s just as silent as you are, his face set in a grimace, unsure of what to say, what to do.

Rick’s voice cuts through the quiet, low and dangerous. “What about you?” he asks the larger man, his gun now pressed to the man’s brow.

The man’s calm, collected voice is unsettling as he responds. “I ain’t never pleaded for my life,” he says, his tone steady. “And I ain’t about to start now. So you do what you gotta do.”

You hold your breath, the tension so thick it feels like the walls are closing in. Your eyes dart to Daryl, who’s watching Rick closely, his knife still at the man’s throat. His gaze flickers briefly to you, seeing the anguish written on your face, but his expression doesn’t change. Daryl’s following Rick’s orders, and this isn’t a democracy anymore.

❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥

“Let’s go,” Rick says quietly, his voice flat and tired as he turns to leave the cell block. You had arrived with the two men still in one piece, T-Dog watching at the door for any oncoming walkers. Bodies littered the floor inside the cells, dropped down in front, clearly gunned down, unarmed, with their hands cuffed behind their backs. It was a gruesome sight.

“You’re just gonna leave us in here? Man, this is sick!” the larger man hisses, his face contorted with anger, his brows furrowed deeply as he glares at Rick.

“We’re lockin’ down this cell block,” Rick replies, his voice almost robotic, drained of emotion. “From now on, this part of the prison is yours. Take it or leave it, that was the deal.” He doesn’t wait for a response, turning on his heel and leaving the room without looking back, not waiting for you or Daryl.

You turn to leave, but Daryl is still standing, approaching them with a look in his eye, “You think this is sick? You don’t wanna know what’s outside,”

“Consider yourselves lucky,” Rick says in low tones from outside the door.

As Rick walks out of sight, Daryl’s gaze softens just slightly. “Sorry about your friends, man,” he whispers, and the quiet sincerity in his voice tugs at your heart. It’s the gentleness, that trace of compassion in the midst of all this brutality, that makes you pause.

Daryl turns toward you, his expression unreadable but there’s something there, something only you can sense. He reaches out, and his hand finds yours, but he doesn’t fully hold it—just the outside two fingers, a quiet, familiar gesture that says more than words ever could.

As you both exit the room, you glance back at the two men. There’s sadness in your eyes, a kind of sorrow for what they’ve lost, for what they’re facing. But deep down, you know this is for the best. Your people couldn’t risk any more danger, any more loss. This was fair—food, shelter—they had everything they needed to survive. They would live.

❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥

You arrive back at cell block C with everyone in tow, and the moment you step inside, you hurry to check on Hershel. Carl and Glenn are standing at the door, the young boy’s face tight with worry as he looks to his father, who approaches behind you.

“Hershel stopped breathin’," Carl says, his voice small but steady, "Mom saved him,”

“It’s true,” Glenn says softly beside him. Rick enters the room, his presence quiet but commanding, and the entire group falls silent. All eyes are on Hershel, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

“Still no fever,” Lori whispers from the corner, her voice barely audible but filled with relief.

You remain at the door, frozen for a moment, watching alongside everyone else. Daryl’s hand rests gently on the small of your back, a quiet reassurance as you both stand there, taking it all in. It’s the first real sense of peace you’ve felt all day. And it had been a long day.

Suddenly, there’s movement. Hershel stirs, his eyes fluttering open, and the room fills with quiet gasps of shock and relief.

“Daddy?” Maggie cries, rushing forward, her voice cracking as tears spill down her cheeks. Beth is right beside her, her face a mix of disbelief and joy, “Daddy!”

Rick steps forward, his expression softening as he leans down to release the cuffs from Hershel’s wrists. The older man lifts his hand, weak but purposeful, reaching out toward Rick. Without hesitation, Rick takes it, leaning down, holding Hershel’s hand tightly in his own.

For a brief moment, everything feels right. The room is filled with the warmth of a shared hope, a collective exhale. It’s a beautiful, fragile moment, and for the first time in a long while, it feels like things might be okay. Hershel is alive. He made it.

You watch as Lori quietly excuses herself from the room, slipping out unnoticed by most. Rick follows her soon after, leaving the rest of you standing there, holding onto this fragile piece of hope as if it might slip away at any moment.

Daryl’s fingers tighten on your shirt around your lower back. You glance at his face, noticing how soft and open it looks, a stark contrast to the hardened expressions you’re both used to wearing. He nods his head to the other room, and you both walk away from the quiet space of Hershel’s space, giving his family privacy with him. You follow Daryl up the stairs to your perch where he lowers his crossbow and weaponry with ease, the sound of metal clattering against the floor. You collapse onto the cushion below with a long, exhausted sigh. Daryl sits across from you, the two of you soaking in the silence, letting the weight of the day settle.

“Thank you,” you whisper after a long stretch of silence, your voice soft but filled with gratitude. You reach out, tracing your fingers gently over his knuckles where his hand rests flat against the cushion. He looks at you then, his blue eyes searching your face, always trying to read you.

“Don’t ever need to thank me for nothin’,” he says, his voice rough but sincere, like he doesn’t even realize he’s done anything worth thanking.

“For earlier,” you manage to say, though your throat tightens as you think about it. “Seeing all that blood... it just...” The words trail off, stuck somewhere deep inside you. The memory of it, the feeling of it on your hands, it’s still too raw, too heavy to explain.

Daryl’s eyes soften, and he shifts closer, closing the space between you. “Hey,” he says quietly, his voice gentler now. His hand moves over yours, squeezing it lightly. “You’re alright. We’re alright. Shoulda' learn my lesson by now you're better off next to me anyway,"

Daryl hesitates for just a moment, then moves closer still, reaching out to wrap his arms around you. “C’mere,” he mutters. His embrace is firm, steady, grounding. He holds you against him, his chin resting lightly on top of your head. You take a deep breath, letting the tension in your body slowly melt away.

#the promise of us #the ruins of us #daryl dixon #twd daryl #daryl #the walking dead #daryl x reader #the walking dead daryl #daryl fanfiction #daryl twd #daryl dixion imagine #daryl one shot

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theflyingfeeling · 5 days ago

Text

conversations

just a plotless little Olli/Allu something I wanted to get out of my head because it's been keeping me up for several nights now. similar in style to this weird little fic, but not necessarily in the same universe (unless you want it to be)

[by the fire]

The crack of the wood burning in front of them. The remains of a friends’ get-together, empty cans and half-finished bowls of crisps on the coffee table. A guitar resting in the corner because Tommi told them to call it a day already. Olli’s quiet breathing and his unreadable eyes, fixed on the fire, reflecting its warmth (or perhaps it was the other way around).

“Do you ever…” Olli shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“No, tell me.”

Olli’s eyes close and open again, his lips part and close, the fire swallowing whatever he’s going to say, it seems. Aleksi wants to grab the poker and prod it down to mere embers.

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like if things were… different.”

Aleksi dares not to guess what it and things were.

(He fears he’s wrong, and what might happen if he isn’t.)

“You know, if you had made different decisions. Or if you had… met someone at a different time.”

Olli’s voice is hardly louder than the wintery silence around them, but Aleksi clings on to every word.

Drowns in them.

(Wishes they’d mean what he needs them to mean.)

Dark eyelashes rest on rosy cheeks. A hand moves closer to Aleksi’s on the downy rug. Almost rests over it, hesitates, then does it anyway.

Aleksi’s walls cave in and it’s hard to breathe when wet eyes find his own.

“Do you know what I’m trying to tell you at all?”

Can I say no but still expect you to see through my lies? That’s all you seem to do these days.

Can I say yes and still have you hold my hand in yours like this? I might crumble if you let go.

“Maybe.”

They hold hands as the fire burns out. They hold hands and the silence mocks their cowardice. They hold hands and Olli’s t-shirt is soft against Aleksi’s cheek, his chin quivering on top of Aleksi’s head.

(From the cold that has fallen into the room, Aleksi decides.)

ii.

[in the tourbus]

A drummer snoring in the bottom bunk. Someone tossing and turning and grunting in their sheets. A thick curtain staring back at Aleksi on the other side of the narrow aisle.

His phone buzzing.

I miss you.

Aleksi glances at the curtain. It’s motionless, expectant.

I’m right here?

There’s a barely audible sigh.

No, you’re not. Been absent all day and I miss you.

Aleksi could beg to differ, but he’d have nothing to defend himself with (knowing Olli is right). He could agree, but what if Olli asked him why (knowing he can’t tell him why)?

A compromise, Aleksi later convinces himself, to choke off the sound of his guilt and shame screaming slander at him for not knowing better.

Aleksi does know better, but acts against such wisdom nevertheless.

Come over here then.

A quiet whoosh of a curtain being pulled aside, then another, then something warm and soft crawls to him in the dark and wraps around him.

A comforting scent steals all the air from Aleksi’s lungs (how could he smell so good even when living off truckstop showers?).

A nose roaming over Aleksi’s neck brings pathetic whimpers to Aleksi’s mouth (does he not remember where they are?).

Fidgeting fingers at the hem of Aleksi’s shirt make him tremble until they settle on his waist (and melt into the skin there like butter even though they’re ice cold there are shivers running along Aleksi’s spine).

Lips tracing unspoken words on Aleksi’s skin where his collar bones meet (the shivers pass).

Want you, Aleksi reads from the lips (in comes the ache in his chest).

You can’t, Aleksi writes on Olli’s hairline, above his temple (his favourite spot).

But I do, is the soundless response. And you do too.

(And Aleksi did too.)

iii.

[in the studio]

A forgotten project on a laptop screen. A finished bottle of merlot. A joke that was a little too funny (or not at all funny) for them to forget themselves like that.

A nose to a nose, a pair of lips almost touching another.

Olli’s eyes are unfocused, drifting between Aleksi’s eyes and mouth.

“Should we… go back upstairs soon?”

I shall make my speciality, she had promised them. The twinge of remorse is not enough to move Aleksi from the couch.

“We should,” he says just in case, so that later he can fool his conscience and say had tried.

A scented candle flickering by the laptop, yet all Aleksi can smell is Olli’s cologne. All that wine, yet Aleksi is drunk on something else entirely. It’s shameful, and Aleksi does feel ashamed for it, does beat himself up for it, but when Olli is right there on his couch and softening his brain like booze, Aleksi drops all his weapons to fight against it.

There is no sound judgement in what they’re doing, nor even an ounce of self-preservation by this point. The further they go each time, the closer they come to being caught red-handed, and in a way, maybe that’s what they’re both waiting for.

For a bandmate to walk in and beat the shit out of them, so that they’d maybe come back to their senses.

For a girlfriend to suspect something, anything, and force the truth out of them, so that they can put an end to it all, either for good or for worse.

A ping sounding from Aleksi’s phone informing them of dinner is all they get instead. It’s enough to startle them, but not enough to completely lead them away from temptation.

iv.

[in the studio, scene 2]

[[inside him]]

The wall feels cold and harsh against Aleksi’s back, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. He can still taste his girlfriend’s praised curry off Olli’s lips, but even that’s not going to stop him from pushing Olli towards the couch.

Olli below him is nothing like the cold and harsh floor, but instead velvety and radiating such heat that goes right through Aleksi’s bones. The taste of Olli is nothing like the spicy dish they had upstairs, but sweet and soothing, yet it leaves Aleksi hungrier than he was before dinner.

They don’t talk. They don’t need to, not out loud. Instead, they have an entire conversation without ever making a sound, without speaking a word.

Do you want this as much as I do? Aleksi’s fingers ask at the waistband of Olli’s trousers.

Yes, Olli’s hips answer as they lift off the couch so Aleksi can take the trousers off.

Am I hurting you? Aleksi’s thumb on Olli’s cheek asks.

No, Olli’s tongue inside Aleksi’s mouth replies.

Like this? Aleksi’s hardness moving inside Olli asks.

Yes, like that, Olli’s entire body responds, arching, glowing, trembling.

They still don’t bother breaking the silence that fells in the room afterwards, when they’re all done and spent, lying in their own sweat and cum.

What are we going to do? Aleksi’s eyes ask.

What are we doing to do? Olli’s dark gaze echoes his question.

Aleksi wishes he knew.

Aleksi wishes he could find the answer in Olli’s mouth.

[under a birch tree]

The sky was white and blue and pink, and the last band of the day just got on the stage. Olli’s finger is still bleeding from when he scratched it on something during Balboa. It leaves a stain on Aleksi’s hand when Olli grabs it. Olli is drunk, but somehow his steps are anything but unsteady as he leads them behind the village of blue Bajamaja stalls. Maybe Aleksi is tipsy enough himself to not notice or care.

“Olli, what–” and then he’s being pressed against a white tree trunk, deprived of his right to speak with his bottom lip in between Olli’s teeth. His teeth sunk in too deep, so that they’re both bleeding now.

Drowsy eyes stare up at him. Olli is drunk, but not in a tipsy way that makes him giggly and stupid, nor in the trashy way that has him scream-singing along to a song he doesn’t know in one moment and throwing up on Tommi’s shoes the next. He’s drunk in a gloomy way instead, one that sometimes had him sob against anyone’s shoulder, for no reason and for all the reasons at the same time.

“Stay at mine tonight,” Olli begs him, his lips never leaving Aleksi’s, his eyeliner running down his cheeks. ‘Mine’ (‘yours and hers’) is just some five kilometres away, and Aleksi’s hotel purposely on the opposite side of the city.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

As if any of it had ever been.

“She’s not home.”

As if that somehow makes it any less wrong (but it does explain the regretful frown that’s been stuck on Olli’s face the whole day).

“Still.”

“Then I’ll take you here.”

The foolishness of it would make Aleksi laugh if he was sober enough to think that rationally, and if he didn’t feel as if they were running out of time, and if it wasn’t Olli.

“You can’t.”

The shakiness of his own voice would not have convinced himself either.

“Aleksi, I want you.” A wet mouth is leaving its tracks all over Aleksi’s neck.

“We’re in public,” Aleksi almost sobs and hates how the alternative to do it in private will tarnish yet another home.

“Aleksi, mua panettaa.”

The worst thing is…

…Aleksi knew from the start he was gonna give in.

vi.

[in the studio, scene 3]

[[alone]]

A poorly-working radiator. Bottles of Pepsi that have been keeping him awake (and company) all evening. A pillow and a duvet on the couch in crumpled Moomin sheets, brought down from upstairs.

Gonna be late ‘til I finish the project. Wouldn’t want to wake you up when I come back, he had explained.

Do as you please, she had said, never once lifting her gaze. Neither would Aleksi, if he was her.

He could barely look at himself in the mirror these days.

The radiator and the woolly socks he had found wrapped up under the Christmas tree were nowhere near enough to keep his blood circulating, nowhere near enough to comfort him so that he could fall asleep.

He grabs the phone and hopes he’s not the only one still awake.

Olli picks up within seconds.

“Why aren’t you sleeping yet?” Olli asks him. He’s wearing a black hoodie and an ever blacker expression.

“Why aren’t you?”

Olli looks down to hide whatever emotion he was almost about to reveal.

“I was gonna call you. I wanted to ask you something.”

Aleksi waits.

“Do you… do you remember that one time in… I can’t remember actually. Somewhere in the Midwest maybe. That one time it was thundering real loud.

And you woke me up to listen to it with you?

“Yeah, I think I do remember.”

“Do you remember how the rain was coming down in buckets?”

Yes, and your eyes were as dark as they are now.

“And do you remember that one morning in Colorado? When it had snowed overnight and the bus was freezing.”

And you crawled in my bed again, slid your hands under my shirt again.

“And that one freaky hotel in… was it Amsterdam? Where they had that strange shower thing.”

And where you fucked me for the first time (yes, even in that strange shower).

“And… and do you remember when we were in Tokyo. It was so beautiful there.”

I only remember the early mornings and you biting my thighs to wake me up, and you riding me when we couldn’t sleep, and you showing me that vibrator you had bought.

I only remember how shy you looked all of a sudden, and how the shade of your cheeks matched the shade of that toy when I pushed it in.

“I wish we could go back.”

The tear-choked confession brings Aleksi back to the present.

“Back where?”

Olli shrugs. “Anywhere. Tokyo, maybe.”

Kissing under an out-of-bloom cherry tree.

“Me too,” Aleksi says.

Maybe that’s what it would be like.

If things were different.

authors note: the Finnish word panettaa is not the easiest to translate but it means that one is feeling horny. a more direct translation would be something along the lines of "I feel like fucking" or "I want/need to fuck"

#blind channel rpf #blind channel fanfiction #random tumblr ficlets by theflyingfeeling #ollixallu #i'll spare you from my self-criticism towards this. because growth or whatever ugh #anywayyyyyy lmk what you think i'd really appreciate that 🥺#also! thank you anyone who's been reading my work so far you are the best people i know

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bluestar22x · 5 months ago

Text

The Shot Not Taken

Pairing: Marcus Pike x F!Reader (Nickname "Sunny")

Summary: It was one last night in a cabin after a case; it wasn't supposed to end this way

Rating: 18+

Word Count: 3,400(ish)

Warnings: Sexual tension, yearning, violence, fairly graphic mentions of blood, angst, tragedy - Might be AUish since I don't know what time of year Marcus actually moved to D.C.

Author's Note: I wrote this for @almostfoxglove 's Angst Challenge, and I almost made myself cry, so prepare yourselves. (Moodboard was made by them)

xxx

"You wanna quit while you're ahead, Pike?" you questioned, a smirk on your face. "Before I take what's left of your cash?"

"You're bluffing," he said warily, his dark eyes peering over his hand of cards to where you sat across the table. "There's no way you're that lucky. You've already won five rounds tonight."

"Don't get mad at me when you can't afford breakfast tomorrow."

He flashed you a wicked smile as he placed his hand on the table. "Somehow I doubt that'll be the case." He nodded at his cards. "Four of a kind."

You glanced down to see that he indeed had four aces. You chuckled, surprising him. "Weak."

You dropped your cards on the table revealing that you had the ultimate hand. "Royal flush."

He groaned. "What the hell, Sunny?"

"If it makes you feel better, I'll share my breakfast with you tomorrow," you promised. "Now hand over the money."

A thin smile broke through his look of disbelief. "You should've been nicknamed Lucky instead of Sunny. I'm never playing poker with you again."

"Aw, but you just paid my rent for the month," you teased.

"Exactly."

He reached for his bottle of beer and took a sip before throwing the cash he owed you onto the center of the kitchen table. "I'm bailing before I can't afford my rent."

You pretended to pout but couldn't keep up the act for long. You were nicknamed Sunny for a reason. You hardly ever were in a bad mood. There wasn't much that could keep your spirits down. Which was a good thing, considering your job as an FBI agent for the art crimes department in Washington D.C. involved some very long hours and carried plenty of risk when out in the field.

"Chicken," you declared as you pushed your chair away from the table. "Fine. I wanted to go for a walk before it got too dark outside anyway."

Pike nodded at you as you sprung to your feet. "I'll pick up the cabin while you're out."

"How chivalrous of you, Agent Pike," you sang out. "I'll be back by sunset the latest. Send the hounds if I'm not."

It was a joke, but unsurprisingly the lines over your partner's brows etched in a little deeper. Worried at just the idea of you not coming back. It was sweet, considering you'd only been partners for four months. He'd just moved to the capital on a promotion.

Maybe that meant you were friends.

When he'd first been paired up with you Marcus Pike had been reserved around you, almost like he was afraid to become friends with you.

You'd been secretly hurt by it because he was fine with almost everyone else. His cheerfulness almost rivaling your own at times. He was one of the most good-natured agents you'd ever met, but he was quiet around you. Not necessarily cold, but strictly professional.

You'd wondered if someone had hurt him and if you reminded him of them somehow. He seldom mentioned his final months in Texas to anyone.

You'd thought you were reaching before Marcus came around, because he seemed as married to his work as you were, but your superior had revealed to you at a work party that Marcus had requested for his ex fiancée to have a job at the capital too but she'd never shown up. Marcus had simply told him they'd broken up.

"I doubt you'll need to," you assured him. "Last I checked the case is closed so no stolen art dealers should be stalking these woods. We cuffed our guy last night. Only possible danger out there now is bigfoot."

Marcus huffed. "I have a feeling you're more likely to run into a black bear. Not as many bigfoot sightings in upper New York as there are in the northwest."

You grinned. "Good thing I'm good at intimating anything bigger than me." You patted the holster on your hip. "And my gun's right here for backup."

You fled the cabin you'd been stuck in for most of the past month while you were working on your latest case and headed out on the dirt trail alongside the lake that bordered the back of the property.

There were trees on either side of the path, but you were close enough to the lake's border to be able to see the water the whole time you strolled along it.

It didn't take you long to settle into the peace that nature often brought you. You loved the city life, all the things you could do instead of being bored, but every once in a while it was nice to get away.

You couldn't really count one evening before your flight back to D.C. as a "get away" but you'd take what you could get before your next assignment.

It was autumn, after all, your favorite season. The air was crisp but not quite yet cold enough for you to bother with a jacket, and most of the trees were at the height of flaunting their bright, colorful leaves. In less than a month most of them would fall away, their remains scattered by the wind, leaving the branches bare, exposed, until the trees resurrected in the spring.

Though it wasn't quite yet jacket weather, there was enough of a breeze to compel you to slip on the sweater that you'd tied around your waist on the way out along with the fingerless gloves that had been stuffed into its only pocket.

It's perfectly pleasant out with the extra layer on, and you enjoy every second of the rest of your time in the woods. The loss of light from the setting sun was the only real reason you eventually wanted to turn back. After a raven startled you with its call you decided it was time to return to the cabin before your paranoia got the better of you.

You'd never liked being in the woods at night.

You didn't immediately go back inside the cabin though. Instead you chose to plop yourself down on a massive rock by the edge of the lake and watch the sun as it set.

It was so calming to observe that you zoned out and didn't hear Marcus approaching until he was already sliding onto the rock with you.

He offered you a green mug that clearly contained coffee, its smell filling your nostrils almost as soon as you'd spotted it in his massive hands.

"Decafe, milk only?" you asked. You hated drinking caffeine after six o'clock. You always tossed and turned in bed after.

"Of course."

You accepted the mug from him and tested it. It wasn't bad for cheap home brewed coffee from the local gas station and Marcus had got the ratio of milk right.

He was good with details even outside work.

"It's quiet out here," he noted, pleased.

"A little too quiet at this time of day," you told him. "The day animals are going to sleep and the night ones are just starting to get up. We're in the between."

"Spending time out here has got me thinking," he confessed. "I think I'm going to search for a cabin in Virginia when I get back. It would give me a place to unwind, a place where I don't hear an engine roaring and tires screeching every minute of the day. Would be good for the kids too when I have some someday."

You glanced at him, stunned by his casual mention of wanting to start a family someday. He'd never mentioned it before, but there he was beside you, a wistful look in his eyes, probably imagining his hypothetical future children playing in a lake similar to the one in front of you, splashing each other relentlessly or something as he watched them from the shoreline.

You couldn't help but shake your head at that. It wasn't meant for his eyes, but he noticed anyway.

"What?"

"Nothing," you mumbled, adverting your gaze from his handsome face.

"Tell me."

You shook your head. "It's nothing you'll want to hear. I don't want to ruin your night. Besides, it's none of my business."

"Tell me anyway," he insisted.

You sighed, not wanting to give in but knowing you were going to anyway. "It's just...we're both on the border of forty and we're on the wrong end of a gun at least once a month. The picket fence with the spouse and the two-point-five kids? That's not for us. We're not normal. This isn't normal. This isn't the way normal people live, Marcus."

"Plenty of other agents have families," he pointed out.

"And their families wait with baited breath every day until they come home," you reminded him. "And sometimes there's no relief. Sometimes their spouse, their parent, never comes back home."

It was Marcus' turn to sigh. "This is about your dad."

Your father had been an FBI agent too, in the National Security branch. You'd been only eleven years old when he was shot to death with twelve rounds by the suspect he'd been chasing down in the middle of the city.

"It's not fair to do that to anyone Marcus," you told him. "That's why I'm still single. Why I refuse to get married. It was that or get a desk job, and that's not me. But maybe, if you really want a family, a desk job is what you need. If you have a family, you should commit to them fully."

You were sure he'd be upset with you for everything you'd just said, but instead of getting defensive he scratched the top of his left arm and nodded.

"I've actually been thinking about that lately. The promotion's already given me more of a taste of what it would be like being in the office more often than not, and it doesn't disagree with me. Honestly, I think I'm over my risk taking days."

"What's stopping you then?" you questioned.

"Lately, you," he answered without really thinking.

You startled and stared at him. You noticed he was looking at you in a completely new way, or maybe you were waking up to something in his expression that had always been there. "What?"

"I didn't want to make our partnership a problem, but I also don't want to transfer without you knowing," he continued.

"Knowing what?" You were in complete disbelief. You already knew what he was going to say.

"I care about you, Sunny." He said your nickname so softly. "I want you. Have since we met. Tell me you feel the same."

They were bold words but you found yourself drawn towards him anyway, your lips crashing into his.

You had been yearning for him too. He was your friend, the best partner you'd had in a long time, and he was pretty to boot. You may have already had several dreams about kissing him like this...and more.

Despite all that, you pushed him away when he tried to deepen the kiss, as he cupped your jaw. "The picket fence isn't my ending, Marcus. I don't ever want a desk job. I don't want kids. You deserve someone who shares your dreams. I'm one night stand material, nothing more."

"That's alright," he said so surely the words made your stomach flutter.

You knew him better than that though. "No, it's not," you refuted. "You're not one night stand material, Pike, or else you'd be a lot more relaxed than you are lately. Have you ever slept with a woman you didn't love before? No matter how briefly you'd known each other?"

He stayed silent, answering your question.

You hopped off the rock for his sake, not wanting to be another of his relationships that ended in disappointment, and headed for the cabin to get in some extra hours of sleep.

There was nothing left to say. You couldn't be who Marcus needed you to be and you'd both get hurt if you gave into your lustful desires.

You dreamed of him in vivid detail that night.

The next morning Marcus stirred to the sound of slamming doors through the kitchen window, which he guessed you must've cracked open while going through your morning routine as you usually did during warmer weather.

You were the one making the ruckus, already packing your belongings into the black government issued SUV you'd been assigned while on the case.

After a bathroom break Marcus smoothed down his sleep mussed hair and headed for the kitchen where you'd left out a cup of caffeinated coffee you'd brewed for him after pouring yourself one. His lips quirked upward as he thought about your kindness and he snatched the cup up so he could take a sip. The coffee was on the cooler side of hot, but that was exactly how he preferred it.

You had gotten to know each other quite well during the few months you'd known each other, much more than just your coffee preferences. But he'd caught feelings for you early on, before that, despite not wanting to. Realizing he liked you had been a painful revelation. The last thing he'd wanted was another workplace romance, not even a month after his last had ended poorly.

He had tried to keep you at an arm's length at first, but that hadn't worked out. You'd seemed hurt by it, and that had eventually broken his resolve.

He'd tried to be satisfied with your friendship, but as soon as he could call you a friend, he'd started dreaming at night about you being more than that.

He'd thought maybe, just maybe sleeping with you would've been enough, but you were also right. He wasn't one night stand material. He'd never had casual sex in his life. There were always feelings attached to it.

And you wanted different lives. Like his last girlfriend, you were simply just not meant to be his.

That hadn't stopped him from restlessly tossing and turning in his bed the night before. Thinking about that kiss. How needy your response to his confession had been. How soft your lips had felt against his.

The memory began to make him aroused and he had to shift in his spot by the kitchen sink to get more comfortable.

Think of anything else, Pike.

He focused on the view through the window, a fog carpeting the rocky shores of the lake that cool, sunny morning. He was a city guy at heart, but he'd meant what he'd said the night before. It would be nice to get a cabin and spend some time in nature once in a while. It would be therapeutic.

He'd lost himself in the sight before him when two overlapping gunshots broke the peaceful morning.

Marcus jumped into action, scrambling for his work appointed glock and charging outside to the driveway with little thought for his own safety.

He froze when he turned the corner to the back of the cabin and his eyes found you slumped against the back end of the SUV, the trunk still raised, open.

You were wide-eyed, gasping for air, shaking, and you were holding your left hand over a dark patch of blood that was expanding alarmingly fast over your white tank top on the mid-left side of your chest. Your right hand still had a white-knuckled grip on your gun.

Marcus' heart nearly stopped at the sight. He barely noticed the body of the man laying only a few feet in front of you as he raced to your side to help you.

"Shit, Sunny," he hissed as he added pressure to your bullet wound with one of his own hands.

You coughed, and when you responded you sounded weak and pained. "It's bad." You looked scared.

Marcus brushed your cheek with the back of his hand comfortingly. "Shhh...save your strength."

He slipped his hand into the front right pocket of your jeans where he knew you always kept your cell phone and dialed 911. He later wouldn't be able to recall exactly what he'd told the emergency operator, only that he'd given them enough details to get the paramedics there fast.

"Hang on, Sunny," he murmured when he got off the phone. "They're on their way."

He was in complete denial of what was happening in front of him. If he hadn't been he'd have written you off as already dead. Because you basically were. You'd lost far too much blood. The bullet had most likely nicked a part of your heart. You were fading fast. Your eyes already falling.

"Marcus," you somehow managed to croak out. "Promise me you won't give up. You keep...looking for someone...to share that cabin with."

He shook his head at you, feeling desperate. "No."

"Please," you begged.

"Fine," he said, "But you're gonna have to be my wing woman. Keep me from moving too quick."

You almost managed a chuckle before the last of your strength slipped from you and you stopped breathing altogether. It was that abrupt.

Panic soared in Marcus. He carefully laid you out on your back in the dirt and pressed two fingers to your neck, searching for a pulse. Finding none he could palpate, he knelt over you and started to do chest compressions.

"Damn it, Sunny! Come on! Stay with me!"

Any civilian watching would've been horrified by the sight of your blood squirting out of your wound onto his hands and gray sleep shirt as he worked. It was a futile effort, keeping your heart going when there wasn't enough blood to pump anymore, but it wasn't until he heard the ambulance sirens that Marcus became aware of that.

The tears welled up then, his chest tightening as he went blind.

"Sunny, oh god," he sobbed out, taking in the gruesome sight before him. It seemed like the blood was everywhere.

He pulled your upper body off the ground and cradled it in his arms, pressing his forehead against your own, his lips grazing your closed right eye.

"Damn it, Sunny," he whimpered out before the full bulk of his grief hit him.

He nuzzled his face against your cooling one and finally wept.

Marcus wasn't sure how he'd managed to pull himself together enough to be the one to inform your sister of your passing, but he had.

He'd insisted on it. It was only right he be the one to tell her since he'd been your partner and had been there for your dying breath.

He'd promised your sister that it had been quick and that you hadn't died alone. And even though that made her cry harder, she'd promised him that it made a difference and thanked him for doing everything he could for you in the moment.

He hoped she had family to lean on the day of your funeral. He wasn't there when they put you in the hole. He'd been busy on another case, having buried himself in work to distract himself from his own pain, despite his superior begging him to take some time off to properly mourn you.

Witnessing the funeral would've made it too final. He hadn't been ready yet.

It wasn't until he finally met the one, someone who made him smile again, for real, who shared his dreams for the future, that his heart truly began to mend from your loss.

It wasn't until he had the wedding band, the cabin, and the kids that he completely stopped having the nightmares.

There were still nights though, usually around the anniversary of your death, when he'd lie awake wondering what would have happened if he had stopped you from leaving the rock by yourself that night.

Would you have woken up late, tangled in the sheets with him instead of being outside to face the secret partner of the illegal art dealer alone? Would he have harmlessly stolen back the painting hidden under the rear seat of the SUV instead of stealing your life?

Even though he was sure now that you were never meant to be his, he still couldn't help but wonder if he'd made a mistake letting you go back to the cabin without him. If you should've been his exception.

You would always be his biggest regret.

The shot not taken.

xxx

Tagged: @harriedandharassed

xxx

Main Masterlist

xxx

#Marcus Pike #The Mentalist #almostfoxgloveangstchallenge #Marcus Pike Fanfic #Mentalist Fanfic #Pedro Pascal Character Fanfic #X Reader #Fanfiction #Mine #Queue Me

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shannara810 · 2 months ago

Text

The 666 Club was one of first Outcast speakeasy bars ever built in the USA during the Prohibition era.

The solid wood walls, the soft lights, the long red velvet curtains: nothing had really changed from that infamous night when Bartholomew "Barty" Addams had won the bar in a heated poker game against Al Capone. A game, the legend said, which had lasted three days and three nights, before Gomez’ ancestor had defeated his opponent and was forced to flee to save his own skin.

"You cheated!" the gangster had said.

"Maybe" had been Barty's answer, but now The 666 Club was legally his.

During that tense game some patrons swore that even the Devil had been sitting at Addams' poker table, but whether it was legend or truth didn't matter: an invite to The 666 Club could open you doors everywhere.

Secret alliances, murders, wicked pacts. Much of the Outcast history had been written within the walls of that gentleman's club.

Xavier Thorpe hated being here.

He hated his father for forcing him to take part in this ridiculous show of power and money. He hated his father for showing him off to his business partners like a stud to breed for their pre-teen daughters. He hated his father for making him feel once again as a child unable to rebel.

However, more than his father tonight he hated Calhoun Blair.

A waiter passed by and Xavier reached out to grab the umpteenth champagne flute. He had no intention of leaving his comfortable hiding place and, above all, he had no plan to stay sober. It was time to take extreme measures to survive this horrible night.

The long velvet curtain hid him from those old baboons, so he could observe them all without being disturbed. His father's orders were to not embarrass him or the family name and that's what Xavier was going to do: get wasted in silence and be done with it.

Ugh.

He could feel those dark eyes on him again.

Those warm baby eyes that made him want to run and paint them again and again, till he got their shade right.

Fucking Cal Blair.

The Prodigy Painter.

The Dreamseer.

The son his father had wished for.

Fucking Cal and his fucking talent, with which he had stolen the first prize from Xavier at the most famous Art Contest of the country. And what was worst was that the fucking bastard had tried to congratulate him for his work. Had dared to call his painting wonderful and terrific, before Xavier had yelled at him to fuck off.

Bianca was right: he couldn't accept a defeat even if his life depended on it.

Xavier gulped down his champagne. He really needed another one.

"Should we kill him?"

"The fuck?!"

Without making any noise Tyler Addams had appeared at his side and for a moment, Xavier thought his heart had stopped.

Fucking Hyde and his fucking scary powers. Gods, his head was spinning. How much had he drunk tonight? "Why are you here, Addams?"

"I saw you hiding back here like a loser, so I thought I’d say hi. Are you not happy to see me, roomie?"

"Don't. Call. Me. That."

The Hyde looked like a male model, confident in his skin and uncaring of everything and everyone who wasn't Wednesday Addams or their family.

Xavier envied the other boy. Maybe not his murderous tendencies or his spooky quirks, but it must have been nice to be so unconcerned about the expectations of the world.

"You should be gentler with your best friend, you know?"

"I've never said we were friends, Addams!"

Tyler gave the other boy one of his "I know something you don't know" smirk and looked back at the dark haired painter who was still talking with his father on the other side of the room.

Not for the first time, Xavier felt leery of the Hyde's interest in him. The monster's obsession with Wednesday Addams was well known after all, and with his old crush on the girl Xavier had been sure that Tyler would not have had any issues to rip his throat. Instead, the curly haired boy had started to treat him almost as the Thorpe heir was a pet to care for.

"So why do we hate him?"

"I don't know what you're talking about".

"Xavier, Xavier, Xavier. You're a lousy liar, my friend". Silent as only a predator could be, the Hyde moved to his right side, getting in his personal space. Xavier could now feel the other's warm breath on his neck.

"Don't you have some poor fool to tear to pieces?" His voice was shacking, but he kept staring straight ahead. He would never give Tyler fucking Addams the satisfaction of seeing how uncomfortable the other Outcast could make him feel.

"Mmm, nope. I promised my cockroach I would have been on my best behaviour tonight. And it wouldn’t be polite to start a bloodbath without her, would it?"

"You're crazy".

"Aren't we all?" Tyler's expression was that of a dazed man and Xavier granted himself a nervous laugh. How pathetic you had to be if even a crazy Addams - this crazy Addams - would try to cheer you up?

The Hyde put an arm around his shoulders, bringing him closer. "Smile, mon cher. As if I had just told you the funniest joke in this world".

"What are you playing at, Tyler?"

A strange new dizziness struck him and Xavier felt his knees fail. The music, the lights, the smoked air: everything was too much. His heart was racing, the pounding echoing in his ears.

"Your boy is looking at us, mon cher. Are you sure you want to kill him? Because I would go for Plan B".

"And what's that?"

His father still had his back to him but now Cal was silent, staring at Xavier with a pleading look in his eyes. His big dark eyes.

Such nice eyes.

"He wants to fuck you, roomie. Or, not. He wants for you to drag him in the broom closet and make a man out of him". Tyler put his chin on the painter's shoulder. "Uhhh, I can smell his fear from here, you know. Poor lovely boy. He is scared I will take you away from him".

"You don't know what you're talking about".

Tyler merely shrugged off. He fixed Xavier's hair, raising an eyebrow like the other boy had just said something ridiculous. "Don't be such a sourpuss, Xav. I'm not stupid. Only differently sane".

The Thorpe heir tried to swallow his nerves. Perhaps it was the alcool or maybe Tyler's mind games, but the idea of kissing Cal had suddenly become not so bad. "I'm not gay".

"Never said you were. But that boy over there wants to jump your bones, so why not take advantage of it?"

"What do want, Tyler?"

For a moment Tyler's eyes flashed red and Xavier could feel a shiver run down his back. The eyes of a Beast, possessive and dark. "You're a friend, Xavier. And I always take care of what's mine".

"Won't Wednesday be jealous?" It was a weak joke, but better than nothing.

Tyler laughed heartily, his Beast asleep yet again. "Mon ange de la nuit knows I would never betray her. I'm hers and she is mine. In this life and the next. Keep up, Xav".

"Why am I still hanging out with you?"

"Because you're a douche and what other choice do you have? Ajax?"

"I. Fucking. Hate. You".

He wanted to say something witty, but his words died when Calhoun Blair made his way towards them. The Dreamseer's smile was bashful and cowed, like a deer in the face of a hunter. "I hope I'm not disturbing".

"Nope, I was just leaving. I'm sure Tio Gomez is looking for me".

"Oh". Cal offered the curly haired boy his hand, like the perfect gentleman he was. And for the umpteenth time Xavier could not decide if he wanted to bash his face in the wall or kiss him senseless. "I'm Cal Blair, nice to meet you".

Tyler narrowed his eyes almost as he was weighing Cal up, before shooking said hand. Cal’s face writhed in a grimace of suffering even though he tried to conceal the pain.

"Tyler Addams, le plaisir est pour moi".

A strange awkward silence fell between them, before Tyler shook his head amused and left them to meet the older Addams. When he passed by, the Hyde gave Xavier a pat on the back. "Let me know if I have to help you with the body, mon cher".

Cal looked at them like he was not sure what was going on, but in that moment Xavier decided that he really didn't want to know. The night was still young and perhaps it was about time he took a page out of the Hyde's book.

What could possibly go wrong?

*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

@fullofwoe5321 for you 🖤 Thank you for my new headcanon of Xavier being Bi and for Tyler as his amazing and creepy wingman 🤣

* She runs away because what the heck is this? And it's late and you should never fight with English grammar this late 🥲*

#wednesday tv series #wednesdaynetflix #tyler galpin apologist #tyler galpin #wednesday x tyler #tyler x wednesday #xavier thorpe #wednesday au #my writing #oc character #weyler #bromance #bisexual xavier thorpe #Tyler is an amazing wingman #scary but amazing #i really need to sleep #gomez addams #the addams family #my tyler addams 'verse

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