#his relationship with the machine is so captivating
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saudrag · 1 year ago
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“who am I?”
— ADMIN —
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p1ctur3 · 4 months ago
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@octdl-lee
Random captive TDL au lore dump and some behind the scenes stuff since you asked so nicely :]
Dark in captivity
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victim did use dark as a way to train and get the mercs and him used to the box
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victim and agent (i would probably explore their dynamic in this au also, mitsi would haunt this narrative because yes)
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some behind the scenes things
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additional art
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#alan becker#animator vs animation#ava#ava tdl#ava victim#captive tdl au#long tag warning#dark is going to have some dog/caged animal symbolism and machine symbolism#TDL is very much a problem captive also very annoying one at that#you can blame the high security one him since his constant escapes helped rocket corp to tighten their security#victim is definitely insane and he will do some incredibly messed up stuff in this au#the machinery on agent is supposed to look like it is slowly consuming him like some kind of infestation#agent has some issues as well and will be an enabler for victim#victim and agent's relationship will get some attention in this au but the main plot will still revolve around chosen and dark#chosen and dark's relationship is a lot more complex so i won't bother to summarise it all since i don't really want to spoil it#TSC will receive a bit of attention since he is still very much tied to the plot of ava#tsc does have a split personality like an alter ego that takes over when he is in danger#i dont think i would really touch on the colour gang since i think it would make the story too messy#i do have most of the story already planned out#it is just the part leading to the ending#every weapon and tech in rocket corp was tested on TDL#in a way he did help with the destruction of chosen by helping rocket corp to improve their tech by being their test subject#fulfilling his code in its own twisted way#btw the additional cage in his containment area is to temporarily hold him during the box maintainence or upgrades#it is also the same type of cage that TSC is kept in currently#the box prototype that TDL is in would probably have a different name like 'the cage'#the bars of the cage is electrically charged and it also resembles a dog cage (dog symbolism)#there won't be too much about dark during his captivity since it will be more about how it impacted the relationship between him and chosen#i would probably start posting more random lore bits every now and then between comics#i hope i stop getting side tracked when working on this au
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gremlingottoosilly · 8 months ago
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Monster!König whose first course of action after the monster uprising was to find his missing bunny wife!Reader who has no idea he even considered them married in the first place. König who is clueless when it comes to societal norms or concepts and learns about marriage through picking up conversations from scientists back when he was locked up. (Still doesn’t have the greatest grasp on it even after getting his hands on human books and media) Reader is just happy to be free from being used as a breeding machine and had no idea her cell?mate thought their relationship ran that deep and wants to get legally married now. :/
Some of the scientists laughed, calling you Konig's little bunny wife. A packmate, someone to get his stress dumped in so their captive monster could be less of a killing machine and more of someone who can actually be controlled and sated. Throw him a bitch with a leaky hole and whiny voice, and he'd be satisfied until the end of time. Konig doesn't like the sound of laughter that comes from the scientists, but he likes the word "wife" forced on you. Wife. Pretty, cute, adorable, small, and fragile thing that needs him to survive - it's basic biology. Needy bunnies like you can't survive in a world filled with humans and certainly can't do it in the new reality, where the strongest are getting all the cards. When Konig eventually gets out, he reads - to his surprise, really, and to the surprise of all of his comrades who would much rather burn everything the old rulers of their world have left. But Konig reads - romance novels, human courting rituals, the true meaning of the word wife and the word husband. He thinks of ways he can put together a wedding worthy of his precious little bunny - when he would finally get her with him, of course. He finds you, of course - it's not that hard to find a bunny in this shrunken world when he has almost all of the power he could have. A colonel in the monster forces, somewhat of a hero waiting for his mate to arrive - you're given to him as a gift from his comrades, a pack of soldiers eager to please their commander. Yes, the little bunny was crying and squirming in his grasp when she was delivered, but it's hardly his fault, is it? Konig just isn't quite sure on how to go about this whole marriage thing and what to do when your pretty wifey is desperately trying to get out of his grasp. He squeezes your throat a bit until you stop trashing in his hold and then spends the rest of the evening exploring your precious needy holes with his tentacles and his hands. God, he missed the feeling of your pussy clenching on his cock, desperate for him to release his seed. You're a bad little thing for denying him, but it's okay, he can work with that. He doesn't care if you're dumb or ungrateful - he will just press further, push his cock as deep into you as possible, squeezing your soft breasts until he swears the milk will come. He will have to breed you for this, of course - as thoroughly as possible until you can't help but cry and moan in his hold. Scientists never allowed him to actually dump his eggs in you, always afraid that he would get too possessive and territorial protecting his clutch and the pregnant mate - but oh, no one is there to stop him now. You would forget all about resisting in a bit - it would be much easier to push you around once you're getting the role of his pretty little wife, just like you were intended to.
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draconic-desire · 1 year ago
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💥 Take My Whiskey Neat 💥
Yandere Boothill x Reader
Again and again, you find a way to escape, and every time ends with you peering down the barrel of a gun.
Warnings: Yandere behaviors, forced relationship and captivity, implied kidnapping, some suggestive content but mostly sfw. Mild spoilers for his background story; I want to write him both as a super attentive and protective guy but also crazy for you???
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You’ve become all too familiar with the sensation of a gun being pointed to your forehead.
“Aw, darlin’, why the long face? Took me two whole days to find ya this round! You should be proud’a yerself. I dare say our time together has taught you well,” he concludes with a wink.
Somehow, his praise feels more like a taunt.
That’s because it is. Obviously you never had a chance at escaping from him, a Galaxy Ranger with a bounty on his head worth more than your life a hundred times over. He was born and raised to hunt, to track, to kill. You’re just the unlucky target.
He leans the gun ever so slightly closer to you, mere inches before it can graze your skin, and waits for your response. Although you know he won’t pull the trigger, the sight of the 9 millimeter colt aimed directly between your eyes still sends goose flesh skittering down your arms.
You grit your teeth and pin him with a withering glare. The last thing you’ll relinquish is your pride—you’re not intimidated by him, and it is impressive that you evaded him for so long, relatively speaking. Your other escape attempts lasted mere hours.
Unfortunately, the fact that the Ranger has always traveled alone doesn’t help your chances—especially when lately, his only occupation has been you.
“What, no clap back today? No, ‘fudge you, ya son of a nice lady’ or ‘fork you, shirtbaggin’ bootlicker’? I’ve gotten so used to yer colorful language that I’m almost disappointed!” Boothill tilts the gun and juts his hips, his bullseye gaze locked on your own.
Ignoring the subtle look of longing, of hurt, within their depths is getting harder and harder. He’s superb at hiding it behind jokes and attempted curses, but you know that look. He’s clinging to you after all that’s been taken from him, seeking love after it was destroyed in flames. If only he still held onto his human emotions and didn’t rely on that neuro chip of his; then he’d know that what he’s showing you isn’t love, but obsession.
You wish you had never extended your kindness to him that fateful day, when he’d burst into your home, sparks flying and wires exposed. One of his arms was barely attached, completely torn through with bullet holes. A shootout, he’d said, and he’d caught wind of a handy ‘machine doctor’—a mechanic, you’d corrected him—in town who could fix him right up.
It had taken a full two weeks for you to get him back up and running functionally. Two weeks of evading IPC grunts knocking on your door in search of him, two weeks of tolerating (and fine, maybe even enjoying) his crude jokes, and two weeks of stories over a glass of whiskey, about your hope to one day travel among the stars and his of finding a companion to do so with.
That’s when he’d seemed the most human. Voice tinged with sorrow, yes, but lips curved into a morose smile, eyes looking up at the stars. Reminiscing about when he was still fully human, nothing but a cowboy on a seemingly insignificant planet, surrounded by his adopted parents and siblings, and even that little girl whom he never got to see grow up.
After he’d shared his story, you’d felt the sudden urge to be close to him. Without thinking, you’d brought your hand up to his cheek, wiping an invisible tear despite the fact that he lost his tear ducts long ago.
He’d sucked in a breath and gone deadly still; thinking you misjudged the situation and overstepped a boundary, you’d quickly started to jerk your hand back, only for him to lock it firmly against his face with his metal palm.
His voice, normally loud and clear through the synthesized distortion, had been quiet, low, wavering. “I—please, don’t stop. That feels…nice.”
You were sad to see him go after those two weeks. You honestly expected to never see him again—he was a Galaxy Ranger, after all, the definition of a lone wolf—but to your surprise, his visits didn’t end there. He kept returning again and again, and not just for repairs. Sometimes he’d bring you gifts or tell you stories of his hunt, and you’d cherish those moments when the galaxy felt just a bit less lonely with him.
Then the visits started to increase in their frequency—and intensity. He’d show up while you were working with a client and brazenly threaten them to leave so he could occupy your time instead, or he’d appear on your doorstep in the middle of the night with your favorite bottle of liquor, winking at the sight of your embarrassed form, still in your nightclothes. Your world suddenly seemed to revolve around the gunslinging cyborg.
You’d had to put your foot down—as much as you did enjoy his company, you wouldn’t allow him to interfere with your career. You’d worked hard to gain your skills, and even though you were barely scraping by and living in a tiny, modest home by yourself, you were still proud of what you’d achieved on your own.
His initial reaction was an uncharacteristic and frightening bout of silence, his pupils blown wide, locked onto yours. Just as quickly, his typical smirk returned as he laughed it off. “Just watch out, lil cutie, ‘cause I know you’ll be missin’ me soon.”
Apparently, soon was imminent, immediate. You were pouring yourself a drink after a long week of work when he finally kicked down your door and announced you’d be coming with him.
“I’ve been waiting a long while now to claim you, darlin’.”
“And if I refuse?”
That was the first time you witnessed his gun trained on you.
Now, Boothill drags you along everywhere, hopping from one planet or system to the next, living together as nomads. What you believed to be a serendipitous friendship, he thought was the start of your romance and life together.
It would be thrilling in any other circumstance, treading the path of The Hunt, evading the law, tracking down the IPC members who destroyed his family…except the cyborg transferred that need to protect, to save someone, onto you. You have no choice but to be his now, and he’ll be damned if he ever lets you go.
“You just want to hear me curse because you can’t,” you growl. What a stupid argument to be having with a pistol to your head. Yet you can’t help but siphon all of your anger into this dumb little game of cat and mouse, of shark and minnow, of hunter and bird.
He forgets you’re not the only one armed.
You flash him the most vulgar gesture you can make. “Go fuck yourself, Boothill.”
The cowboy throws his head back in a laugh. “Haha! There she is. Wild as a newborn colt.” He grins, flashing those shark teeth you’d groan to loathe. You’ve lost count of the number of puncture marks and scars they’ve littered across your flesh.
That’s something he can’t seem to get enough of—the feel of your warm, organic, human skin against his cold, steel shell.
“Lan shoot me with an arrow, do you ever shut the fuck up?” you grumble, looking up as if the Aeon will give you an answer.
“Think ya already know the answer to that,” he replies, lowering his weapon to sling his opposite arm around your shoulders. The gun hangs languidly from his other hand, as if he’s not the deadliest shot in the galaxy.
His breath brushes your neck as he leans in and nips at your ear. “Now, how ‘bout we take this back home, eh cutie? Two days without you has got me pretty…” His voice drops an octave. “…pent up, if ya know what I mean.”
The tooth marks along your skin flare. Oh, you know all too well.
~*~
Trying to find the solution to your imprisonment at the bottom of a bottle seems like a really clever idea, at least until the room starts spinning.
The empty glass cracks against the wooden table again as brown liquor burns down your throat. What did he call it? Rocket fuel? Damn right, and you’d lost count of the number of shots you’d taken.
Boothill’s normal smirk is contorted into a small frown. “Darlin’, I know it’s been a long couple’a days away for you, but I think we should retire the whiskey for the time being—”
“Shyut up!” you slur, jabbing a finger at the Ranger, your neck still throbbing from all the love bites and hickeys he’d given you. “Thiz is your fault.”
He reaches for the bottle, but you snatch it away and instead start to take pulls directly from it. A deep sigh reverberates behind you as you stand and begin to spin around, hands extended. “Aren’t we celebrating you catching me again? You got what you wanted, you…you mudder…fuuuu…” You sway and just barely catch yourself before you tumble—wait, no, that’s him steadying your shoulders.
“(Y/n).” You blink out of your haze momentarily; only on rare occasions does he use your name and not things like darling or cutie. His face is controlled, mouth tilted downward. “Put the bottle down. I know the feelin’ of wanting to drown in liquor, but it ain’t right.”
“I’m only like this because you took me from my life!”
He bares his teeth, and you know you hit a nerve. “That little shack you called a home? Was that really livin’? All those nights we talked, you said how you wanted grand adventure and risk! To travel and see the stars! To be with me!”
“I didn’t ask for you to put me in a moving cage,” you spit back, trying to shake out of his iron-clad grip. “But you never asked what I wanted, did you?”
“Why’s this all so hard for you to accept?” One hand moves to grab your chin, tilting your face towards his tall form. “It could be just us, ridin’ through the galaxy for all time.” His lips brush lightly against your own, and you feel a tinge of warmth run down your spine. “Just be mine.”
In your drunken stupor, your anger morphs into something else, something more carnal. He wants to be the predator? Well, even the hunted fight back sometimes.
The bottle drops from your hand, shattering against the floor, as you hook an arm around his neck and kiss him fervently, your tongue running along the edges of his pointed canines.
Before he can kiss you back, you pull away, wiping the back of your mouth with your forearm. “That’s what could have been if you hadn’t kidnapped me. If you’d asked me first.” Skipping over the remnants of the whiskey bottle, you flip him the finger over your shoulder as you walk away. “Too bad that’s all you’ll get. Fork you, Boothill.”
As soon as you leave the room, Boothill raises a metal digit to his lips, savoring the sensation of your warm mouth against his. So that’s what your willing kiss feels like. The true passion he knows is hidden deep in your soul, buried beneath the dirt like an unmarked grave. He releases a breathy laugh.
Well fork him sideways, but he wants more.
Taking his hat off, he sets it on the table and moves to pour himself a glass of sherry. He’s nearly positive he’ll find you passed out in bed if he goes to you now, and knows he shouldn’t, can’t be in the same room with you when his self control is so near to breaking. Better to let you sleep it off and tease you about the kiss in the morning.
Boothill kicks his feet up and takes a long sip. So, it turns out your drunken self may actually be harboring some attraction for him. Yeah, he can use that.
“I’ll have you someday,” he whispers, a promise to both you and himself. “Whiskey ain’t the only thing that’ll be on your lips, darlin’.”
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zomquette · 5 days ago
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Dunno 'er (Part 1)
Daryl Dixon x Wife!Reader
Summary: What was supposed to be just another hunting trip turns sideways when you cross paths with a group of armed, bald creeps who seem more cult than crew. Captured and dragged into their cold, clinical regime, you and Daryl are forced to pretend you’re strangers—just two more bodies in their machine. With your daughter back home, waiting for your return, survival isn’t just about making it out alive—it’s about holding onto what’s yours. You've got to fake it till you make it baby.
Era: Post-six-year time jump.
Genre: Post-apocalyptic angst, some fluff, slow-burn psychological tension, undercover drama, emotional hurt/comfort, dark humour, cult dystopia, established relationship, survival thriller
Warnings: Graphic violence, kidnapping, psychological manipulation, captivity, cult themes (indoctrination/assimilation), sexual harrassment, emotional distress, weapon use, reference to childbirth trauma and motherhood, forced separation, mention of infant loss (as a lie), emotional manipulation, strong language, suggestive dialogue, unhinged banter, mentions of torture, and oppressive regime ideology.
Auther's note: Nothing much to say really if you like this you're gonna love part 2 (it has smut hehehe 😈). Why don't I just write stupid short fluffy stuff so you don't lose your mind tryiing to ptoofread your long ass fics? Oh idk cause i hate myself 😃 Anyway enjoy and lemme know what ya think🙈
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The woods were quiet in that honeyed, late-afternoon kind of way—the hour when the light poured down through the pines in long golden shafts and everything seemed suspended, like the earth itself was holding its breath. Somewhere off to the left, a bird called out low and slow, and the trees rustled with the lazy hush of wind threading through branches. It was peaceful in that deceptive, makes-you-forget-you’re-still-in-the-apocalypse kind of way.
Dog was in a world of his own, padding soundlessly through the underbrush with his nose low and ears alert, every inch of him the seasoned scout, weaving between the trees in wide, lazy arcs like he’d done a thousand times. Daryl walked slightly ahead of you, crossbow slung across his back, grumbling to himself like some kind of backwoods thundercloud in a leather vest. Every time his boot hit a stick or his elbow bumped a branch, he muttered louder.
“Y’know,” you called after him, smiling like a fox, "for someone of your supposed stealth caliber, you sure sound like a one-man marching band.'
He glanced over his shoulder, narrowed his eyes. “Ain’t the one who’s soundin’ like they need an inhaler.”
“Oh, c’mon,” you huffed, tossing your arms in theatrical exasperation. “If I knew we were doin’ cardio, I’da worn my good bra. I thought this was gonna be quality time with my husband—not a vivid reminder that breastfeeding ruined my center of gravity.”
That pulled a twitch from the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but close. "This is quality time," he retorted. "You bitchin', me enjoyin' the view.'
You attempted a scowl his way but faltered completely, just grinning like an idiot. Teasing aside, he would never get used to you calling him your ‘husband,’ and he would never admit to it, but it made his chest flutter slightly every time.
You trotted forward a little until you were close enough to bump his shoulder with yours. “Dani said you looked like a Sasquatch when you dropped her off this. Dunno where the hell she is learning those words from but she told me to tell you that you need ‘less scowl and more sparkle.’ Her words.”
“Told her she was lucky to even get a walk to school. Sulkin in the morning cause we were headin’ out later.”
“You love it,” you said, looping your arm through his as you walked. “You let her ride on your shoulders the whole way there and gave her your bandana so she could ‘look tough like Daddy.’”
“She’s five,” he muttered. “Don’t need to be lookin’ tough.”
“She made you wear her pink backpack the whole way home.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Said it was heavy and her legs were tired.”
You raised an eyebrow. “She rode on your shoulders the entire walk.”
“She said her arms were tired, too.”
You grinned. “Ya know she drew a picture of it in her journal and told her teacher, quote, ‘My daddy’s real strong ‘cause he can carry me and my stuff and he only complains a little.’”
That one cracked him, just a little. His mouth tipped into a slow, reluctant smile and he shook his head. “She’s too damn smart for her own good.”
“Gee, wonder where she gets that from,” you said sweetly, leaning into his side. “Not from you, that’s all I’m gonna say.”
“Oh yeah?” he raised his eyebrows in question; “What did she get from me then?”
“The patented Dixon brand of sulking in silence until someone guesses what’s wrong. She does it when I don’t cut her sandwich right.”
Daryl made a face like he wanted to argue, but couldn’t. Not when it was true. Not when you were looking at him like that.
“She’s a drama queen,” he replied, wiping a smudge of dirt from your face to get a reaction from you, which of course worked, with you swiping his hand away to do it yourself. “Gets it from you,” he finished with a smirk.
“She gets it from me?” you echoed, all mock-offended. “You’re the one who gets all worked up when someone goes near your bike.”
He shrugged, noncommittal—but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth, the start of a smirk he was trying to swallow.
“You mean to tell me,” you went on, walking backwards so you were facing him, “that you, Daryl Dixon, most dramatic man in the tri-county area, think I’m the diva?”
In two long strides he caught up to you, now toe-to-toe, his hands found your waist like second nature—fingers curling around your hips, thumbs sliding beneath the hem of your shirt like he’d been waiting for an excuse. 
He dipped his head, murmuring low, close to your mouth. “I think you talk too much.”
“Jokes on you - you married me.”
“Don’t remind me,” he said—gruff, teasing—then kissed the corner of your smirk just to shut you up.
You laughed into it, hand fisting in the front of his shirt. “You’re obsessed with me.”
He huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching, eyes fixed on you like he hadn’t heard anything more true. “Mhmm.”
You smiled at him, leaning in slowly, lips brushing his—soft, smug, almost taunting. He caught your bottom lip gently between his teeth, tugged just enough to make you gasp, then kissed you proper—slow and greedy, like it was his favorite habit.
You lingered, lips still brushing his; “hey, y’know, I was thinking—it’s pretty quiet out here—”
“Don’t,” he said immediately, sidestepping you.
You gasped, mock-offended. “You don’t even know what I was gonna say!”
He gave you a look—half fond, half warning. “Always know what you’re gonna say. You get that look in your eyes when you’re about to start somethin’.” He pointed lazily at your face. “That one. Right there.”
“Oh, but it’s already started,” you said, catching up to him with a wicked little smirk.
You slung your bow off your shoulder, circling him with that slow, swaggering walk he always pretended not to watch. “Tell you what - first one to drop dinner wins,” you said, all innocent-like. “Loser’s gotta go down tonight.”
Daryl blinked, once. Then narrowed his eyes. “You serious? What is it with you n’ that?”
You gave a dramatic little shrug, like it didn’t mean anything at all. “Because it usually works out pretty well for me - that’s why.” 
By ‘pretty' well you mean 'mind-blowing-level' well but that goes without saying.
“I mean, unless you’re scared,” you said, drawing out the word like it was a dare. “S’fine if you don’t think you can perform under pressure.”
He snorted, shaking his head, but you didn’t miss the way his mouth twitched—trying not to smile.
“Aww,” you teased, leaning in just enough to crowd his space. “What’s the matter, babe? You chicken? C’mon. Rules are simple; win, and I’ll make you see stars. Lose, and I get to sit on your face. Sound fair?”
He rolled his eyes like you were exhausting, but his hand was already going to his crossbow. “…You’re on. Ten says you scare everything off with your talkin’ before you even get a shot off.”
You were already stepping backward into the trees, walking in reverse with a wink. “Mmhm. Go ahead - put your money where your mouth’s gonna be—literally.”
Daryl didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just stared you down like he was already fucking you with his eyes. He walked over to you, stopping when you were face to face with him, his hand going to your ass and delivering a playful squeeze.
“When I win,” he said, voice low and rough, bringing up his finger to point at your mouth; “I’m gonna sit back and letcha prove just how smart that mouth of yours really is.”
"Hmmm," you hummed, stutting further into the underbrush with a sway of your hips before calling back to him; “better shoot straight then, baby.”
——
Your arrow cracked through the trees like a knife —clean, sharp, final. You didn’t even need to check. You already knew you’d hit it.
Daryl exhaled through his nose, slow and measured, like a man holding back a lot of things: irritation, pride, arousal, maybe all three.
You turned on your heel with a grin so smug it could power a small city. “Ha! Well, well, well. Looks like I win.”
He didn’t say anything. Just gave you a look. To anyone else, that look would’ve read like a death glare—sharp, lethal, the kind of stare that promised blood and followed through—but you knew better, knew the twitch in his jaw wasn’t rage but restraint, the low simmer of a man three seconds from calculating whether the tree line offered enough privacy to absolutely rail you into the moss without a single goddamn witness. You ignored his stare; for the most part.
“Oh, don’t give me that face,” you said, slinging your bow over your shoulder with a victorious little sway. “Last time you looked at me like that, we ended up with Dani—so unless you’re prepared to give her a sibling, I suggest you remember the deal. I won fair and square, Dixon.”
Still nothing from him. Just that tight-lipped, jaw-flexing silence that always meant he was trying real hard not to rise to your bait.
You clicked your tongue, triumphant, and started backing away toward the fallen squirrel with a grin that was all teeth. “Better start hydrating now, baby,” you called over your shoulder. “I don’t wanna hear a single complaint when you’re down there fulfilling your husbandly duties later.”
That got you a grunt. Low. Muted. Real damn close to a groan. Which meant you were winning twice.
“You know,” you added, voice sing-song, “I’m starting to think you let me win. Missed your favorite meal, huh?”
“Get your damn squirrel, woman, and let’s go,” he snapped—but his voice cracked just enough to tell you exactly where his head was at.
You smirked, stepping into the trees with a little extra sway in your hips. “Eager,” you murmured. “I like that.”
You turned with a victorious little strut, weaving through the brush toward the base of the tree where your prize had dropped. The woods were quiet, still golden with afternoon light, the kind of peace that made you feel safe in a way you knew better than to trust.
You bent to withdraw your arrow and scooped up the squirrel by the tail, turning it over to check the shot placement—clean, right through the chest—when a sharp rustle hit your ears. Not the kind made by an animal. Not random.
The sound that cracked through the hush was sharp and calculated, a deliberate misstep masked as accident, but you knew better than to believe in coincidences this far from the walls. 
You didn’t make a noise Because just up ahead, Daryl was standing still—not stiff, not frozen by fear or surprise, but loose in that heavy, deliberate way he only moved when his senses were screaming louder than his words ever could, the kind of stillness that meant something had gone very wrong and his body was already three steps into the fight before the threat even had time to finish blinking.
Your eyes scanned the clearing, carefully, patiently, reading the space the way others might read a prayer—quiet, reverent, alert—and it didn’t take long to count them.
There were five of them, strangers in dark clothes with cruel faces, positioned like they’d done this sort of thing before—two flanking, two circling, one front and center like a stage actor performing for an audience he didn’t think could fight back.
One of them held Dog by the collar, gripping so tightly the poor mutt was practically vibrating with restrained fury, his snarl pulled taut like a bowstring and his teeth bared in a promise that would’ve made most men hesitate, though this one clearly wasn’t most men, because he didn’t seem to care.
Three more stood behind Daryl, their stances loose but not casual, one of them spinning a knife in lazy loops that didn’t look practiced so much as ritualistic, the rhythm hypnotic in its disregard for the tension winding the air between all of you.
But it was the man in front—the one who made your stomach coil and your fingers press just a little harder against the bowstring—who really mattered.
He stood tall and unmasked, built like a man who knew how to make his body a weapon, the kind of posture that said he didn’t need backup to be a threat. A jagged scar curved down the side of his face like a branding iron pressed into bone, catching the light with every tilt of his head — not the kind of wound that happened by accident, but one someone chose to wear like a name. His skin was pale, almost waxy in the half-light, but his features were all bite: sharp cheekbones, cruel mouth, and eyes the color of shattered ice. He had that look — the kind that made people cross the street, that made authority hesitate, that said he’d hurt things for fun and walked away clean every time. Al Pacino’s Scarface looked like a knockoff toy version of him. This guy was the real deal.
“Well, shit,” he drawled, voice smooth and slow, like he was savoring every syllable as he gave Daryl a long, sweeping once-over, his eyes dragging across him not with curiosity, but with the kind of sick appraisal that made your skin itch. “Ain’t this a surprise.”
Daryl didn’t react - just stared him down as if that would be enough to make them go away. The man stepped closer, boots soft on the mossy forest floor, hands swinging loose at his sides in a mockery of casual calm, the kind of predator confidence that didn’t need to raise a weapon to make a threat known.
“Didn’t think we’d find anyone worth our time this far out,” he continued, words syrupy with false friendliness, though the blade underneath it was unmistakable, “usually it’s just loners, runners, half-starved little roaches crawlin’ through the woods hoping not to be noticed.”
Still, Daryl said nothing. His eyes flicked—barely—past the man’s shoulder. Toward you. His gaze was quick, tense. Go.
You stayed exactly where you were, crouched in the shadows, the bowstring already kissed and humming beneath your fingers, your breath ghosting slow against your lip as you waited—not with fear, not with panic, but with the bone-deep patience of someone who had done this before and would do it again.
The man didn’t step forward. Didn’t need to. He just stood there, squared in the clearing like he’d already laid claim to it, his hands at his sides and his voice calm enough to scrape the nerves raw.
“My name is Marshal,” he said, not bothering with flair or warmth, the syllables crisp and almost bureaucratic, like he was introducing himself at a staff meeting instead of standing over a bloodstained forest floor. He didn’t wait for a handshake. Didn’t expect one. The name was a statement, not a courtesy.
Daryl said nothing. Not even a twitch of his jaw.
But Marshal, to his credit, didn’t seem offended. If anything, the silence appeared to amuse him, like he’d been hoping for it. He let his gaze wander lazily over Daryl’s frame, not in assessment, but with the idle confidence of someone who always assumed they held the upper hand.
“You know,” he said eventually, his tone lighter now, but no less pointed, “the quiet ones are always the ones with the best secrets.” He tilted his head just slightly, the edge of a smirk curling one side of his mouth like a reflex more than an expression. “So I’ll ask nicely—only once. You out here alone?”
Nothing. Daryl’s jaw ticked. Without realising, you pulled back harder on the string.
“That a yes?” the man pressed, voice light but sharpening at the edges. “Or you just don’t like my face?”
The silence that followed was heavier than any answer.
Daryl’s jaw ticked—just once, sharp and hard—and the tension pulled so tight inside your chest you thought it might snap.
“Yeah I’m alone. Just me and the Dog out here.” The lie rolled naturally off his tongue, however it didn’t seem to do the trick.
From the corner of your eye, you caught movement—Knife Guy shifting behind Daryl, like he was about to pat him down or worse. That was the moment. That was it.
The itch in your fingers was too much. You let go.
The arrow sang through the clearing, slicing the air in a single, unbroken line that barely rustled the leaves it passed, and in that fraction of a breath between release and impact, the world stood still in the way it always did just before violence made itself known.
It struck the man in the chest with a dull, wet crack—not a scream, not a roar, just a sudden and final exhale as his body recoiled, legs buckling beneath him like a marionette with its strings severed, the momentum of the shot folding him backwards onto the earth as though the ground had opened up to reclaim him.
The silence that followed was not shock but calculation, the space between impact and response stretched just wide enough for one heartbeat—yours—and then it all rushed forward at once.
The nearest man spun toward you with a shout tearing from his throat, his feet thundering over the forest floor as he charged with his weapon raised, but you were already moving, already rising, already meeting him head-on with the kind of brutal, practiced grace that turned instinct into muscle memory.
You caught his arm before the swing could land, your fingers locking around his wrist as you turned with the motion and brought your knee hard into the bend of his leg, using his own speed against him, driving him down into the earth with a thud that forced the breath from his chest and the balance from his bones.
Before he could recover, before anyone else could reach you, your knee was braced against his back, your handgun was out, and the cold metal of the barrel was pressed flush against the side of his skull.
Click.
The sound of the safety disengaging cut louder than any shout, and in that moment the clearing froze again, every movement suspended in an uneasy stillness, the tension folding in on itself as weapons hovered half-raised, as Dog growled low and furious in his captor’s grip, as Daryl’s eyes flicked between you and the men like he was already choosing which one he’d drop first.
The man beneath you stayed very still.
“Easy there little lady,” the man said, but still not lowering his weapon “no one else has gotta die here… not unless you make it so.”
“Sounds pretty tempting,” you said, gun pressing harder into the man’s temple.  Dog let out a whine, as if begging you not to make things worse; but that was kinda out of character for you.
“So you aren’t alone,” The guy said to Daryl, voice slightly rising in volume. 
“I am… dunno her,” he replied, eyes darting between you and scarface.
You arched a brow, not breaking focus, but somewhere behind the tension you appreciated the quick thinking, the way he slipped into the lie without hesitation, the way it played into your hands like you’d planned it together.
“Yep,” you said, your tone breezy despite the gun still pressed to the stranger’s temple, “figured I’d be a good Samaritan and step in to save the poor guy and his dog. Y’know, just doing my civic duty. You boys believe in that sort of thing, right?”
The sarcasm slid off your tongue like silk, but the truth was already shifting beneath the surface of the moment, something you could feel in your stomach before your mind could name it.
You spoke again, this time with more stern;  “Listen here Mr Clean; you’re gonna let this guy and his dog go, and we can all go on our merry way.”
You swallowed the lump in your throat; something told you that these guys wouldn’t go for the bait.
“Or what?” Marshal asked, his voice low and almost amused, like the whole exchange was nothing more than a curiosity, a story he’d tell later. “You gonna shoot him, then kill all of us?”
He looked you over from head to toe—not with fear, not with caution, but with the kind of condescending smirk that said he didn’t believe you had it in you.
And then, without breaking eye contact, he said this;
“Do it.”
For the first time since your arrow flew, your grip wavered—not with fear, not with doubt, but with confusion, because there was no tremble in his voice, no hint of bluster or false courage, just calm, almost bored resolve.
You studied his face, searching for a crack, a flicker of guilt, something—anything—that would mark him as human, but there was nothing there beyond ice and conviction.
“What, getting nervous now?” he asked, cocking his head as he gestured wide to the men around him, to the man you were pinning, to the man holding Dog, to Daryl, to the still body behind him cooling in the leaves. “See, there are plenty more where he came from. He’s replaceable. We all are”
Your stomach turned slowly, something cold creeping along the edge of your spine, and when you looked to Daryl, his expression mirrored your own—no longer tense with violence, but with something deeper, something stranger, a knowing that this wasn’t just another ragtag ambush in the woods.
You looked down to the man beneath you, expecting resistance, maybe a flicker of fear, but instead you found him staring back up with calm, hollow eyes, and when he spoke, it wasn’t to plead or protest.
“To serve The Creed is to survive.”
You blinked once.
The words didn’t register at first, not fully, not with the weight they carried.
They sounded rehearsed. Like a motto. Like something he’d said a hundred times before.
You looked around the clearing again, to the others, to their expressions—unmoving, unwavering, untouched by the death or the danger or the very real threat of violence.
Either they were the best bluffers you’d ever seen…
…or they were completely unhinged.
You drew a long breath, slow and deep, and exhaled it like you were shedding something heavy.
Then, with a soft mutter beneath your breath—“I’m not gonna shoot ya”—you eased the gun back from the man’s head and stood slowly, offering him your hand like a peace gesture carved from something sharp and ironic.
He hesitated, just briefly,  perplexed, then accepted it nonetheless .
You helped him to his feet with a small, polite smile, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulders as he looked at you, clearly confused, clearly unarmed, clearly wrong to assume anything.
From the edge of the clearing, one of the armed men let out a low, amused chuckle — the kind that reeked of dismissal and cheap bravado. His gaze dragged lazily down the length of you, then flicked back to his companions with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Knew she didn’t have it in her,” he muttered, like he was doing them the favor of stating the obvious.
You met his gaze without blinking, something colder curling behind your eyes — not fire, not fury, but that hollow kind of calm that came just before something terrible.
“Right.” SNAP.
The motion was fast, practised, fluid—nothing about it hasty or messy. Blink and you missed it.
You stepped forward, reached around the man you had just pulled up from the dirt, and without a single wasted moment, you braced your hand at the back of his head and twisted sharply to the side.
The sound that followed was quiet but final—a soft, vile crack that echoed louder in the silence than any gunshot.
The body dropped like dead weight.
You didn’t flinch.
You didn’t look down.
You just stood over him, breathing slow and steady. The rest of them stood stunned, as if the script had suddenly changed and no one had passed them the new lines.
Except for him.
Except for the one who had been watching you the whole time like he had been waiting for this exact moment, like he’d known what you would do before you did it.
He turned to face you fully, his head tilting slightly, and the grin on his face never once slipped.
“Now you’re definitely coming with me bitch.” His voice was almost reverent, almost amused, eyes glittering with something dark and pleased. “You just cost me two of my brothers. ”
You stepped into the clearing with your bow now drawn, arrow notched, your posture calm, steady, lethal.
The third arrow rested against the string like a promise.
“Three if you keep talkin’.l”
The scarred man laughed—full-bodied, amused, like you’d just entertained him far better than he’d expected to be today.
“Oh, I like this,” he said. “This is fun. This is real fun.”
Then his voice changed. It was subtle. But you heard the shift. A coldness bleeding in around the edges.
“Bag ‘em both,” he said.
Before you could let your arrow fly—before you could even fully shift your weight—something slammed into your ribs from behind, a hard, focused jab from the butt of a rifle or a boot or maybe just someone’s elbow delivered with military precision.
Your knees gave out before you even realized they’d locked. The ground came up hard and unyielding, slamming into your shoulder and hip, bark and grit grinding into your skin, your cheek mashed into the loamy earth that smelled like rot and pine sap. Your lungs stuttered against the weight of it, each breath arriving late, shallow and wrong, your limbs jerking in spasms that looked more like refusal than resistance. You weren’t out, not fully, Dog's erratic barking was still very much echoing through all of Virginia, but whatever was coursing through you had hijacked your body, pulled the strings loose and left you twitching, scrambling, powerless.
Daryl moved before he thought. “Hey—” The word cracked out sharp and rough, more breath than voice, but it carried. It punched through the silence like a warning shot, a reflex yanked from the gut, unfiltered and fast.
And then he stepped.
He didn’t lunge, not fully. Didn’t throw the first punch. But the second your body hit the dirt, he surged toward you, a single pace, like muscle memory alone had yanked him forward. He didn’t even realise he’d done it until the barrel of a rifle knocked sideways into his ribs and a hand shoved hard against his chest.
“Don’t try it,” someone snapped, the safety click loud and deliberate, like punctuation on a threat.
“I told you,” Daryl said through clenched teeth, “I don’t fuckin’ know her.”
“Mhm,” you muttered into the dirt, “and yet you’re still talkin’.”
You were halfway upright, already shifting your weight to stand—ready to hold your ground, to meet whatever came next with teeth bared and spine straight—but something struck the side of your head—not with the full intent to kill, but with enough weight behind it to scatter your thoughts like broken teeth in the dark.
You barely heard the crunch of leaves before Daryl’s voice cracked through the static one last time.
Then nothing.
———-
You woke to the sound of your own breath—shallow, uneven, catching in your throat like it had been fleeing something long before your eyes opened. The cold wasn’t the natural chill of the woods —it was the kind that clung to poured concrete, lifeless and stale, a chill that sank into your bones and made your skin feel thinner.
The light overhead was a jaundiced white, flickering just enough to make the silence feel haunted. A low electrical whine buzzed at the edges of your ears, almost imperceptible but persistent, like a mosquito in the dark.
When you moved, you felt the rope first. Not coarse, not kind—just tight enough to rub skin raw if you tested it. Your arms were cinched behind the back of a metal chair, your ankles fastened to its legs. A pulsing ache had settled into your shoulders.
Across the room—bare, concrete, windowless—Daryl sat slouched in a matching chair. His posture was deceptively slack, but you knew better. His fingers twitched faintly behind the ropes, already reading the bindings like a map, already planning. His eyes flicked up to meet yours.
Blood streaked down his temple, painting a line along the crease of his jaw, and his hair hung damp against his face, but none of it masked the panic beneath his scowl. His chest rose too fast, too shallow, like his lungs hadn’t caught up with the sight of you still standing.
His gaze scoured your face first—your pupils, your mouth, the side of your head where the blood had dried—then dropped down, darting across every inch of you like he was counting injuries. Like he was checking for anything you weren’t showing. His eyes burned into the rope at your wrists. Your knees. Your posture. Your breathing. Every tiny thing you didn’t say.
You good? he mouthed, jaw tight, eyes wide and wild with restraint.
You gave the smallest nod, not because it was true, but because it was the only answer you had. Survival wasn’t pretty—it didn’t leave much room for poetry. Your lips were split. Your head throbbed. But your spine was still holding, so that was something.
His jaw twitched. He looked back at the door behind him, then back to you.
Then—barely a whisper, rough as gravel and sharp with hope—“Think you can slip outta them ropes?”
"workin' on it,' you whispered back. You can worry about your rope burns getting infected later if you managed to get free. You couldn't do that if you were dead.
The door opened with a groan of metal dragged against metal, loud and long and intentional. Marshal stepped in, wearing a grin too wide to be real, accompanied by two other foot soldiers who stood guard by the door. The man's familiar scar ran from temple to jaw on one side of his face, cutting through the smile like a wound that never healed right.
He didn’t speak. Not at first. Just let the silence stretch thin and mean between the three of you, like he was waiting for the atmosphere to sweat.
Finally, Marshal stepped forward, boots echoing on the floor, his hands loose at his sides like he had all the time in the world to get what he wanted.
“So,” he murmured, circling the space between you. “Still sticking to the story? You two don’t know each other?”
You kept your eyes steady on his face, refusing to glance at Daryl. Any slip, any twitch, could give you both away.
The man’s boots tapped a steady rhythm across the floor, the kind of pacing meant to unnerve, each step heavy with intention, like he was winding something up inside the room. “I’ve seen a lot of liars,” he began, dragging the words out with lazy confidence, his voice pitched just low enough to make your skin crawl. “I’ve been lied to by the best—hell, I’ve trained people to lie. But even the good ones crack when someone they care about’s in the room.”
He came to a slow stop in front of Daryl, studying him the way someone might examine a mutt at a shelter—curious, condescending, waiting for signs of obedience. “She’s awful protective of you,” he continued, and though his tone hovered on the edge of admiration, the smile curling at the corner of his mouth was anything but kind. “Kinda sweet. Funny, too. For a stranger.”
Daryl didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn his head, just kept the man’s gaze. But the cords in his neck stood out beneath the dirt and sweat, tight as drawn wire, and though his body stayed still, the tension radiating from him was loud enough to be deafening.
The man turned to you, slowly, like he was savouring the moment, dragging it out just to see how much discomfort he could pull from the air. “And you,” he said, eyes glinting, “I gotta say, I like your style. All that mouth. All those arrows. Righteous little bitch, huh?”
“Actually, that’s 'Little Miss Righteous Bitch' to you, Marshal Microdick.” You gave him your sweetest smile, the kind that usually came right before bloodshed Daryl exhaled through his nose, low and sharp, shooting you a look that said plain as day: You just had to make it worse, didn’t you?
Marshal's smile grew wider, his eyes never leaving your face as he moved to crouch in front of you. This guy had a PhD in being creepy; looking up at you now, his eyes bore into yours, it made you feel so irrevocably exposed. His stare didn’t undress you; it dissected you — like you were the frog in a middle school science class, and he was the kid who smiled too much while holding the scalpel. “Tell me something,” he said, his voice falling softer now, almost curious. “You got any kids?”
The question landed wrong, jarring in its shift, as if someone had skipped a page in a story. There's deflection and then there's deflection. You just called his dick tiny and now he wants to know about your family status? You looked to Daryl, to see if you had misheard the question, only to see that he was staring back at you, face slighty pale. Yep, you heard the man right. Your breath caught for the smallest of moments before you answered, a beat too fast to be smooth. “No.”
It wasn’t believable. You knew it as soon as it left your lips. And from the way his eyes narrowed, the slow smirk that pulled at his face, he knew it too. The knife appeared in his hand with unsettling ease, as if he hadn’t drawn it so much as conjured it from the very bones of the room.
His presence was so close now that you could taste the rot on his breath, could feel the heat of his body where the cold had ruled before. The blade teased the fabric of your shirt where it dipped over the valley of your breast, and you went still—not out of fear, but out of instinct, knowing that any twitch, any tremble, would only feed him. If he simply pushed forward, that was it. You were dead. Behind your back, your fingers curled against the rope.
Daryl surged forward in his chair, the scrape of the legs loud and jarring, his growl nearly animal. “The fuck you doin'?”
Marshal didn’t acknowledge him. He dragged the blade through your shirt with a kind of methodical cruelty, not rushed or frenzied, but deliberate — like he’d done it before and wanted you to know it. The fabric didn’t tear so much as it surrendered, parting inch by inch beneath the tip, splitting with a sound too soft to match the violation of it. First your bra came into view, then the smooth plane of your abdomen, the curve of your navel, the soft rise of your lower belly — until your shirt was no more than a pathetic flap clinging to your spine, the flimsy remains of modesty hanging on by a thread. The light betrayed, the sweat that covered your upper body apparent.. From behimd you heard footsteps shuffling closer. The 'guards' apparently needed to keep a closer eye on you now that your shirt was no more.
Daryl’s shoulders shifted with a sudden, barely-contained jerk, his wrists twisting hard against the restraints like he could brute-force them apart on willpower alone. His breathing was shallow, nostrils flared, eyes fixed on you with a rising panic he couldn’t mask anymore—like every inch of his body was screaming to move, to reach you, to stop whatever the hell was about to happen.
You forced yourself to breathe, slowly, deliberately, as the chill hit your skin, and when his fingers reached for the button of your jeans, you flinched despite yourself. He peeled back the waistband, just enough. Enough to see.
Your scar. Pale and unforgiving. A line etched by love, by pain, by survival.
He sat back slightly, something sharp and curious glittering in his eyes now, as if the final piece of a puzzle had fallen into place. “Interesting,” he murmured, dragging the point of his knife along the edge of the scar. “Saw this earlier—back in the woods. Just a flash. But up close? That’s a birth scar. Can’t be more than a couple of years old tops.
You closed your eyes, expecting to feel the white hot slicing of your flesh, but it never came. The chill that swept through you then was not from the room. Daryl’s voice cracked the air in response, not loud, but deep and fierce, a line drawn in blood. “Stop.”
That single word seemed to please the man more than any scream would have. He turned to Daryl with something wicked behind his eyes, something giddy, like he’d finally peeled back the last layer of a game he’d been playing alone. “Didn’t take much to get you talkin’, huh?”
Still, Daryl didn’t rise to it. He looked at your defeated face, then at your abdomen; “she’s someone’s mom.”
There it was—truth spoken like a prayer, low and reverent and shaking beneath the weight of restraint. His eyes flashed to yours, then to that familiar scar on your abdomen that he had traced, kissed, caressed a million times, only now it hurt to look at, because it meant leverage for those who wanted to hurt his family.
“The baby,” you said, and the words caught sharp behind your teeth like barbed wire, dragging as they came out. “She didn’t make it.”
You kept your eyes pinned to the floor, as if looking up might shatter the last fragile thread holding your composure together. The lie burned on your tongue, every syllable tasting like grief you didn’t want to imagine. But your voice didn’t crack from pretending — it cracked from the truth underneath it, from the unbearable thought of her not surviving, even in fiction. Your chest ached with the pressure of it, tears welling in your eyes, hot and honest. You didn’t look at Daryl. You couldn’t. One glance and whatever was left of your control would splinter to pieces.
You sat motionless, the remains of your shirt clinging to your ribs, the scar exposed, your skin aching with shame and fury and the deep, gut-level fear of being seen in a way that had nothing to do with nakedness. You finally met Daryl’s gaze just for a heartbeat, and the grief that passed between you was heavy and wordless—because he was pretending not to know you to protect you, and that lie was a noose around both your throats.
The man stepped back at last, brushing off his hands like your body was something he was done dissecting. “You got pretty lies,” he said, too calm now. "Cry pretty too."
You glared at him with a glassy stare. Usually now you would make some bitchy remark about his bald head, but you couldn't fimd the words.
Before Daryl could protest, before you could brace yourself, the two men who were standing idly by were on you—grabbing, lifting, and dragging you.
You didn’t fight. Not then. Not because you were afraid, but because your fight was still calculating. Still waiting. You turned your head just enough to catch one last look at Daryl, whose eyes were burning with fear.
The door slammed shut with a finality that stole the air from your lungs, and the cold rushed in again, swallowing you whole.
——-
They didn’t simply shove you through the doorway—they dragged you like something unwanted and inconvenient, a burdensome weight rather than a person, their hands impersonal and rough as they gripped your upper arms and forced you forward until your boots scraped against the concrete with resistance. One of them, the taller one with the dead eyes, pressed the cold muzzle of a rifle against your spine with just enough pressure to remind you who held control, and when the rusted door finally groaned open on hinges that screeched like an animal in pain, they didn’t hesitate—they tossed you inside like you were nothing more than trash at the end of their shift.
You hit the ground hard, the collision knocking the breath from your lungs and sending a jolt of agony up your shoulder as it took the full brunt of the fall. Your hip followed, then your knees, scraping raw against the grit of the floor as dust and gravel scattered beneath you, clinging to your torn clothes and skin as if eager to mark you further. Your hand landed on something sharp—metal maybe, or broken plastic—and you hissed through your teeth, curling your palm protectively while trying to gather what little dignity you had left.
For a long moment, there was no sound but the slow settling of your breath and the final clunk of the door as it slammed behind you, sealing in the cold and sealing out any remaining illusion that you were still in control of your fate.
You stayed on your knees longer than you should have, arms shaking from the tension you’d been holding since they first separated you from Daryl. The silence was thick, suffocating, broken only by the fading echo of footsteps and the distant hum of something electrical—a light perhaps, or a fan that hadn’t worked in years but still emitted that nauseating buzz. The air smelled of mildew and rust, thick with the sour scent of old sweat and something that reminded you of dried blood, and though you hadn’t yet looked around, you already knew what kind of place this was.
When you finally lifted your head, blinking the grit from your eyes, you took in your surroundings with the caution of someone half expecting to see bones. The cell was narrow and windowless, the walls poured concrete, cracked and flaking in places where time had eaten through the paint. Old graffiti—names, tallies, desperate phrases carved with fingernails or knives—clung to the back wall like ghosts, and in the far corner, a cot sagged with the weight of neglect, its mattress stained, its frame bent inwards like it had given up the effort to hold weight long ago. Near the center of the room, a small drain was embedded in the floor, surrounded by a ring of dark discoloration that your brain refused to label, and scrawled into the concrete above it, deep and angry, was a single phrase that made your stomach tighten.
TO SERVE THE CREED IS TO SURVIVE.
The words from earlier - that man's final words
You closed your eyes, heart pounding, the words branding themselves into your brain. You wanted to laugh, maybe, or scream, but your throat was too dry for either, so instead you leaned your head back against the wall and let the ache in your bones settle while you clutched at the fabric of your torn shirt, trying to warm yourself, trying to feel something other than helpless. But the silence didn’t last.
Somewhere beyond the wall, muffled but close enough to bleed through the cracks, you heard the sound of voices��low at first, then louder, angrier, the kind of cadence that made your body stiffen instinctively. You held your breath and shifted toward the source, pressing your ear to the chill of the wall as you tried to decipher what was being said.
Then you heard it—a grunt, unmistakable, raw with defiance and pain—and your heart stopped mid-beat.
Daryl.
You froze, every muscle going rigid, and then a second sound cut through the tension like a blade—something sharp, like a fist against flesh, followed by the low scrape of a chair dragging across concrete and the dull thud of boots shifting unevenly beneath weight.
You didn’t need to see him to know what was happening.
You could picture it clearly—the way he would sit with his chin low, his shoulders coiled like a spring, his hands curling into fists even though they couldn’t swing, the look in his eyes daring them to try harder. Your breath hitched as you imagined his face—the blood, the stubborn set of his mouth—and when the door creaked open again somewhere down the hall and another voice joined the fray, colder, more practiced, you knew without a doubt that this was the man in charge.
You didn’t need to see him to know what was happening—didn’t need to watch the blows land or hear the chair legs screech to feel the echo of it vibrating in your ribs like a warning. You knew Daryl’s body like your own. You could hear the way he held pain in his breath, could imagine the stubborn set of his jaw as his fists curled against rope and frustration, knew he’d be taking hits with that same quiet defiance that made people hate him or fear him or both. And you knew—without a shred of doubt—that he hadn’t said a word.
Not until they made him.
Not until they started looking for cracks.
There was a lull in the rhythm now. You heard the scrape of something heavy being dragged, the low murmur of voices you couldn’t quite catch. Then came the familiar cadence of boots on concrete, slower this time, almost casual in the way only true danger could be.
Marshal.
His voice cut through the corridor like a blade dulled by disuse—still sharp, but serrated around the edges. “Y’know, the thing about people,” he said, tone light with that salesman swagger you remembered too well, “is they’ll tell you everything you need to know without ever opening their mouths. You just gotta know where to look.”
Silence followed.
You leaned closer to the wall, breath held tight in your chest, every nerve alive with the kind of tension that left you aching.
“I found somethin’ on her,” the man continued. “Thought it was cute at first. Real sentimental.” You could hear fabric shifting, something small and metallic being fished from a pocket, and the pause that followed was deliberate, practiced, designed for maximum effect.
Another voice stirred behind the silence—one you would’ve missed if you didn’t know it like muscle memory. Daryl exhaled through his nose, the kind of breath that came with effort, like he was trying to swallow something back before it could escape.
The man chuckled softly. “See, I thought maybe it was just a trinket. She looks the type, doesn’t she? Nostalgic. Soft around the edges, even with all that bark.” His voice dropped a little, laced with something colder now. “But then I took a closer look.”
You pressed yourself tighter to the wall, fingers curling against the concrete as you waited for the hammer to drop, because you didn’t know what he was holding—but Daryl did.
“Know what this is?” the man asked, his voice eager and chirpy. “She was wearin’ this on her ring finger. It’s a wedding ring.” You could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “Custom made, even. Not bad work. Bet it was handmade. I’ve seen one like it before—twisted copper, that rough-welded join. Real pretty.”
Daryl said nothing.
But the air shifted. Your breath hitched in your throat before you even knew why, some muscle memory reacting faster than thought, and without meaning to, your thumb brushed across the skin where the ring should’ve been—an automatic, unconscious gesture born from countless mornings waking up beside him, from years of grounding yourself on the familiar twist of copper wrapped around your finger. But this time, there was nothing. Just skin. Bare and foreign. The absence was so stark, so wrong, it made your stomach twist, your heart lurching in your chest like it couldn’t find its rhythm. That ring had never left you—not through blizzards or ambushes or illness or childbirth. You had clutched it through nightmares, twisted it when words failed, kissed it during times you needed Daryl with you but he couldn't be there, and now it was gone, ripped from you without you even knowing, and held by the same bastard who had tried to peel you open with a knife. Daryl had made that ring for you, and asked you to be his forever. That ring means more to you can words can comprehend.
The man hummed as if savouring the discomfort. “I reckon she never takes it off. Women like that… they don’t take things like this off unless they have to.”
Still no response.
But that silence—it deepened. Got denser. Tighter.
And then came Daryl’s voice, low and flat, the kind of tone he only used when the restraint was about to crack. “You oughta give that back.”
The man didn’t laugh. He just tilted into the quiet again, dragging it out like he wanted to catch something—anything—in the stillness.
“Why?” he asked, but the word was laced with interest, not confusion. “Why would I give it back?”
Another pause.
And then Daryl answered, too slow, too cautious, like he was measuring every syllable against a cliff’s edge. “’Cause it’s hers.”
Nothing else. Just that.
You couldn’t see his face, but you knew the look in his eyes—that storm of fury behind the ice, that helpless rage masked as indifference. You imagined him still bound to the chair, bleeding from the mouth, hands flexing behind his back with the kind of restraint that tore muscle from bone, and yet somehow still managing to sound like he didn’t care.
But it wasn’t enough.
Not quite.
Because Marshal let out a sound—low, curious, not convinced but not dismissive either. “Hers, huh?” he repeated.
There was a moment there, so fragile it barely held, where you could feel the man teetering between suspicion and satisfaction, like he wanted to push a little harder but couldn’t quite figure out where to press. The silence stretched again, elastic and dangerous.
And then the crack came.
Not in the lie but in the man’s patience.
The first punch landed, so harsh you swore you felt it, like it was you who had just been hit and not Daryll. You heard the dull smack of fist against flesh, followed by the scrape of a chair leg as Daryl’s body recoiled but didn’t fall. Then another—harder, this time—and a wet sound that meant blood.
“You're gonna break. Just a matter of time,” the man said, colder now, less amused.
Daryl spat—on the floor, maybe at his feet, maybe just to get the taste out. “You asked a question. I answered.”
Another hit followed.
Then footsteps retreated, not rushed, just done for now.
You backed away from the wall as silence crept in again, this time different—heavier. It sat in your chest like stone.
It felt like hours before they opened your door again.
When they finally dragged him in, his boots dragged behind him and his shirt was soaked with blood, but his eyes—oh, his eyes—they found you instantly. He said nothing, didn’t reach for you, didn’t flinch when they threw him into the opposite cell and slammed the bars shut with a sound like a gavel.
But that ring, the one you didn’t realize was gone until just now, that small, sacred thing—they still had it. And Daryl knew it.
And that was almost enough to break him. Almost.
He didn’t speak.
Neither did you.
There was no breath left for it, no courage or comfort that words could offer now—not when the distance between your cells felt like a chasm, not when the only thing separating you from him was a strip of concrete and an iron silence too wide to cross.
He sat where they left him, slumped against the wall like gravity had finally caught up to him, one leg crooked, one arm trembling just slightly at the elbow where he tried to shift his weight and failed. Blood was drying at his temple, smeared across the side of his face like paint, and there was a bruise blooming over his jaw, so dark it swallowed the shadow. But his eyes stayed on you, steady, hollowed, wild. It hurt to even look at him now, in that state.
It reminded you of that time he came home late, muttered something about a long day and being tired, barely even looked at you as he slipped through the door. That in itself wasn’t strange—Daryl had always been quiet when he needed space—but what threw you was how he didn’t even spare you a glance, didn’t give you the usual kiss hello, that soft, wordless way the two of you always reconnected after time apart. You’d racked your brain trying to figure out what you’d done wrong, replayed every moment from earlier that day and came up empty. Eventually, you chalked it up to a mood and let him have his space, curling up on the couch with Dog for the night.
The next morning, you found out why. He’d tried to sneak out early to head to Denise’s, hoping to get patched up without you knowing. What he didn’t count on was you lying there wide awake—because of course you hadn’t slept. And when he turned toward the door, you saw it: the black eye, the swollen jaw, the way his knuckles looked like they’d been through a grinder. You’d flipped, right there in the doorway. Turns out he’d run into a couple of less-than-neighborly types. He gave the usual “you should see the other guy” deflection, but he hated that look you got when you saw him like that—wide-eyed, sick with worry, on the verge of tears or homicide, maybe both.
That’s why he’d avoided you altogether.
You’d made him promise not to do that again. To stop shielding you from the aftermath like you weren’t part of it. But you both knew he would, if it meant sparing you the worry.
But not today - he knew that you heard what went down just momemt sago, and it was useless to pretend not to.
You curled in tighter, hands pressing against your knees, clutching the torn fabric of your shirt as if it could still hide the places that had been exposed, the places that still burned. Your skin felt cold where the scarred man’s fingers had lingered, colder still where your ring used to rest.
Daryl’s gaze dropped. Not away from you—but down. Down to your hands. Your bare fingers.
His breath caught. He didn’t mean it to. It was too small to be a gasp and too soft to be a curse, but you saw it, felt it across the space like a tremor underfoot. And then his jaw locked. His hands, still bound in front of him, curled into fists so tight his knuckles whitened beneath the dried blood. Not because of pain. Not even because of anger. But because the truth had landed now, fully. Your ring—his ring—was gone, and not by your choice.
You saw it, the realization settle into the lines of his face like dust. He didn’t ask where it was. He didn’t need to. He knew. He always knew.
“He must have taken it off me when I was out,” you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath, brittle and breaking in your throat. “It feels wrong not wearing it, like—” Your voice cracked before you could finish. “ Like I'm missing a limb."
He didn’t answer right away.
Just sat there, staring at your hand, his brow furrowed like he was trying to rewrite time itself, like maybe if he looked hard enough, it would just reappear on your finger, copper catching the light the way it always had when you fidgeted with it during long watches or sleepless nights.
His voice, when it came, was low. Hoarse. Not sharp. Not angry. Just tired.
“I know.”
And you did.
You knew he believed you. You knew it without question.
But there was still something in his face—something fragile and dangerous and flickering behind his eyes like a fuse that had been lit but hadn’t yet reached its end. Not rage. Not yet. Just fear wearing the mask of restraint.
He shifted, dragging himself up with visible effort until he could lean back against the wall properly. The movement sent a wince through his features, and his left hand went instinctively to his side where the bruises were darkest. But his gaze never left yours.
“They touch you?” he asked, voice rougher this time, like the words tasted like blood on the way out.
You hesitated, and that pause alone was enough.
He turned his head. Just slightly. Just enough that you saw the cords in his neck tighten again, that silent storm building. But then he breathed in, slow and jagged, like he was wrestling with the need to stay grounded—for you. For her.
“I’m okay,” you said, which wasn’t true, not even a little, but it was the only thing you could give him right now.
He closed his eyes at that, not like he believed you, but like he needed to pretend he did. For just a second. For the sake of sanity.
Across the floor between your cells, the silence stretched long and heavy, like a third body laid out between you. You looked at him, really looked, and for a moment, it wasn’t the pain or the bruises or the blood that made your chest tighten—it was the way he looked at you like you were still whole. Like even here, even now, you were still the girl he slipped that copper ring onto by moonlight, with hands that shook like it was the only thing in the world that mattered.
He didn’t move for a long time, not even to sit up straighter, just let his head tilt against the back wall like it was the only thing keeping him upright, his gaze flickering to your face and then away again like he couldn’t quite hold it without cracking. The blood on his shirt had started to dry in heavy patches, and every shallow breath he took looked like it cost him something he didn’t have to spare. And still, he hadn’t said a word. Not yet.
You wanted to reach through the bars. Crawl to him. Stitch your hands into the bruises on his ribs and tell them to give him back. But your body stayed locked to the wall, knees drawn up, arms crossed tight over your torn shirt, and your fingers—gods, your fingers—wouldn’t stop tracing that empty groove on your hand where your ring should’ve been. You’d touched it a hundred times a day without noticing, the curve of it like punctuation to every thought. Now it was gone, and the hollow space it left burned.
“…I ain’t ever wanted to kill someone that bad.”
The words rasped out of him like sand dragged across stone, slow and sharp, and they hung there between you, suspended in the cold with nowhere to settle. His eyes were already on you, half-lidded and rimmed in purple shadows, but now he turned fully, jaw clenched against pain, and the look he gave you wasn’t just fury—it was grief, raw and unravelled.
“Not since the Sanctuary,” he said, and the way he said it, like he was reaching through memory to some long-buried rage, made your stomach twist with the weight of everything he wasn’t saying aloud.
You didn’t answer him. You just looked back, open and hollow, the silence between you not cutting this time, just bearing down slow like fog in the woods.
“When he grabbed your shirt,” he murmured, and already you could hear the break coming in his voice, that thin edge he tried so hard to sand down, “I thought he was gonna—” He stopped, swallowed, shook his head like he could throw the image off if he just tried hard enough. “Didn’t matter why. Didn’t matter what he was tryin’ to prove. All I could think about was gettin’ my hands around his neck.”
You pressed your forehead to the bars. Your knuckles had gone bloodless.
He exhaled harshly, stared down at his lap, and for a moment you thought he might stop there, might wall himself back up like he always did when something hurt too much. But then he spoke again, and his voice was quieter now, almost unsure.
“And then I saw it. Your scar.”
You didn’t mean to flinch. But the words hit like cold water, and your spine curled in instinctive defense.
“Never really got why ya didn't like it,” he went on, a little steadier now, “Guess it puts it into perspective...How close I came to losin’ you. How close we came to losin’ her.”
You clenched your jaw and said nothing. You didn’t trust your voice not to break.
“He made it ugly,” you whispered finally, and it wasn’t even the words—it was what they meant. What they’d twisted inside you. That something sacred could be used as a threat.
“Nah,” Daryl said, and it was the first time in hours his voice didn’t sound broken. “He tried. That’s all. He tried. But he don’t get it.”
Your eyes flicked to him through the dark, heart caught in your throat, waiting.
“I remember when she was just shy of 2 years old,” he said, and something in his expression softened, like memory was the only comfort left to him. “You were sleepin’. Out cold. Couldn’t blame you—you hadn’t slept for shit in weeks. She was wide awake though. Just starin’. Fussin’, but not cryin’. Just lookin’ at you like you were the moon and the stars n'... somethin’ else she didn’t have a words for yet.”
Your breath caught, chest rising in a silent hiccup.
“She kept pokin’ your stomach,” he went on, and there was a warmth now, like even here, even in hell, he could conjure the glow of your home. “Kept touchin’ that scar. Over and over, real careful, like she was tryin’ to figure out what it was. I asked her what she was doin’, and she looked up at me, so serious, and said, ‘Mama’s got a zipper.’”
You laughed. You couldn’t help it. It was cracked and watery and half-swallowed by a sob, but it was real.
“I told her that's how she got here”, he said, rubbing at his jaw like he could still feel her small hand in his. “Like we unzipped you and there she was—all red and mad and louder than a goddamn siren.”
You buried your face against your arm to muffle the sound you made.
“She thought it was magic,” Daryl said softly, smiling. “Still does. Says it’s her magic door.”
You tried to breathe around the ache in your chest. “And now he used it like a weapon.”
“He can’t touch that,” Daryl said. “Not really. Not where it counts.”
You didn’t reply, didn’t need to. Your silence was agreement, was gratitude, was a desperate tether to him across the cold and the dark.
You stayed quiet for a long time after that.
Not because there was nothing left to say—there was too much, in fact—but because your throat felt thick and raw, like you’d swallowed a scream and hadn’t managed to keep all of it down. You held your knees tight to your chest, fingers digging crescents into your arms, the cold from the concrete floor bleeding up through your spine, but that wasn’t what was making you shake. It wasn’t the chill. It was the memory.
You were still trying to scrub it from beneath your skin—the way his hands moved with that awful, clinical deliberation, like he’d done it before, like peeling you open wasn’t an act of violence but one of strategy. Fingers curled beneath your shirt like they were reading a map, like your body was just terrain to him. You hadn’t felt fear for yourself, not at first. Not until he saw it. Not until he stopped smiling.
That scar—your scar—the one you barely remembered unless Dani asked about it, the one that lived in the blurry corners of mirrors—had never once made you feel ashamed. Sure, you occasionally cringed at it, how it contrasted so heavily with your skin, but it was a shallow insecurity. That meant nothing in comparison to how you got it. Your scar had meant survival. It had meant sacrifice. It had meant her. But tonight, when his eyes landed on it as if it was something he could exploit, something he could weaponise, you felt it shift inside you—like he’d tried to rewrite what it meant without your permission. He’d looked at it and seen leverage. He’d seen life.
And you’d lied, again and again, your voice breaking under the strain of trying not to name her. You’d bitten your tongue so hard it had bled, afraid that if you said it—if her name slipped, if the wrong syllable cracked in your voice—they’d know. They’d take her from you in some unthinkable way, even from miles away. You hadn’t even let yourself imagine her face. You were too afraid it might disappear.
But now it was full dark.
And Dani was alone.
You let out a breath that wasn’t steady, rested your forehead against the bars, and felt the cold press against your skin like punishment. The ring finger on your left hand ached with phantom weight, and you rubbed at the empty space instinctively, even though it made you feel worse.
“I’ve never—” The words caught on the raw edge of your voice, so you swallowed hard and tried again. “I’ve never spent a night away from her before.”
Across the dark, Daryl stirred. He lifted his head, humming in quiet acknowledgment, but didn’t speak — didn’t push. He hated being away from you and Dani, but sometimes it was unavoidable. Runs happened. Patrols needed bodies. And when it came down to it, both of you knew how to handle yourselves out there. You weren’t some stay-behind-the-walls housewife — hell, you were one of the best shots in Alexandria — but even so, your time away from her was always measured in hours, not nights. You could stomach a day trip, a supply loop, even a walker-clearing route that ran long, but you’d always made it home by nightfall. That was the unspoken rule. The line you didn’t cross. Because when the sun set, Dani would be tucked in between the two of you — warm and safe and dreaming in her corner of the bed. And now that line had been shattered. For Daryl, being away hurt. But for you, sitting in this cold cell with no idea if she was scared, crying, alone — it wasn’t just pain. It was unbearable.
“She never falls asleep where she’s supposed to,” you whispered after a long silence, your voice low and fragile, like you were afraid saying it too loud might shatter the memory. “Even when she starts in her own bed, she always finds her way back to ours. Tiptoes in like she’s some kinda thief, all quiet and sneaky, even though she always brings Spaghetti with her and he rattles — you know that damn giraffe has the loudest little bell stitched in his neck.”
A breath of something close to a laugh passed through your nose, but it caught in your throat halfway. You pressed your cheek against the cold bar and closed your eyes, trying to picture it — the creak of the floorboards, the soft pad of her feet, the way the blanket lifted and that tiny furnace of a child wedged herself between you and Daryl like she was born to belong there.
“She always curls into me first,” you said, the ache blooming sharp in your chest now. “Little arms around my waist, nose tucked against my stomach, just like how it was when I was pregnant. She says it makes the monsters go away. And I stroke her hair real slow until she settles and falls asleep.”
You paused, voice nearly trembling with the memory.
“She always hums. Not a song — just this little noise, like a sleepy cat. You can feel it through her ribs.”
There was a silence after that, heavy with feeling, and then Daryl’s voice cut through it — quieter than before, like it was meant only for you. “She never stays on your side, though.”
A faint smile touched your lips. “No. She doesn’t.”
“She always ends up rolled over on me,” he said, and there was something so painfully tender in the way he said it — like it physically hurt to remember. “Uses me like a goddamn jungle gym. Then she falls asleep with her arm across my throat like she’s tryin’ to choke me out.”
You let out a wet laugh, burying your face in your arms.
“And then if I move,” he added, “even a little — I mean, just tryin’ to breathe — she gets all huffy and dramatic. Throws that little arm over her eyes like I’ve wronged her somehow. Then flips back over to your side and acts like I don’t exist.”
“She’s a mama’s girl,” you said softly, chin trembling.
“She’s a damn traitor,” he muttered, voice rough but curling at the edges with that rare kind of smile that lived somewhere behind the gravel. “Wakes up a daddy’s girl every single time—no matter what.”
Then, softer, like it slipped out without thinkin’: “It’s alright though. I’ll take the mornings, and you can be her favourite the rest of the time.”
You nodded slowly, swallowing against the lump in your throat. “Best part of my day,” you whispered. “Waking up like that. With both of you. Her all tangled up between us, snoring like a piglet.”
He didn’t say anything right away, but when he did, his voice was softer than ever. “It's the best part of my day, too.”
Your hand curled against the cold floor, aching with the absence of her weight, the way her little fingers always found yours without looking, the way her whole body seemed to relax the second it touched skin — yours or Daryl’s, didn’t matter, just so long as it was home.
“She’s gonna wake up,” you said, barely audible now. “And we won’t be there.”
There was nothing in the world more awful than that thought. Not pain. Not captivity. Not even death. You pressed your cheek to your arm and blinked hard against the tears that clung to your lashes. “She’s gonna wake up scared,” you whispered. “She’s gonna look around and—”
“She’s gonna be fine.”
Daryl’s voice wasn’t loud, wasn’t soothing, wasn’t even certain—but it was solid. It cut through the dark like a root finding earth.
You looked over at him slowly, heart tight.
“I promise,” he said, the syllables uneven but anchored. “We’re gettin’ outta here. You’re gonna hold her again. Gonna tuck her in. Gonna... tell her some dumbass bedtime story about how Mama and Daddy escaped a bunch of bald freaks and came runnin’ through the woods like some forrest trolls.”
A laugh pushed out of you before you could stop it—wet and shaking, the kind that hurt your chest. “That the bedtime version?”
He shrugged faintly, wincing again. “Gotta leave out the part where you snapped a guy’s neck with your bare hands. Might give her ideas.”
“She’s your kid,” you muttered into your arm, letting the tears fall without apology. “She already has ideas.”
He gave a quiet huff, something close to a laugh. “Last week she told me she’s gonna be a monster-catcher. Said she needs a big stick and a helmet with spikes on it.”
Your chest ached with something warmer than pain. “Spelled her name on the stick with a backwards N, didn’t she?”
“Mhmm. Wrote it twice,” Daryl said, his voice soft with pride. “Said if the first one rubbed off, the monsters would still know it was hers.”
“She said you helped her paint it,” you whispered, that bittersweet smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.
He nodded once. “Told her I’d make it glitter-proof. Said you’d be mad if it ended up in Dog’s fur again.”
You exhaled slowly, like trying to fold yourself around the sound of her voice in your memory. “I don’t want her to think we left her.”
“She won’t,” Daryl said immediately, like the idea offended him. “You didn’t. We didn’t. We’re comin’ back. That’s it.”
There was no poetry in his tone, no sentiment. Just truth. Hard and clean.
You didn’t answer right away. Just let the quiet hold you both, not in silence, but in something steadier. Something shared.
Eventually, your voice found its way back, worn thin but clearer than before. “They’re gonna watch us closer now. We’re not gonna be able to fake it forever.”
“No,” Daryl said, adjusting his position with a grunt, one arm braced along the wall behind him. “Just till we get outta here.”
You nodded faintly, already feeling the gears in your brain shift into something sharper, colder.
“We figure out the shifts. How often they switch guards. Which ones carry blades and which ones don’t. Who blinks first. Who watches the gates. We act useful until it makes them lazy.”
Daryl tilted his head, eyes glinting in the low light. “You really up for playin’ nice with these assholes?”
Your mouth twitched. “Nice is flexible. I’ll be civil. Until I don’t need to be.”
“Attagirl.”
You leaned back against the wall, not for comfort, but to look at him properly again—at the weight of him across from you, bruised and bloodied and still yours. That thin stretch of space between your cells felt narrower now, less like a canyon and more like a line in the dirt that both of you already knew how to cross when the time came.
“We’ll get back to her,” he said again. “No matter what it takes.”
And this time, when the words reached you, they didn’t land like a promise. They landed like a vow.
_____
At some point in the endless dark, your body gave out—curled stiff against the wall, head tipped sideways, sleep dragging you under like a tide. But your dreams were shallow and feverish, half-shaped memories tangled in terror, and every sound outside your cell pulled you half back to the surface, heart pumping in your throat, ears straining for a voice that never came.
Now, morning—if it could be called that—bleeds in through the cracks of artificial light. The overhead fluorescents hum back to life with an electrical sigh, flooding the corridor in a washed-out white that burns the back of your eyes. There’s no sunrise here. Just power. Control. Permission to wake.
You were already awake.
Opposite you, Daryl shifted with a wince, jaw clenched tight against a groan as he rolled his shoulder. You watched the stiffness in his body, the way he flexed his fingers like they didn’t want to obey. His gaze found you in the quiet, and you held it for a second too long before the sound of boots marching snapped it.
But then the footsteps came.
They moved too efficient for you to stay seated. No slamming doors. No barks or shouts. Just the faint, synchronised drag of boots against the floor outside, followed by the mechanical hiss of the cell locks disengaging. You and Daryl were already on your feet before they opened the doors.
He didn’t look at you, not directly. But you felt the twitch in his jaw, the unspoken question that passed between you in silence. You gave the smallest nod back. Ready.
They led you out of your cells and through a different corridor this time—no graffiti, no rust, just bare, bland walls that hummed with faint electricity. You couldn’t here anything other than the artificial hush of a place designed to swallow sound.
When they finally brought you to the room, you thought at first it might be another cell.
He was stood at the center of the concrete chamber with his hands clasped loosely behind his back, spine ramrod straight, not a wrinkle in sight. He was younger than you expected. Mid-forties maybe, sharp-featured, clean-shaven. Everything about him looked deliberately scrubbed of history—like he had burned his past away to make room for something purer.
Marshal stood motionless by the doorway, his usual sneer absent, the silence around him sharp enough to draw blood. It was the first time you’d seen him quiet, and somehow that unsettled you more than any of his smirks or taunts. Something about his stillness spoke of obedience, of a hierarchy so firmly entrenched that even his cruelty bowed to it.
The guards guided you and Daryl into the centre of the room with practised precision, keeping just enough distance between your bodies to make the separation deliberate. No contact. No whispers. No comfort. When Daryl was moved into place, his shoulder brushed briefly against yours—a single, accidental point of contact. Or perhaps it wasn't accidental, and the two of you were losing all sanity by not being able to touch each other - it was anyone's guess. He kept his face forward, locked in a mask of unreadable resolve.
The man at the center of the room—unassuming in build, dressed in uniform so plain it could have been borrowed from any one of the men beside him—did not speak immediately. He simply regarded you both in silence, his eyes cold and analytical, his head angled with a quiet sort of curiosity, like a man observing the structural integrity of something already cracked. He wasn’t asking if you would break. He was calculating when.
And then, with all the ceremony of someone setting a glass down on a table, he spoke.
“There is an infection that lives in the world.”
The words left his mouth with a measured calm, each syllable laced with precision rather than urgency. His tone was not raised, not even slightly, but something in the quiet demanded attention, made your ears strain for every word. There was no theatrics, no raised voice or dramatic flourish—just the steady cadence of a man who knew he never needed to shout to be heard.
“It festers in communities. In settlements. In families.”
He moved slowly as he spoke, not pacing—but measuring distance. The way a surgeon might measure an incision.
“It takes the form of attachment. Affection. Mercy. And when allowed to grow unchecked, it spreads through the body like rot.”
He stopped in front of Daryl, but didn’t look at him. He didn’t need to.
“The Creed,” he announced, “removes infection. Before it kills the host.”
You could feel your heartbeat in your throat.
“We are not here to offer comfort,” he continued. “We are here to build something that will not die. That will not bend. That will not be weakened by nostalgia or grief or love.”
He finally turned, his gaze landing on you.
“If we are to rebuild, we do it clean. Cold. Absolute. Every cell of the body must serve the same function. To serve The Creed is to survive. To waver is to contaminate.”
Still no raised voice. Still no need.
Behind him, mounted on the wall in scorched iron, the symbol loomed—an unbroken chain of identical hands, each gripping the next. No variation. No faces. Just function.
“Commander,” Marshal called out, stepping forward with a measured gait, his arm lifting slowly, deliberately. His fist was clenched tight around something unseen, knuckles pale from pressure. And then — without flourish, without even turning — the Commander held out his hand. And of course, Marshal dropped something into the man's hand immediately upon being beckoned, like the obedient Marshal he was.
“Hey Marshal,” you said sweetly, tilting your head like you were asking about the weather, “blink twice if he’s pegging you under duress.”
A snort broke the silence—one of the Creed men on the left, a younger guy who looked like he hadn’t fully grown into his rifle yet. He tried to smother it into his sleeve, but it was too late.
Marshal didn’t move. Just turned his head—slow as a cocked rifle—toward the offender. That single, glassy-eyed glare was enough to choke the air out of the room. The younger man stiffened like he’d been slapped, spine ramrod straight, the color draining from his face.
You leaned back a little, grinning. “What?” you said innocently, eyes still locked on Marshal. “Your safe word get revoked?”
Still nothing. Not a flinch. Not a word. He just stared at you with that carved-from-ice face, something unreadable and venomous glittering behind his eyes. You heard a grumpy redneck mutter 'Jesus Christ' under his breath from beside you.
The smirk faded from your lips—just a little.
Because suddenly, you got the feeling he was quiet, not out of rage, but satisfaction. He knew something you didn’t. And that was never a good sign.
The Commander regarded the object he had just been handed with clinical detachment, rolling it once between his fingers, not like a sentimental object, but like a contaminant. A defect in the system.
He didn’t look at you. He didn’t look at Daryl.
Instead, he walked—slowly, with eerie precision—toward the hearth at the center of the room, where a small controlled flame crackled low in a steel brazier. The fire wasn’t for warmth. It was too precise for that. It burned like part of the architecture, like something ritualistic.
He held something out between two fingers like it was nothing more than a scrap of trash. But you saw it. The shape. The glint. Your ring.
Your stomach dropped so fast it felt like your body forgot how to hold itself up. Every thought in your head screamed at you to reach for it, to snatch it from his hand, to put it back where it belonged before it got any colder—but you didn’t move. You couldn’t. Not unless you were ready to take a bullet to the skull for lunging at a glorified cult leader with a loaded entourage.
“A symbol,” he said calmly, almost conversationally. “Of choice. Of devotion. Of weakness.”
The word settled like ash. Only then did his gaze lift, sweeping from you to Daryl. Not accusatory. Not cruel. Simply final.
“There is no place for it here.”
And with no ceremony, no smirk, no grand display, he flicked the ring into the flames like it was nothing. Just a gesture. Just punctuation.
You couldn't breathe.
The copper glinted once as it spun through the air, and then it was gone. Swallowed by fire without a sound, as if it had never been at all.
A small, strangled gasp caught in your throat, but you bit it down hard, like you could crush the sound before it gave you away. Tears surged behind your eyes with such force it made your vision blur, but you didn’t let them fall. You couldn’t. Your throat had closed up too tightly to speak, too tightly to breathe, and your fingers twitched at your sides with the phantom impulse to lunge—grab it, save it, stop this.
But you didn’t move.
You stood your ground, even as something in your chest caved inward. Even as your ribcage became a coffin for what that ring meant—the promise, the history, the busload of bullsshit the both of you had survived to be married at all.
You could still feel the weight of it on your hand. Could still feel Daryl’s fingers slipping it on, rough and reverent, back when forever was something you fought for with teeth and blood and hope. And now it was gone.
And you just stood there. Because you had to.
Because this performance—the pretending, the restraint—was the only thing keeping you alive. And if that meant swallowing your scream and letting the ashes cling to your skin like grief, so be it.
You didn’t cry. You didn’t move. But your body reacted like you’d been struck—something inside you recoiling so sharply your knees locked, your breath caught high in your throat, and the air left your lungs without permission.
Daryl’s eyes never left the fire. His face didn’t change. Not to them.
But you saw it. The flicker of something dangerous curling in his expression like smoke off a fuse.
The Commander turned without waiting for a response.
“Begin their assimilation.”
The words were dull, mechanical.
A switch flipped. A process resumed.
As they pulled you out of the room, your body remembered movement before your mind did, and the silence followed like a second shadow. If this was just the start of assimilation, then great — things were already going to shit. They’d taken your ring. You just had to hope you could last long enough and come out the same person.
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mossangelll · 7 months ago
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yandere!jinx x reader headcanons
thought i’d go into how yandere jinx would capture get you into a relationship ⸜(。˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡
tw: abusive behaviour
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i feel like there’s two pathways to getting in a relationship with her, both suck equally
pathway 1: she stalked you for a while before deciding to talk to you! she wanted it to be “organic” but she couldn’t just go in knowing nothing about you…what kind of impression would that make?
the first time she does speak to you she mentions some obscure ritual of yours that she should absolutely not know about…she distracts you with a confetti bomb
you fell for it
i love the idea that once you become friends she gives you gifts with tracking devices in them and you’re none the wiser - this is exactly why you need her to protect you! if she has your best interests at heart and can get away with something like that, who knows what someone with bad intentions could do to you!
since she’s past the stage of just being acquaintances with you, her mask starts to slip and her manipulative behaviour becomes more pronounced
first she guilt trips you into hanging out with her for longer periods of time, then she starts complaining about the fact you have other friends - she absolutely weaponises her abandonment issues even if she hates to talk about it in any other situation
before you know it you’re isolated from your family and friends and spend all of your time with jinx :3
she treats it like a 24/7 sleepover except you have to do what she says if you don’t want to be victim to her lashing out
pathway 2: she straight up kidnapped you and figured she can form a relationship with you once you’re captive (that is how dating works, right?)
you would come home from work one day to find a weird metal device laying on your pillow, your name spray painted onto it surrounded by love hearts
you’d fiddle with it for a bit before gas floods your room
you’re knocked out like a light and jinx drops down from the ceiling doing a happy dance
she won’t tell silco about it but he eventually realises something’s up when she starts to steal large amounts of food from the bar
he finds you in her den and demands jinx tell him what is going on
she dances around the topic (literally and figuratively) trying to buy her way out of it but when she sees the disapproving glare in silco’s good eye she deflates - she can’t keep you her little secret anymore
honestly she tells him a few too many details like wayyyyyyyy too many
even he was weirded out
but jinx is his daughter so she gets away with it as per usual
ok back to the kidnapping, when you come to you’re tied down to a surprisingly plush chair and jinx is ALL up in your space
like imagine a kid with their face smushed up to the vending machine glass, she’s so entranced when she has you
she just thinks you’re so cute when you’re sleeping!
of course she expected there to be some…growing pains so she makes sure to have her gun in plain sight - she doesn’t want you getting any fun ideas about “escaping”
if you’re aggressive and moody with her she honestly loves it
in her mind the fact you’re showing so much raw emotion proves you must love her (even if you’ve only known her for like 5 minutes)
however if you’re constantly screaming and begging to leave even after you’ve been in captivity for a while it would trigger her abandonment issues and she would snap
she just doesn’t get it. she makes you fun gadgets, does your hair, tries to get you to open up about yourself even though she already knows most things about you - why do you want to leave her so badly?
however, if you refuse to engage with her at all and completely blank out her existence her patience would run out very quickly
you’re her new fixation and she wants to get to unravel every layer of you, not feel unwanted
so she does some good old trauma bonding by dangling you over the edge of her workshop railing, eyes cold and a deep frown set into her face
in her defense she catches you right as you’re about to fall!
she embraces you, crying with you as she tells you that if she was anyone else (who didn’t love you as much as she did) they would have let you fall but she cares about you 🥺 she only meant to teach you a lesson about the real world 🥺
you’re so conflicted and scared; you know what she did was fucked up, but adrenaline pumps through your veins and you feel like you’re about to throw up, so you just accept her comfort
sometimes she leaves you all on your own in her workshop when she’s off doing odd jobs for silco and you begin to crave human connection so deeply that when jinx suggests a spa night with cuddles at the end, you don’t say no
——————————————————————————
this is actually just me manifesting that jinx becomes real and obsesses over me…she’s so dreamy <3
masterlist
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vintagebuckybarnes · 9 months ago
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Sandwiches And Sticky Fingers
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Pairing -> Husband! Dad! Bucky Barnes x Wife! Mom! Fem! Reader
Total Wordcount -> 1.8K
Summary -> As your daughters are growing up, Bucky enjoys spending as much time as possible with his little family. Today, as the weather is lovely, he offers to have a picnic in your backyard, which is an offer you simply can’t refuse as it’ll be some welcome family time after a long week.
Tags & Warnings -> Canon compliant, stay-at-home dad! Bucky Barnes, established relationship (marriage), domestic fluff, a tiny bit of angst, references to Bucky's past (nondescriptive), mention/reference of a bad past relationship (nondescriptive), reader is nicknamed ‘Sunshine,’ no use of y/n.
Story rating -> Teen
Author’s Note -> As of right now, I officially have a tag list where you can add yourself! I will also add to the list as I write for different characters and participate in writing challenges. If you’d like to be tagged in my stories, you can add yourself to my tag list here.
Writing Prompts @fandombingo -> “There was never anyone else for me.” | Bucky Barnes @fandom-free-bingo Bug Edition -> “You’re so red.”
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The sun outside shines brightly, covering the entire garden and your house in a beautiful golden hue. Your husband, Bucky, is enjoying some alone time as he makes breakfast for you and himself, and two pink bottles of milk are slowly warming up in the designated machine. He’s usually up an hour or two before you, and your twin daughters, and he likes to use that time to go on a long morning run with his best friend, Steve, to burn off some extra energy that is a result of the super soldier serum pumps through his veins.
As the sunlight enters your bedroom, showering everything in a warmth that always makes you happy, you wake up before stretching out, ready to start the day. After a quick look on the baby monitor—where you see both girls still sound asleep—you grab one of Bucky’s well-worn henleys, slip it on, and bring the fabric to your nose to inhale his masculine, comforting scent. A hum falls off your lips as a smile tugs on the corners of your mouth.
Finally, you make your way down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Bucky is humming along to some music from the 40’s, his entire body moving to the beat as he effortlessly flips the next chocolate chip pancake - your favorite.
“Good morning, Sunshine,” he says as he looks over his shoulder, meeting your gaze as he does. A flurry of butterflies is going wild in your stomach, heat surging through your veins as Bucky’s eyes darken from their usual bright blue to a darker blue while the pure need for you surges through his body. Within less than five steps, he’s standing in front of you, his hands gently cupping your cheeks as he takes a moment to admire your features.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs before leaning in, his lips on yours in a captivating kiss that has you gripping his shirt tightly. Even after a few years of marriage, he still takes your breath away every single day. Bucky’s hands wander from your cheeks down to your neck, his thumbs tilting your head slightly to get even better access to your soft, pink lips, and goosebumps arise on the skin he’s touching.
“Bucky-” is all you can say, but you don’t finish your sentence as the machine warming your girls’ bottles is beeping, letting you know they’re ready to go. A wide smile spreads as you push your forehead against your husband’s, your bottom lip pulled between your teeth.
“I love you, Sunshine, so much. Now, if you go get the girls, I’ll finish breakfast, okay?” he asks softly, and you nod before stealing a few more pecks and turning around, your hips swaying a little extra with every step. As soon as you open the door to the room your twins share, you can hear them babbling away at one another, and your heart swells with love.
“Good morning, girls! Are you two ready to get some breakfast with Mommy and Daddy this morning?” you ask as you lower the side of the crib that houses your first daughter - Isabelle - ready to scoop into your arms. She coos happily at you, and you kiss her chubby cheek as you walk over to her sister - Rebecca - scooping her up with your free arm. Thankfully, Bucky had already changed their diapers before going on his run earlier this morning, meaning you don’t have to worry about them until after breakfast. You can go straight to the kitchen as your stomach is rumbling with hunger.
“Who’s ready to go and see Daddy?!” you ask them excitedly, making Bucky smile as he hears you over the baby monitor on the kitchen counter. He lets out a content sigh as he finishes setting the table, just in time for you to walk in with your daughters. Rebecca immediately stretches her arms out to be held by Bucky, which has become their morning routine whenever you’re home.
With you being gone for work early in the morning and Bucky taking on the role of a stay-at-home dad at his request, he has been bonding with them in a way he never would have considered before meeting you. Ever since he got the chance to meet you, you have shown him what he deserves by giving it to him and more, and even though it is still a struggle some days, he now embraces his life with open arms, which is a massive help with his recovery, too.
“I’ve been thinking, what do you think of having a picnic in the backyard this afternoon? After they’ve gone down for their nap, we can spread out a blanket on the grass as we have some snacks for us, and they’ll get their bottles outside, as well,” he offers; you don’t have to think about it for even a second before you let him know you agree, and Bucky feels like he’s on cloud nine at the thought of spending the afternoon all together.
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Bucky spreads a large picnic blanket in your backyard underneath a large beach umbrella to allow for shade. While you’re busy cutting up fruit in the kitchen, you suddenly get very distracted by the sight of your husband bending over in a pair of tight, black jeans that show off his backside beautifully as you start to salivate a bit at the thought of giving it a spanking or two. Then, as if he senses your eyes on him, he turns around with a quirked brow, letting you know you got caught.
In an effort to play it off like nothing happened, you go back to cutting the large, juicy watermelon you bought at a farmers market you and your twins attended after breakfast, but it’s all to no avail.
“You can’t help yourself, can you, Sunshine? Ogling innocent men as they’re just spreading out a blanket in their backyard,” Bucky purrs as he gently pushes himself against your back, his firm chest and chiseled abdomen pressed against you as his large hands rub your arms.
Why does he have to look and feel like he’s been cut out of marble? You think as you close your eyes. The way he presses against you has you wanting him more and more every second, and when his lips are leaving a trail of kisses on your neck and bare shoulder, your brain is about to shortcircuit completely. As you drop the knife on the counter, you and Bucky snap back to reality at the loud sound.
“Oh god, I-I’m sorry!” you say as heat surges through your cheeks, embarrassment and bad memories flooding your body and mind as you try to regain yourself.
“Sunshine, can you look at me for a moment?” Bucky gently asks, and you turn around after he steps back to allow you some room to move.
“It’s okay- we’re okay. I know you dropped the knife, but no one got hurt, and everyone is okay. I’m not mad,” he says reassuringly, and you can’t help but tear up a little as he says it. Before meeting Bucky, you’ve come out of a nasty relationship, and as much as you’ve shown him the life he deserves, he’s also shown you the life you deserve to live, even though it hasn’t been easy for either of you.
“Are you sure?” you ask in a small voice, and Bucky nods before extending his hand. He wants to give you the choice of being touched, and you put your hand in his before stepping into his comforting arms. As he whispers sweet words into your hair, your heart rate goes down, and the anxiety you felt earlier also leaves your body as you enjoy the moment.
“Thank you, Bucky,” you say before standing on your tiptoes and kissing him on the cheek, leaving him to blush intensely at your show of affection. A goofy smile splits his face as he feels like a teenager in love who just got kissed on the cheek by their crush, and he can never get enough of feeling this way. After you’ve returned to cutting the red, juicy fruit, Bucky has gone to get the twins, changing their diapers before taking them outside, ready to enjoy the picnic.
“Look who’s there with your bottles! It’s Mommy!” Bucky says enthusiastically as you’re holding the girls’ milk bottles in one hand and a basket with containers of sandwiches and fruit in the other. As you walk over, Bucky admires the way you look like a goddess with the sun shining beautifully on you, smiling as he does. While he always knows he’s lucky to have fallen in love with someone like you, moments like this cement it for him.
“What’ve you been staring at, Handsome? You’re so red, the colors of your cheeks are rivaling the strawberries I cut up earlier,” you say teasingly as you sit down on one of the pillows Bucky brought outside, and he turns his head to Isabelle, who’s looking up at him with big, curious eyes.
“Do you hear that, Izzy? Your Mommy is teasing me and telling me I look like a strawberry! Can you believe it?!” he says with faux-offense, immediately making you chuckle as he does. In moments like this, you’re falling in love with him all over again. He’s a natural dad, and it always felt right when you talked about him becoming a stay-at-home dad. He’s doing a fantastic job raising your daughters; you can’t help but tell him exactly that.
“Bucky?” you say, grabbing his attention for a moment.
“I love you and am so happy to have married you. Before meeting you, I only thought I had met the love of my life, but nothing was further from the truth - it was only when I got to know you that I realized there was never anyone else for me. You’re my soulmate, true love, and happily ever after.”
For a moment, Bucky stays silent as he lets your words sink in; the amount of love makes his heart overflow. His mouth opens and shuts a few times as his brain desperately tries to grasp words, but he’s unable to. Instead, he leans forward to kiss you, a soft moan slipping from your lips as he does. The kiss is unhurried, soft, and perfect, but you’re pulled out of the kiss when you feel something sticky and wet smeared on your arm.
“Oh, what’s that?! Did you get ahold of one of the strawberries?” you ask as you look down at Rebecca, who’s squeezed one of the juicy fruits before smearing it onto your arm. A deep laugh emerges from your husband’s chest, and you can’t help but laugh with him. What started as a sweet moment has become a core memory for you and your husband, genuinely making it a day never to forget.
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Masterlist -> Bucky Barnes Masterlist
GIF: Source -> All the other graphics are made by @vintagebuckybarnes
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348 notes · View notes
love-belle · 2 years ago
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today and tomorrow and every day after that !!!
*ੈ✩‧₊˚ in which their fall-in-love-again era is them pretending as if they haven't already made it till forever.
or
for when it'll be them today, tomorrow and then a day after that. ˚ ༘♡ ⋆。˚
social media au // max verstappen x fem!reader
prequel - i should hate you ⋆·˚ ༘ *
warnings - language
author's note - it's 3am and im tired. thank u and i hope u like it <3
≡;- ꒰ °instagram ꒱
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liked by maxverstappen1, danielricciardo, carmenmmundt and 789,416 others
yourusername his big wet eyes and loser personality have captivated me
tagged maxverstappen1
7,628 comments
username STFU OMG
username NO WAY SHE POSTED HIM AFTER MONTHS FOR RADIO SILENCE
username GIRL WHAT
username kinda hypocritical of u to go back to ur ex after yelling at us to fuck him (figuratively)
-> yourusername sorry bb he cried until i gave in
-> maxverstappen1 stop spreading lies
username the way i js relaxed and it wasn't even my relationship like DAMN
username im a child of TOGETHER parents
username i need this
danielricciardo i better be the godfather of your vaginal demons
-> yourusername pls take back ur bf heidiberger_
-> heidiberger_ timeout. NOW.
-> maxverstappen1 why only HER vaginal demons. i helped too
-> danielricciardo yeah for like 2 seconds
-> yourusername STOP TALKING ABT MT VAGINAL DEMONS
-> yourusername oh god
-> username "i helped too" LMFAOAOAOAN WTF
maxverstappen1 this is cyber bullying
-> yourusername stfu i love those photos like fetus maximus ❤️
-> maxverstappen1 that's not my name and you know it
-> yourusername honestly u should he HONOURED that u share a name with maximus the horse 🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄
username who needs reality tv when u have this comments section
username everyday i discover something entirely new about this whole group and atp im not even surprised
username don't post me unless the caption is "his big wet eyes and loser personality have captivated me"
maxverstappen1 i don't have a loser personality
-> yourusername u wear skinny jeans
-> username gagged him
-> username no bc they need to GO
maxverstappen1 okay but i could be your loser boyfriend, you ever think of that?
-> yourusername ur already my loser husband wdym
-> danielricciardo GIRL
-> maxverstappen1 wow
-> yourusername oh
-> yourusername haha surprise people
-> username say what the fuck now
-> username istg if i find out that they're MARRIED after WEEKS of agony and pain i will riot
maxverstappen1 you suck at keeping secrets
-> yourusername u suck in general
-> maxverstappen1 real mature
username i'd die for them and they don't even know me
username WHATTHEFYCK
username i did not see this coming wtfff
username WHEN WAS THIS.
username no bc the fact that they STILL don't follow each other is HILARIOUS
username giggling rn he's so babygirl i love him
lilymhe run away with me
-> yourusername absolutely
-> maxverstappen1 aren't you MY wife
-> lilymhe divorce exists
-> yourusername she has a point
username im paralysed like WHAT DO U MEAN THEY'RE MARRIED
≡;- ꒰ °instagram ꒱
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liked by yourusername, landonorris, danielricciardo and 895,315 others
maxverstappen1 something about how i'd marry you with paper rings and in this case, a string (or $1 rings from vending machine)
tagged yourusername
9,628 comments
maxverstappen1 i did not write the caption
-> maxverstappen1 y/n wrote this caption
-> yourusername i did not write this caption
username bitches be crying bc two people who do not know her at all are being cute and parents i am bitches
username she can spit on me
-> username she can ruin me actually
username nah ur not ginna distract us w this post WE NEED ANSWERS
-> username FRRRR LIKE WDYM UR HER HUSBAND
username pretty people (max and y/n) ruining it for the others (me)
username last slide made my heart crack
charles_leclerc i have heard you sing that little song to yourself. you wrote this caption.
-> maxverstappen1 i hope you like my rear
-> yourusername no bc he actually does
-> charles_leclerc i mean...
-> maxverstappen1 are we about to kiss right now?
-> alexandrasaintmleux does this mean......yourusername
-> yourusername babe come over ❤️
-> username what in the world is happening in this comments section
username everyday i wake up against my will and lose a part of myself knowing that my wife was snatched up by a vroom vroom mutation
username max it's ok to love ur wife!!!!!!!! we do too!!!!!!!!
-> maxverstappen1 she's not my wife. referring to her as such damages my reputation
-> yourusername i hope u like the doghouse
-> maxverstappen1 fun fact! we don't have a dog
-> yourusername new fact! now we do
-> maxverstappen1 uh
-> username i live for y/n terrorizing max every moment of the day
username nah my eyes are js overflowing with fluid im not crying 😂😂😂😂😂
username someone sedate me...........is max being romantic (?????????) on the main
username this is the peak of my existence
username lord what have i done wrong
danielricciardo as if you're not literally sitting on her lap right now
-> maxverstappen1 she tripped me
-> yourusername u literally told me that u would commit heinous crimes if i didn't let u sit on my lap
-> maxverstappen1 you tripped me
-> username i need to put his brain under a microscope and js SEE
-> username no bc how he goes from point a to point b needs to be scientifically studied
username don't mind me js going crazy over the fact that my parents MAY be married
yourusername u told me that i was the one who should propose
-> maxverstappen1 yes
-> yourusername and then snatched my ring and proposed to ME with MY ring
-> maxverstappen1 yes
-> yourusername yeah lemme js 🧠🔬
yourusername in any case, the answer would be fuck no ❤️
-> maxverstappen1 i'm calling christian and telling him that you're bullying his first driver.
yourusername IT'S A LOVE STORY BABY JS SAY YES!!!!!!!! (yes)
-> maxverstappen1 uh, i already asked charles_leclerc so...
-> charles_leclerc sorry
-> yourusername homwrecker
-> charles_leclerc there was no home to wreck
-> yourusername yeah i'll js sing boyfriend by dove cameron to alex instead
username this comments section is what keeps me up at night
≡;- ꒰ °instagram ꒱
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liked by maxverstappen1, carmenmmundt, landonorris and 1,527,278 others
yourusername babygirl u are a very freak and strange. i am deeply in love with u. all jokes aside, we made it. i know we got married like weeks ago but marrying u like FOR REAL has been the most beautiful moment of my life. i wanna spend everyday with u, in this life and all the others. vegas was a trip but even then, it was perfect with u, the one i was marrying and as taylor swift said "i like shiny things but i'd marry u with paper rings" or in our case, $1 rings from the vending machine. i wanna go to museums with u and point to pictures with weird guys and say "that's u". i wanna dance in the kitchen with u. i wanna look back after decades at all these memories and laugh, knowing that my now-self made the best decision. i love u even if u have me saved as "DO NOT ANSWER ❌" in ur phone. i think forever would be nice with u or till death do us apart (or someone in a suit if this escalates to a divorce).
tagged maxverstappen1
11,628 comments
username give me a minute. or a year
username hahahahahahaha PAUSE.
username no bc i missed the WHOLE BOOK instead of chapters
username and this is how they managed to break the f1 fandom
username PLEASE IM CRYING WHATCTYENFUCK
username they 😭 got 😭 married 😭
username IM CRYING WHATTTEYEGDHDJD
carmenmmundt all my love to both of you !! i love you and you deserve nothing but happiness 🤍 thank you so much for letting me be a part of your special day
-> yourusername carmen 🤍🤍🤍 u own my heart and thank UUUUUU for being a part of my big day
username "i think forever would be nice with u or till death do us apart (or someone in a suit if this escalates to a divorce)" y/n y/l/n how does it feel to be the most hilarious person ever 🎤🎤🎤🎤🎤
username im in SHAMBLES rn what the fuck
username someone sedate me bc there's NO way this is real
landonorris good luck because he's with you till you decompose
-> maxverstappen1 i'll go with her into the afterlife too like who the fuck she trying to meet there
-> yourusername bold of u to assume you'd even get in
-> maxverstappen1 is this what married life is like???
username i am unwell
username "i wanna go to museums with u and point to pictures with weird guys and say "that's u"" THIS IS TRUE LOVE
username and adding onto my 262728292 reasons
username the caption has me shaking on the floor gasping for breath
username i have PRAYED for times like these
username FUCJ YESHSHHSJSJSJS
danielricciardo the best night even though i don't remember any of it
-> yourusername u tried to set our marriage certificate on fire saying "it's set in stone now"
-> danielricciardo doing god's work
-> username no bc y/nmax nation would be in RUINS if it weren't for daniel
username sobbing they're soooo parents now it's crazy
username i js woke up whatcthebfufk
username AHSHSJJKKSSKAKSJSJKS
maxverstappen1 never changing your contact name
-> yourusername this is so not sexie new husband of u
maxverstappen1 we look lovely
-> yourusername yes we do
maxverstappen1 mrs. y/l/n-verstappen
-> yourusername mr. verstappen-y/l/n
username YELLING THIS IS REVOLUTIONARY
username screeching when will it be my turn
username never ever ever getting over this caption
username this will go down in history for YEARS to come
≡;- ꒰ °instagram ꒱
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maxverstappen1 never really did sappy posts but this means the world to me and i guess there's a first (???) time for everything. all i can say is that i truly cannot wait to spend all my days with you and go to sleep thinking that i can't wait to do it again tomorrow. and i think, there's nothing more lovelier than that. you once told me that i deserved the world, i hope we get to see it together. i wanna hear how your day was, today and tomorrow and every day after that. but before getting to all those tomorrows, here's to our forever that's summed up for me in a small moment.
tagged yourusername
13,628 comments
username shut up and think about what u did
username i can't cry im in class WHY WOULD U DO THIS TO ME
username no bc this is literally my last straw ENOUGH
username "here's to our forever that's summed up for me in a small moment" THIS DOESN'T EVEN MAKE SENSE AND IT MADE ME SOB
username no bc he had no RIGHT to post this
username girlypop im still recovering from y/n's post give me 4-5 business years
username not cool max verstappen not COOL.
username tears are streaming down my face what the actual fuck
landonorris okay i shed a few tears
-> maxverstappen1 mate you were sobbing while giving your speech
-> landonorris I SUFFERED THE MOST OKAY
-> username no bc lando is their ACTUAL child of divorce
username this is ASTRONOMICAL like this is INSANE
username the bar is so high it js looks like a dash at this point
username everyone go home. max js won
-> maxverstappen1 winning on and off track
-> yourusername u cried when i beat u in mario kart
-> maxverstappen1 I CAN'T DRIVE
-> yourusername UR A PROFESSIONAL DRIVER
username further proof of if he wanted to he would
username "i truly cannot wait to spend all my days with you and go to sleep thinking that i can't wait to do it again tomorrow" js take me swiftly and now
username IN LOVE WITH THEIR WEDDING AESTHETIC LIKE IT EATS SO HARD
username i've prayed for times like these ❤️
charles_leclerc can't believe you would cheat on me
-> maxverstappen1 might just leave her for you
-> yourusername is this a bad time to tell u both that im already seeing someone???? alexandrasaintmleux
-> alexandrasaintmleux my angel ❤️
-> charles_leclerc wait a minute
-> maxverstappen1 now hold on
username live for men are unapologetically in love with their partners like there's nothing more sexy than that
username liar every single post abt y/n has been a sappy post
-> maxverstappen1 she holds me hostage every time
-> yourusername divorce papers look so sexy rn
username IT'S BEEN SUCH A LONG JOURNEY Y'ALL WE MADE IT
username my babies ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
danielricciardo tell lando i'm the godfather
-> landonorris he WON'T because you're NOT
-> maxverstappen1 guys we don't even have a baby
-> danielricciardo obviously we're talking about the future. your swimmers ain't THAT competitive unlike you
-> yourusername BAHAHAHAHA PLEASE UR SO WRONG FOR THAT
-> maxverstappen1 and you're officially out of the godfather contestants
username need a documentary on this like my life depends on this bc it DOES
username i never will be moving on from this post
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-> maxverstappen1 i don't know, this girl who follows me everywhere and calls me maximus
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yourusername nvm idgaf I LOVEEEEEE YOU
-> maxverstappen1 i love you more
yourusername husband
-> maxverstappen1 wife
username giggling rn im sooooo happy
username i will show this to my kids
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averagewriter-inthedark · 5 months ago
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Super Strength & Super Love 💪 | Johnny Storm Headcanon
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Marvel Masterlist
note: I have a full length imagine planned with this same concept as well as a Johnny x 40s!super soldier.
content warnings: slight suggestive/nsfw
Johnny Storm in a relationship with a super soldier would look like:
Johnny and the Fantastic Four had resecured you from the organization you'd been kidnapped and experimented on where you were injected with their own attempt at the super soldier serum. Having been the only successful asset, you were highly valuable to them and forced to do their bidding. That's how the FF stumbled upon you and worked to put an end to the organization. From there you were an associate of the FF and remained at Baxter Building alongside them.
The relationship between you and Johnny progressed following months of flirting, lingering glances, saving each other from psychos, etc. The Four were betting on how long it would take before one of you caved in and asked the other out. Sue won, naturally.
First of all, Johnny is amazed by you. Everything about you really is captivating to him but he is just so attracted by the fact you can stop a speeding car with your bare hands, casually throw him and others over your shoulder, and take on Ben in a sparring match.
You're the first person the Four go to when they need help moving something 💀 "Y/n, could you please lift the couch for me while I vacuum?" "I need this machine next to this one if you don't mind." Even Ben is coming to you for assistance when he's working on the car and will have you lift the vehicle so he can slide underneath.
Along with super strength you also have super reflexes. Johnny loves how you don't even have to look at him to know he tripped passing by you and you're instantly reaching to grab the back of his t-shirt to pull him upright. He'll get all flustered, look at you like you're the embodiment of a God/Goddess and go, "You're so hot, you know that?" "That's very flattering coming from the man made of pure fire."
You two are the life of the party at events. Johnny will show off his flames and you'll display your strength---sometimes lifting Johnny on your shoulders which causes people to stop and stare in amazement.
During missions you'll tag team--him usually in the skies while you cover the ground. Then when you get cornered at a dead-end and need to break through an opened window he'll be like, "Wanna give me a boost, babe?" as if he needs one but you'll squat anyway with your fingers interlaced for him to push off of.
Johnny will watch you work out even if you don't need a spotter. Placing more weights as you bench press, timing your sprints, replacing the punching bag when you send it off its hinges. And when he's feeling naughty Johnny will sit his perky ass on your back as you do pushups while counting as you go. Or he'll lay his whole body as you plank, trying to distract you with cheeky kisses to your neck and shoulder. "Baby, I'm sweating and gross, can you not?"
When Johnny says he loves your strength, he loves it. Especially when you two are making out and your hand comes up to the base of his throat. It'll make all the blood rush down and heat rise as you teasingly grip him as an act of showing how strong you are even in the most vulnerable moments. Of course he knows you'd never intentionally hurt him but just knowing you can roughhouse him turns him on so bad. "Do that again." "Oh Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. You have no idea what power you've given me."
Speaking of roughhousing he fucking loves when you take control by pushing him against the wall, door, bookshelf, whatever flat surface you can find. Like the hand on his throat it gets him all hot and bothered. Once he's had enough of the teasing he'll display his strength by picking you up and throwing you on the bed.
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unfortunatelymerlin · 29 days ago
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So I fell in love with this fic rec game to the extent that I decided to just answer all the categories, Merthur style. All are canon era. Enjoy!
1. Recommend a fic that lives in your brain  rent free. 
Golden As I Open My Eyes | E | 2,900 words
Sometimes, the unravelling of secrets is the easy part. Sometimes, what is most difficult comes after; how do you relearn something that you thought you knew better than yourself?
I just LOVE this. The darkness of it, the possesiveness, the obsession, the hints at my shared headcanon with the author of it being weird and awkward post-Camlann... delicious soup!
2. Recommend a fic that is not posted on  AO3.
In Time of Trial | Not rated (E) I 36,807 words
In which Uther is deceived by an old  friend, and Arthur is declared a traitor. 
Not only is this fic not on A03, it's hard to find  anywhere because the original site on which it was  hosted no longer exists. Everyone say thank you to the wayback machine. 
3. Recommend fic that is less than 5,000  words. 
What lf You're Someone I Just Want Around | T | 2,900 words
Sometimes, you love despite, not  because. Sometimes, finding out does not change anything.
My bookmark note on this reads: "It's as if the author peered into your brain, and wrote this based on what it found there." And this fic really does align with my own headcanon about Arthur's thought processes throughout canon to a startling degree. Basically canon. To me. 
4. Recommend a fic that is over 50,000  words. 
Sorcerer's Bane | E | 264,621 words
Arthur gave Merlin his cloak thinking only of the warmth it would offer in a snowstorm. He never thought his manservant may be mistaken for him and snatched by bandits. Nor did he expect his dashing rescue of Merlin to turn his world so utterly on his head.
Because the bandits hadn't kidnapped a prince. They'd snatched a sorcerer, and now captivity is the least of anyone's problems.
A golden age awaits, but can they claim it together, or are they doomed to fail?
One thing I love about this fandom is how many fics are long and juicy. So many fics could have gone here, including others on this list. However, this one is briliant. A lot is packed into the story — the summary covers only the catalyst at the start of the whole thing — and it is so engaging that the lengthy word count flies by. If you've not read it yet, you need to.
5. Recommend a gen fic (no pairings). 
The Champion of the Arcane Dominion | M | 81,070 words
When the well-being of Camelot's greatest hangs in the balance, Merlin undergoes the trial of the Arcane Dominion. He is alone, forced to enter a magical realm and confront a dangerous enemy in order to save his friends. Little does he know, those very friends are watching his every move. Trapped by the magic of the trial, Arthur and the knights are made to witness Merlin's journey - and discover some uncomfortable secrets along the way.
I struggled to narrow down this one, so decided to be strict with myself and only recommend fics without any background romantic Merthur. That being said, this fic does have a strong emphasis on the Merthur relationship, and it's not romantic in the same way the show isn't romantic. Which is to say, they are so devoted the lines blur.
6. Recommend a fic that does something cool with format or structure (epistolary social media, 5 things, non-linear, etc.)
A Different Wilderness I T | 28,580 words
Merlin dies. Arthur lives.
For 1600 years.
Full of faux media chronicalling Arthur's life as a public figure while waiting for Merlin return to him. I have never read a fanfic that manages anything like this quite so well, especially in the way the author manages to competently mimic works by many incredible real-life literary greats. If you read nothing else on this list, read this.
7. Recommend a fic that uses a trope you love.
You can hold my hand (if you let me hold yours too) | T | 23,775 words
Arthur has long since begrudgingly admitted to himself that his feelings might run a bit deeper than just a harmless case of infatuation. But it isn't until Merlin's mortally injured in an ambush that Arthur learns to what lengths he's willing to go to save him.
Especially when it turns out that his manservant is also a sorcerer and has magically bound himself to Arthur.
And why is it that Arthur doesn't exactly mind?
I am a SUCKER for soul bond tropes, and there are a fair few that contain that in the Merlin fandom. This one has it as the central conflict, however, AND it's accidental, which is my favourite twist.
8. Recommend a fic with an interesting  premise/concept. 
Awake | E l 50,735 words 
King Arthur sleeps in Avalon, waiting to  return at the hour of Albion's greatest  need. But once a year he awakes and  spends a single day with Merlin, who will  never, ever leave him.
The way this author writes this premise is especially pleasing to me, and it was the first and one of the few I've read like it.
9. Recommend a fic from a book fandom.
The Ivy Crown | E | 252,245 words
Merlin couldn't have picked a worse time to finally tell Arthur about his magic. In the wake of the battle against the immortal army, a strange visitor disrupts the court, calling himself the Green Knight and proposing a test of the court's integrity. Although Uther turns him away, several of Camelot's northern allies end up mysteriously beheaded over the next few months, and Arthur, Merlin and the knights set out to investigate. They encounter more than they'd bargained for on the way—a reckless young boy, a lady in search of a husband, a centuries-old fairytale that holds more than a grain of truth... and a challenge that ends up being more than just a game.
This is, I think, not only one of my favourite Merlin fics that is explicitly crossed with Arthurian literature, but also one of my favourite fanfics ever, in any fandom. It also happens to be mainly crossed with Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, which is one of my most beloved stories in the entire world, and one I've not only reread a million times in a million iterations, but also studied extensively in various forms - and this fic does it justice, with a lovely Merthur slant. If you don't know the story, it will keep you on your toes, but if you do know the story, this doesn't rehash it in a way that is boring.
10. Recommend a fic that is more than 10  years old.
Light of Arthur | E | 63,462 words
An epic tale of gods and man, destiny and choices, darkness and light, and eternal love that's fixed as the stars to the celestial sphere.
Another thing I love about this fandom is just how long it's been going, so finding a good fic that is older than 10 years old isn't difficult in the slightest. This is a classic, and one newer fans who stick to the more established Merthur tags on A03 might miss.
11. Recommend a fic you think is a hidden  gem/deserves more reads.
Tumbling Overboard | M | 8,052 words
Unfortunately for Merlin, it’s getting terribly hard to get Arthur alone, these days.
(Or: Five Interruptions)
I really struggled with this one, because I don't know if there are many hidden gems in this fandom... so I went with a fic I loved that I think should have more comments, especially considering it was posted alllll the way back in December 2024...
12. Recommend a fic that formed or changed your opinion on something (characterization, backstory, relationship, etc.)
to go with grace I T | 16,972 words
Morgana is dead.
Morgana Pendragon is dead, at Emrys's hand. Just as the prophecies had foretold.
But before she can enter Avalon and find peace, she must first pay penance for all the sins she committed in her life.
After reading this, imagining a post-finale world where destiny was simply done with Morgana became unthinkable, and now there is always some element of Morgana redemption in any Arthur Comes Back scenario I concoct in my head.
13. Recommend a fic you've re-read multiple times.
Favorite | E | 13,012 words
Arthur was tipped back against the wall, his mouth open for breath and staring at the small arrow-slit window over Merlin's head, trying to work out how it could possibly be that good with Merlin, of all people.
Just SUCH a lovely, fun, and sexy fic. I find myself going back to it often.
14. Recommend your favorite fic.
The Rise of Albion Series | E | 55,295 & 35,964 words (91,259 total)
Merlin arrives at Camlann just in time. When the truth comes out, will Arthur accept him? Will they be able to face the feelings each of them has for the other? Will they ultimately defeat Morgana - together?
Something about this series just makes it stick around in my head, so while I definitely have more than one favourite fic, this ended up being The One I kept coming back to as my main option. It has the perfect balance of angst, plot, and glorious wish-fulfiment that has me coming back to reread it over and over again. I also adore the way magic is written in this. Comforting and lovely.
15. Recommend any fic of your choice
Arthur, Sincerely | M | 47,823 words
No one understands Arthur and Merlin's relationship, least of all Arthur and Merlin. Limping home after Camlann they have time to figure it out.
Now if only people would stop trying to give Merlin a promotion.
A gorgeous read, and I picked it because I love fics that deal with post-finale fics where Arthur lives, and everyone has to work out what comes next. 
If you read and enjoyed any of these, do make sure you leave a kudos/comment for the author! And let me know too! <3
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wenosgf · 2 months ago
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PUBLICITY STUNT
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synopsis: nicholas is an old friend of yours from back when you were a trainee under hybe. however, due to a grudge you’re stubbornly holding onto years later, your relationship as fellow idols is strained. what happens when a video is leaked of you and nicholas bickering backstage, and your company wants you to fake date him to dispel the backlash from his fans?
chapter 3: strawberry tea
wc: 1.1k
previous | materlist | next
the next morning you begrudgingly got ready for your ‘date’, dressed casually with a mask and cap. daehyun drove you as you slumped against the inside of the car door, letting your breath fog up the window. you were honestly just trying not to think about it so you wouldn't start vomiting or crying. daehyun was supposed to pick up nicholas from his apartment, and you were a little curious to see where he lived. the apartment building you stopped at wasn't too far away from yours, but it was bigger and probably a lot nicer on the inside. if nicholas hadn’t gotten you kicked out from a company as rich as hybe, you would probably be living in an apartment like this too.
maybe you were a little insane, because you couldn’t stop fantasising about the life you could’ve had if it weren’t for him. sure, your career has certainly taken off and your fame is now currently beyond that of most idols, but when you were younger you had always imagined that being under hybe, the same company as many artists you look up to. plus, when you got kicked from hybe you spent the next three years auditioning for other companies and going through the whole training and evaluation process again before you were finally able to debut. years that could’ve already been useful for gaining experience and popularity if you had debuted under hybe as originally planned.
nicholas climbed into the backseat and sat next to you. he greeted daehyun politely and then gave you his common shit-eating grin. you didn't see him dressed casually that often. today he was wearing baggy black cargo trousers, with a grey hoodie under an expensive-looking leather jacket. he looked good. you wanted to punch him.
"hey, y/n," he said to you in a teasing tone, tilting his head to the side.
you glared,"this is all your fault.”
he smirked. he’d always been attractive, even back when you were trainees. his eyes were captivating - siren-like. his face was sharp but soft in cheeks and lips. he was just ridiculously handsome and he definitely knew it, which just made you hate him even more.
"my fault? it’s my fault that you got exposed for being rude?" he chuckled lowly.
"you know i’m only rude to you because you go out of your way to piss me off."
"i do no such thing.”
"y/n, you should try being kinder to nicholas to avoid ever having a situation like this again." daehyun said from the driver's seat.
you glared at him through the rear view mirror,"the closest i’ll get to being kind to him is if i ignore him completely."
"i’m not sure what i’ve done to make you hate me so much. i’m such a loveable guy. just look at this face."
you didn't look at him, because you knew he was definitely pouting and batting his eyelashes like an idiot. you arrived at a small boba shop which wasn't very busy. you and nicholas walked up to the counter to order drinks while daehyun slinked into a seat far away from you. he was to take photos of you drinking together.
"strawberry tea, please, and a pearl milk tea." nicholas said to the barista.
“why the hell are you getting two drinks?”
"one of them's for you, genius."
that made your frown deepen,"what? how did you know my order?"
he turned to you with an arched eyebrow,"do you forget that we used to be friends? we used to come here all the time,"
you were stunned for a moment,"yeah... three years ago. my order could've changed since then."
“well has it?"
"no,"
he gave you a smirk which said 'that's what I thought'. nicholas tapped his card on the pay machine before you could even get your purse out, and once you received your drinks you sat side by side on a sofa which was tucked into the corner of the shop. you tucked your knees under your chin and leaned away from him, sipping away on your tea.
you pulled some cash out of your purse and handed it to nicholas, who just raised his eyebrows at you.
"for my drink," you said plainly.
he shook his head,"don’t worry about it,"
you scoffed and shoved the note into his hand,"just take it, i don't want to owe you anything,"
"you won't owe me anything, y/n, it's just a drink," he handed it out to you, but you didn't take it,"please, just take it,"
considering that's probably the closest you’d ever hear him get to begging, you gave up and put the note back in your purse,"i can't believe you came to a boba shop and didn’t even get boba,"
he craned his neck to stare at you suddenly while simultaneously slurping out of his paper straw noisily,"i don’t like the way boba feels in my mouth,”
“you find it too chewy. i remember.”
for a few moments you didn’t realise the implications of what you said, but the more you thought about it, the more you cringed at the possibility of him taking that statement as you remembering him sentimentally. even though it was a stretch, the fact that you had recalled this random fact about him sort of proved that he hadn’t simply became a stranger to you since you stopped talking, that he still was significant enough for your brain to hold onto these useless memories. you internally cursed yourself, and cast a sideways glance at him to capture his reaction, expecting him to either present a smug smirk or no reaction at all, but he wasn’t even looking your way, with his head turned in such a way that you could only see the back of it. you figured he was simply staring off into space, but, his ears were red.
just then, you noticed you’d gotten a text from daehyun.
manager dae:
please look like you actually like each other
you rolled your eyes.
“don't freak out," you muttered to nicholas before you shuffled closer to him and leant into his side. you could feel him freeze beside you, but he relaxed again. you felt a little bad for putting him in an uncomfortable situation, but you didn't feel bad enough to apologise to him.
as you were on your phone, you decided to open social media for the first time since the scandal happened. you had been avoiding it for a while now, but you couldn't help yourself anymore, you just needed to know exactly how bad it was. you opened up instagram and immediately you could see the hateful comments under your most recent post.
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wooattackrr · 11 months ago
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Brewing Relationships
MDNI
wordcount: 1,437
a/n: after some thinking i think im gonna be a mingyu writer :)
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The bell above the door jingled softly as you adjusted the register. The familiar scent of roasted coffee beans filled the air, mingling with the sweet aroma of pastries displayed on the counter. You had been working at Brewed Awakenings for several years, and while your routine had become comfortably monotonous, you had recently noticed a change. A new barista had joined the team—Mingyu.
He was tall, with broad shoulders that were slightly hunched as he focused intently on preparing orders. His dark hair fell just above his eyebrows, and he had a charming smile that made customers blush. Each time he flashed that grin your way, your heart fluttered, and you couldn't help but steal glances at him while you were cleaning up around the shop.
As the sun began to set, casting a warm glow through the windows, you both found yourselves alone in the shop for closing duties. The light was dimmer now, and the gentle hum of the espresso machine was the only sound accompanying your thoughts. You couldn’t deny the spark you felt with Mingyu—there was something about the way he moved and how he interacted with customers that drew you in.
“Hey, do you mind taking out the trash?” you asked him, sliding the bag toward him while you wiped down the counter. “I’ll finish cleaning up here.”
“Sure!” he replied, grinning as he grabbed the bag. His eyes sparkled with mischief as he added, “But only if you promise to make me a special drink when I get back.”
“Deal,” you said, unable to suppress a smile in return.
He left, and you took a moment to gather your thoughts. You didn’t just think Mingyu was cute; you were starting to find yourself captivated by him. The way he carried himself, his laughter, the low timbre of his voice... it all made your heart race.
After a minute, he returned, his expression bright as he leaned against the counter. “So, what’s this special drink?”
You paused to think for a moment, biting your lip as a playful idea struck you. “How about a ‘Mingyu Special’? I’ll whip up something just for you.”
“Ooh, I’m curious now,” he said, tilting his head slightly, his attention entirely on you.
You busied yourself behind the espresso machine, carefully choosing each ingredient, the flurry of emotions inside you mimicking the steam rising from the spout. You were mixing a blend of espresso, steamed milk, and a hint of caramel drizzle. As you worked, you could feel his gaze on you, and it sent shivers down your spine.
“Here you go,” you said finally, sliding the cup across the counter toward him. “What do you think?”
Mingyu took a sip, his eyes lighting up. “Wow, this is amazing! You really know your stuff,” he complimented, and a flush of pride warmed your cheeks.
“Thanks! I’ve had a lot of practice,” you replied, leaning against the counter casually.
The two of you continued to chat as the night progressed, your laughter filling the small shop. Every so often, you’d catch him stealing glances at you, and each time he did, your heart raced a little faster. The atmosphere was charged, the air thick with unspoken tension.
“Okay, I have to ask,” he said, his tone suddenly serious. “What’s your secret? How do you make coffee taste that good?”
You paused, taken aback by the intensity in his expression. “It’s all in the passion, I guess. You have to really enjoy what you’re doing, or else what’s the point?”
“I get that,” he said, stepping closer. The space between you felt electric now, your breaths mingling in the dim light of the shop. “I really enjoy working here.”
Your heart jumped. “Me too,” you admitted softly, meeting his gaze.
For a moment, the world around you faded. It was just you and Mingyu, two souls drawn to each other in this little coffee shop. And then, as if the air around you thickened, he took a step closer, closing the distance.
“Can I tell you something?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Of course,” you murmured, your heart pounding in your chest.
“I’ve had a crush on you since my first day here,” he confessed, his cheeks flushing slightly. “You’re amazing at your job, and I think you’re really cute.”
Your breathing hitched. “You’ve had a crush on me?”
He nodded, his eyes not leaving yours. “Yeah, and I wasn’t sure how to say it. But now… I think we should do something about it.”
Your heart raced, excitement and nerves intertwining. “What did you have in mind?”
Mingyu stepped even closer, and you could feel the heat radiating off his body. “Maybe we could—”
Before he could finish, you leaned in, capturing his lips with your own. The kiss started softly, tentative, both of you consumed by the thrill of the moment. But soon it deepened, the warmth of his body pressing against yours, igniting a fire that spread through your veins.
You pulled back slightly to catch your breath, and he looked at you with a mix of surprise and desire. “Wow, I didn’t expect that,” he said breathlessly.
“Neither did I,” you admitted, your heart racing.
He grinned, an infectious smile lighting up his face. “So, what’s next?”
You took a step back, biting your lip as you played coy. “Well, we could close up the shop… and see where the night takes us.”
He raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”
You nodded slowly, a playful smirk creeping onto your lips. “I think it’s time we take our relationship from coffee shop colleagues to something a little more... personal.”
His smile widened. “I’m all in.”
With the shop closing for the night, you locked the doors, ensuring privacy, leaving only the soothing glow of the fairy lights illuminating the space.
The atmosphere was heightened, your breaths synchronizing with the palpable anticipation in the air. You stood close to him, gazing into his eyes as the silence enveloped you both.
Mingyu reached out, his hand brushing against your hip as he edged closer, grounding himself against your body. The kiss this time was hungry, filled with urgency as he pressed you against the counter, the cool marble contrasting against the heat radiating from your bodies.
You let out a soft gasp as he deepened the kiss, his hands exploring your sides, fingers brushing over your curves. You reciprocated, pulling him closer, your fingers tangling in his hair, while the kisses grew more passionate.
“Let’s take this to the back,” he murmured against your lips, a hint of desperation coursing through him.
You pulled away slightly, breathless but excited, and nodded. “Lead the way.”
He took your hand, guiding you through the shop and toward the storage room. The dim light from the small overhead bulb cast shadows on the walls as you entered. The air was thick with desire, and within moments, he pushed you against the wall, capturing your lips once more.
“Are you sure you want this?” he asked, his breath warm against your skin.
“Yes,” you breathed, craving more than just kisses now.
With renewed urgency, he pressed himself against you, his hands exploring your body as he devoured your mouth. You felt yourself melting into him, heat pooling in your core as he kissed his way down to your neck, sending shivers cascading through you. You let out a soft moan, tangling your fingers in his hair as your body responded instinctively.
“Mingyu,” you gasped, your heart racing, as his lips found the sensitive skin beneath your ear.
“God, you’re so beautiful,” he murmured achingly. In one swift motion, he closed the gap, grounding himself against you as his fingers slipped beneath your clothes, finding you already wet and waiting. His touch sent shockwaves through you, the pressure building with every stroke. Your back arched off the counter, the world outside fading away as you lost yourself in the moment, in him.
“Mingyu,” you cried, your voice echoing off the walls. You could feel the heat in his gaze, the way he watched you as if you were the only thing that mattered. Every flick of his wrist, every brush against you sent you spiraling closer to the edge, and you could see it in his eyes that he wanted to push you over.
With one final thrust of his fingers, that wave of pleasure crashed over you, pulling you down into its depths. You clung to him, gasping for breath, as he kissed you deeply. In the back of that little coffee shop, with nothing and no one else around, you both lost yourself in a world that belonged only to the two of you, a moment in time suspended forever in the echo of every heartbeat.
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brrrrr
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grudgecollector · 4 months ago
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Noise Machine | Nam-gyu x Reader
Headcanons and a small drabble
Summary: Nam gyu dating someone who listens to heavier music
A/N: HERE'S A PLAYLIST I MADE TO SET THE SCENE
I am back to haunt this fandom with my presence, sorry for being a little inactive, I got really invested in my sims household with the boys and then got really into monster hunter. But I got an itch and I needed to finish this.
Now this is purely based on the 'heavier' music I listen to, and the music I think I could successfully get him into (as seen in playlist linked above).
Alright so I've been listening to this kind of music since I was very young, so this is absolutely me projecting. BUT what is reader insert fanfiction if it's not projecting, let's be so real.
I listen to all kinds of genres regarding heavier genres so the playlist itself is a little all over the place, but who cares.
A lot of this playlist ended up being grunge music but fuck it we ball.
-
Now this is also just heavily self indulgent and kind of sorting through the mess that was my past relationship and reminding myself that not everyone is a piece of shit.
SO please bare with me this is probably not something people really care about much but that's okay. Find you a man that respects you and your music taste <3
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ִ ࣪𖤐 It may be kind of surprising, but at first he wanted to hate it… he couldn’t understand what would be so appealing about this kind of music. Because on his own personal ventures he could never really find anything he liked.
ִ ࣪𖤐 Any exposure he's had to it in the past, it's always been loud, annoying, and just incomprehensible. Turn that shit off and put on some good music please.
ִ ࣪𖤐 The best chance you have to get him into this kind of music is when he’s stoned as fuck. You guys just smoked a joint, and you decided to start with baby steps. Maybe starting with some mellow songs.
ִ ࣪𖤐 Music always sounds better when you're high anyway, so something with a little bit more emotion in it will be a good step.
You can literally FEEL the music when you're high, like it takes over your whole body and brain, it's insane, so I feel like it you slap some headphones on this bitch he'll be enraptured.
ִ ࣪𖤐 Grunge music would probably end up being his favorite. Alice In Chains, Soundgarden, The Smashing Pumpkins. If you play some of the particularly beautiful songs they have in their discography he's sucked in.
Especially with AIC, and the heavier topics Layne Staley sings about, touching on his struggles with drug use in such a beautifully captivating way, it hits a little too close to home sometimes. Jar of Flies and Dirt would be his favorite albums.
ִ ࣪𖤐 He would put up with metal for lack of a better word. He wouldn't hate it, but he wouldn't particularly like most of it, he's very picky. A lot of it just sounds like noise to him. Which is understandable.
But he has a particularly big soft spot for the band Dark Mirror Ov Tragedy, a South Korean metal band with absolutely breathtaking music. Sporting a beautiful blend of classical instrumentals and metal, I feel like this was a band he found when he was a teenager, and has loved ever since.
࣪𖤐 But if you find that sweet spot if metal music that he likes, he'll be locked in. And start to understand a little bit more why people enjoy it so much.
ᕁ᙮ᕁᕽᕽᕁ᙮᙮ᕁᕽᕽᕁ᙮ᕁ
It was a beautiful summer morning, the sun peaking just enough above the skyscrapers in the distance. 
A cool breeze blowing into the car through the open windows. An occasional honk in the steadily moving traffic sounding over the loud music that flowed from the speakers. 
Surely it would make any nearby grandmother or extremely religious parent clutch their pearls at the sound of heavy drumming and overly enthusiastic electric guitar. The lyrics sometimes sport more gruesome tones, before the song would switch to something a little softer, a blend of queued songs throwing each other off. 
You looked at the weather for today with a satisfied smile, the highest temperature wouldn’t reach far past the seventies, making it nice enough to finally shed the winter layering. You were thankful that spring was finally coming, even though you liked winter, you were beginning to grow tired of the nipping cold. 
Nam-gyu tapped his fingers on the steering wheel along to the song, glancing over at you for a second. 
“Can you put on that one song you showed me the other day?” He asked after a song ended. 
You couldn’t help but smile a little. Never had you been with someone so open to expanding their music taste as Nam-gyu was. Usually it was you who had to just put up with whatever your exes had decided to put on, as a way to avoid hearing their complaints or jabs at how ‘stupid’ some of the songs you would put on sounded. But maybe this was what it felt like being with someone who respects you. 
The song started off with a loud melodic guitar, an Alice in Chains song that you’ve loved for years now, once embarrassed to show people in fear that they would mock it like your ex had. But when you showed Nam-gyu the band it was almost an instant love. The way their songs seemed to resonate with him on a deeper level was something you should have expected, especially when it came to his past struggles with drug abuse. 
It always fills your heart with so much joy to be able to share your love of music with others, and for Nam-gyu to enjoy it as much as he has healed you in more ways than you could have ever imagined. 
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yummyuta · 9 months ago
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teen spirit | l.m
♡ genre: smut - mdni! | slight angst | word count: 1,955
♡ pairing: ghost! mark lee x f. reader
♡ warnings: mentions of death, unprotected sex, riding, missionary, overstimulation
♡ summary: reader moves into an old apartment full of character but admist some strange and haunting occurrences she starts having vivid dreams about a boy named mark, who feels strikingly real.
♡ authors note: this story turned out a bit longer than i had anticipated, which is why it was released a little late, so my apologies for that. im really trying my best to stick to my schedule, but nonetheless, i hope you enjoy reading!
octoberfest/kinktober masterlist
♡ song recommendation:
you shuddered, pulling your blanket closer having felt a chill in the air of your old apartment. you had moved in a few months ago seeking a fresh start after a rough breakup. the building with its peeling paint and creaky floors that groaned like weary bones captivated you. it was like every corner seemed to hold the weight of forgotten stories, and the air hummed with whispers that sent shivers down your spine.
you started to toss and turn in your sleep. this is the 3rd time this week that you have had a reccuring face show up in your dreams. he was a handsome man, with dark brown hair and eyes filled with so much light. he had a dorky smile and a comforting presence. you would meet up with him in hidden corners of your mind. wandering through moonlit parks, sharing secrets that felt too real to be mere fantasies.
days blurred into weeks, and the dreams of the mystery man grew increasingly vivid. each night, he felt more tangible, you would curl up in bed with him, as he touched and kissed you all over causing soft sighs to leave your mouth and echo off the walls. you would wake up in a cold sweat with an ache between your legs flustered and confused with what was happening.
on a cool evening, as you made your way to the laundry room down in the basement, you saw someone who looked vaguely familiar to you at the end of the hallway, leaning casually against the wall. his presence illuminating the dim space around him.
“hey,” he said, his voice smooth and inviting, a melody that sent a thrill through you. “i’ve seen you around. y/n right?"
your heart raced, a mixture of excitement and disbelief flooding your veins. “who's asking?", you responded cautiously.
"oh sorry, i'm mark funnily enough i used to live in your rental, but i moved to the floor below recently." he said, scratching the back of his neck.
you stood there chatting with him for a while as your nervousness dissapated. he helped you carry your laundry downstairs as you told him all about why you had moved in.
"its a bit creepy down here, isn't it? i swear this whole building might be haunted." you playfully said, throwing your clothes in the machine. mark stood frozen next to you for a few moments. you turned locking eyes with him, his pupils looked dilated in the dim light. "um mark..." you moved to touch his hand trying to bring his focus back to you. when you reached it it was ice cold, making you gasp. he snapped out of it, pulling his hand away from you. "sorry, you're right. i think i was a little freaked out just now." you quickly wrapped up what you were doing and invited him to your apartment for some hot chocolate, wanting to ease the tension and get to know the man of your literal dreams a bit more.
as months passed, you and mark grew inseparable. you didnt label your relationship but you definitely had feelings for one another. mark was like your saving grace. like clockwork he always showed up when you were having a bad day. things with him were easy in comparison to the daily stress that life has to offer. he made you forget about all your worries, and you felt like you he wouldnt judge you for anything.
time with him was even more perfect in real life than it was in your head. your evenings were filled with laughter, shared meals, and endless movie marathons. mark had a knack for finding the quirkiest films, often choosing horror flicks that made you jump and cling to him in mock terror.
“okay, next movie!” you said, turning to face him. mark leaned closer, his shoulder brushing against hers, sending sparks of electricity through you. he was always so cold, in comparison to his warm personality.
“how about that new horror film? you know, to really set the mood for this haunted place", he recommended.
“do you think you can handle it?” you teased, arching an eyebrow.
“please,” he grinned. “i’m not afraid of a little ghost.”
you laughed, the sound mingling with the rain tapping against the window. as the movie played, you found your body drawing closer to the man next to you. as a jump scare suddenly popped up on the screen, you nearly leaped into marks lap. your faces were so close together, there was a smell of mint wafting the air. his breathing causing goosebumps to form on your arms. "sorry... i got a bit startled" you managed to stutter out looking between his eyes and his lips.
"close your eyes" he whispered. you listened doing as you were told and felt his lips firmly press against yours. your head started spinning as your tongue slotted its way into his mouth, deepening the kiss. you positioned yourself on top of him, throwing your legs around his waist as the blanket you were sharing cascaded down to the floor. slowly, you began grinding, moving to the motion of your lips. mark began leaving open-mouthed kisses on your neck, causing you to throw your head back in ectasy. he reached his hands up, passed the hem of your shirt, brisk fingers digging into your waist and removing your top. you made quick work taking off the rest of your clothes before holding his hard cock in your hand and spreading it around your pussy.
it had been a while since you had last been physical with someone, and your legs were shaking in anticipation. once you felt ready, you sunk yourself down, meeting his hips. mark had his head placed on the arm rest of the couch, hand around his neck propping himself up to get a good look as you used his body for pleasure. you bounced on him steadily, using as much strength as you could to keep up a decent pace. both your hands placed on his pale chest, as your core clenched, and your moans got progressively louder. the walls of your apartment were thin, and you were certain you were pissing off your neighbors, but you didn't care. mark was glowing underneath you almost looking like an angel. sweat sticking to his forehead as he bit his lip trying to keep himself from fucking up into you.
you were getting close to your peak, riding him faster and harder. your thighs were on fire, as you grabbed his hand that was holding your waist, wrapping it around to play with your bundle of nerves. mark lazily grinned, impressed by your bold move to get yourself off. "my girl, let me see how beautiful you look when you cum." those words were enough to get you to release all over him. before you could come down from the high he quickly flipped you around, and began drilling into you at an unholy pace.
"mark...oh my fucking god" you choked out in sobs. it was like a flip had switched and he had turned into a completely different person. he was fucking you like it was the first and last time he would ever be able to do it. cherishing the way your walls clenched around him. watching as your tits bounced and eyes widened. the way your hands were gripping the cushions, he wanted nothing more than for you to touch him again.
he took your leg placing it over his shoulder and turning to press a kiss to the inside of your knee. that simple action made your stomach erupt in butterflies. he was a beast and a gentleman all at the same time. you could tell he was getting close as his hips began faltering. you looked deeply in his eyes, getting lost in the feeling of his skin surrounding you. he was still freezing despite the sheer amount of effort he was putting into getting you both to the edge.
"my boy, please" was all you needed to say and he painted your walls white. you saw stars for the second time pulling him into a desperate kiss. as you came down from your high, mark picked up the forgotten blanket from the floor bundling the two of you up. he kissed your forehead as your eyes began to close. "i have something to tell you" he said. "tell me in the morning" you responded with the sweetest smile before drifting off to sleep.
when you awoke, the room was eerily quiet, the credits rolling on the screen. confusion washed over you as you blinked into the dim light. the glow of the tv cast strange shadows, but mark was nowhere to be found.
“mark?” you called voice shaky, echoing in the stillness. silence responded, thick and oppressive.
you bolted upright, heart pounding. “he must have stepped out,” you reassured yourself, though a nagging doubt clawed at your insides. you waited, glancing at your phone, but there were no messages.
the minutes dragged on, stretching into what felt like an eternity. you found yourself slowly falling back into a slumber, hoping you would meet him again there.
the next morning, you awoke a sense of dread settled over you. you felt restless, as you wiped your eyes and they were wet. he didn't show up last night, and you couldn't feel him anymore almost like he never existed. how could he just leave? did you do something wrong? you were overwhelmed with a growing sense of loss, and you couldn't stand it. gathering your courage, you made your way to the landlord’s office.
“excuse me, do you have a moment?” you asked, stepping inside. the landlord, an old man with tired eyes and a graying beard, looked up from a cluttered desk.
“of course, what’s on your mind?” he replied, adjusting his glasses.
“i was wondering if you knew anything about a boy named mark who used to live in the same unit as me but he said he moved to a different one. do you know which one by any chance?,” you asked.
the landlord’s expression shifted, the corners of his mouth tightening. “mark? now that isn't a name i've heard in a long time". he paused as if trying to choose his words carefully. "yes, he lived here…long ago.”
no, that couldn't be right. i mean, you never went to his place, but surely he wouldnt have lied to you...right? "what happened to him?” you pressed, a lump forming in her throat.
the landlord hesitated, his gaze distant. “he died in an accident. what a loss too, he was a sweet and talented individual."
you felt the world tilt on its axis, the weight of his words crashing down on you. mark hadn’t just been a figment of your imagination; he was a spirit, forever tied to this building. your heart ached as realization dawned upon you.
as you walked back to your apartment, the whispers in the walls felt louder now, almost comforting in their persistence. the building had never been just a place to live; it was a sanctuary for lost souls, including mark.
that night, as you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, body feeling heavy with the knowledge of his absence, you spoke out whispering into the dark hoping somehow into the beyond he could hear you. “i’ll always remember you, mark."
a tear fell down your face, as you felt a strange warmth envelop you. as if the air itself was wrapping you in a gentle embrace. the shadows danced along the walls, and you closed her eyes, letting the bittersweet memories wash over you. though he might be gone, the connection you had shared transcended the boundaries of life and death, echoing through the haunted halls of your heart.
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word-wytch · 2 years ago
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Don't Stand So Close To Me — Chapter 15
Eddie x Teacher!Reader
Chapter 15/? 10k. Series Masterlist
✏︎ The aftermath of a kiss makes thoughts come alive — both desires and fears. 
✏︎ Series Summary: Forced to move back home to Hawkins after your fiancé cheats on you, you begin to fall in love again with an audacious 20 year old metalhead, only there’s one problem — he’s still in high school and you’re his English teacher.
While you struggle starting over in a place you never thought you would return, Eddie struggles feeling stuck in a place he can’t manage to leave — until you offer to help him. Of all the lessons learned, the most important are the ones you teach each other.
✏︎ Series CW: forbidden romance, slow burn, true love, smut (18+ mdni), internal conflict, student-teacher relationship, 10 year age gap, mutual pining, sexual tension, emotions, drama, angst, character development, happy ending :)
✏︎ Chapter CW: smut 18+ (imagined oral f!receiving, piv, creampie), cumming in pants, angst
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Wednesday, December 11th 1985
The flag was whipping in the wind. Towering above the parking lot in a blur of red, white, and blue, it cracked against the pale grey sky. 
Meeting your eyes in the rearview mirror, you checked for any obvious signs of guilt. The harsh morning light made it clear what you’d missed in your haste to leave. You thought you had gotten it all, but the mascara resting in the lines beneath your eyes said otherwise. Truthfully, washing your face had been the last thing on your mind when you stumbled home after midnight, and it was clear you needed more than the five minutes you allotted this morning in front of the sink. After sleeping through your alarm, it was a miracle you were here at all. Swiping your knuckles across the bags under your eyes, you figured that would have to do.
With a final, bracing sigh, you opened the door and slumped into the freezing cold. Slamming the door, you marched across the snow-dusted pavement and hiked the heavy leather strap onto your shoulder. Students scattered around you with bright colored backpacks, rushing from their cars toward the squat, concrete building that loomed on the horizon. Eyes steeled on the glass doors ahead, you swallowed a sickness rising up from the pit of your stomach. Pebbles crunched under your boots as you dodged glances, offering little more than a timid smile and a raise of your hand at the greetings hurled your way. 
Pulling open the chilled metal handle, that school smell—indescribable yet unmistakable—gusted hotly over your numb cheeks. The office was abuzz with shrill ringing phones and gently chiding voices. Eyes glued to the long, grey weather mat below, you approached the clock-in station.
“Good morning!” the receptionist greeted cheerfully at the back of your head. 
“Morning, Judy,” you offered weakly, selecting your punch card from its wooden slot on the wall. With a shaking hand, you slotted the index card into the machine, lining it up with this week’s row of black-inked numbers. It snapped to life, stamping today’s date in a crooked line beneath the rest. 
Tucking your thumb under the strap, you trudged along your usual path, raising your eyes just enough to see where you were going. Fluorescents danced over the polished tile, over the shimmering salt-stained boot marks and stray pebbles you were suddenly so captivated by. Past the glass trophy cases, inside the cafeteria, you crossed the row of principal portraits from years prior outside the teachers lounge. It was difficult to look at them today, the judgement painted so clearly on their features from inside their thick, ornate frames. Their eyes seemed to follow you as you passed. Dodging their scorn, you ducked inside the door.
Your soles met the padding of the threadbare carpet, marching toward the one thing you truly depended on, stationed at its post on the end of the long, veneer table — the coffee machine. The room was spinning with activity, a bustle of chatter you hoped you could hide in. Most were on their way out, making small talk and gathering belongings from their seats at the round tables. Your skirt swished forward as you halted before the machine, tapping the cuff of your tall boots. Grabbing a mug from the stack, you filled it with haste.
You wondered if anyone could smell it on you — the cigarette smoke that clung to your coat. Shrinking down into your turtleneck, you sidestepped to return the pot to the warmer. 
“Good morning,” stated a voice behind you with cold professionalism. 
The plastic slipped in your hand, coffee hissing against the metal plate as you fumbled it into place. “Principal Higgins! H-hi—good morning!” 
She always terrified you, even as a student here. Even before last night. Standing all of about four foot ten, her stern, nun-like demeanor and white cloud of hair remained consistent with your memory, as if she had reached a point in her aging where she just plateaued.
“How are you?” she asked. Not as though she really cared, just as something polite to say.
Whipping around as the blood drained from your face, you addressed her. “Good! I’m good. Just getting things wrapped up for the semester. You know how it is.” 
She nodded curtly. “Glad to hear,” she answered, though nothing about her expression seemed glad.  It never did. You thought you saw her smile once in September, but it could have been a trick of the light. Smiling weakly at the floor, you dipped around her and shuffled toward the open milk carton. The air was thick and stuffy, filling your lungs in shallow draws. Peeling back the soggy cardboard, you swallowed your hammering pulse. 
“Hey stranger,” Diane greeted warmly, grabbing a mug from beside you. “You ready for winter break yet?” 
Fixed on the coffee as the milk swirled like smoke, you couldn’t find the courage to meet her eyes. “I’ve been ready since October,” you admitted through a strained chuckle.
Diane tipped her head back, laughing into the fluorescents. “Oh man I feel ya, I’ve been counting down the days myself.” Steam rose from her mug as she filled it.
There must have been a sign on your back. Something like kick me. A bump from behind had you lurching into the table, sloshing coffee over the rim. Snapping your head over your shoulder, you glared at the culprit. 
“Jeez it’s crowded in here,” muttered Ms. O’Donnell as she lumbered over to the coffee machine. “Everyone mingling like a flock of hens, you’d think we’d all have places to be by now.”
With a sharp sigh, you grabbed a handful of flimsy napkins from beside the sugar. Diane glanced in brief annoyance before reaching through your line of sight for the milk carton. “So, did you catch Cheers last night?”
You froze, heat creeping up the collar of your coat as the coffee bled through the paper. Images of sweating glasses on cocktail napkins and plush lips clouded your vision as you blotted up the mess with a trembling hand. “No I uh, turned in early I’m afraid.” Your stomach curdled with the lie.
“Aww, well you’ll have to catch it on re-run because it was a good one. I won’t spoil anything,” Diane said, bringing the mug to her lips as she leaned against the table. 
Grabbing the handful of warm, soggy napkins, you pivoted to toss them in the trash. Finally, she caught you with her eyes. Rich umber, deep with caring and kindness, captive for anyone who needed a good listener, for you on so many occasions. Diane was good like a cashmere cardigan, like a box of tissues passed across a desk. Your eyes met the floor again quickly, heat rising in your face. You shuddered to imagine what she’d think if she knew. 
The room became a blur of scooting chairs, of vending machines whirring, of crackers and candy dropping into the bins below. Metal flaps whined and slammed as hands reached in to grab them. It was closing in on you — the copy machine ink wafting warmly across the room as it spat out stacks of tests, the hole punchers clicking and binders snapping open to devour papers with their jagged maws. You stood there in the middle of it all, spinning like you’d stepped out of a carnival ride.
Diane leaned closer, eyes narrowing. “You ok?”
Blinking rapidly, you snapped back to attention. “Yeah—yeah I’m fine.” 
Folding her arms across her sweater, she knit her brows in disbelief. As the school counselor, it was her job to see through bullshit, and she was good at her job. Before she could comment, the bell had your stomach lurching. “I have to go,” you said with as much of a casual farce as you could muster. “I’ll see you later.” You grabbed your mug, shielding your face with it as you sipped off the top before vanishing into the hallway.
-
The AV cart was heavy despite its wheels. Avoiding your tired reflection in the glass of the large television, you braced the metal frame and peered around it, marching carefully down the crowded hallway. At least you had something to hide behind now. 
There were footsteps all around you, weaving to accommodate the metal mass as you trudged slowly forward. What became unignorable was the set behind you, shuffling down the hall at an increasing speed, growing louder as they neared. Eddie halted just behind your shoulder, bumping it slightly in his haste. “Hey,” he breathed in your ear, curls tickling your cheek.
Sucking in a breath, you whipped your head around to meet his crinkling eyes. If he had a tail, he would be wagging it. “Eddie,” you hissed. “Get—” you elbowed him away, heart pounding into your temples as a hundred eyes passed by around you. 
He didn’t seem phased. Hovering at an uncomfortable proximity, his focus stayed glued to you as if the rest of the world had fallen away. “Here,” he offered, reaching over to take the reins. The meat of his palms grazed your knuckles; warm and pliant like you remembered them. 
“I’ve got it,” you insisted, gaze dutifully forward, gripping the metal frame firmly.
“Come on, let me help,” he muttered, leather forearms insisting against yours as he tugged the cart in his direction.
Face fully on fire now, you released your grip, repelling with a twinge of remorse from the solid contact of his shoulder. Head darting left and right, you scouted for faculty, keeping a steady pace beside him. Not so close as to draw suspicion, but close enough to feel his magnetism prickle your awareness. His fingers pinked under his rings, knuckles white in his grip as the strong angles of his hands kept the cart from veering. “It’s um—” Eddie started, dipping his head toward your ear again, “good to see you again,” he uttered with a fervency that could have evaporated you.
“Happy Wednesday!” chimed Ms. Click as she waved you down from outside her door. 
The blood drained from your face. Raising a trembling hand, you returned a weak smile before locking your vision on the end of the hall. It was closing in again; the lockers, the voices, the squeaking of wet boots against the tile. There was the potent scent of cigarettes, fresh on his hair like the snowflakes that clung to his curls. They were melting, dripping down his wild ringlets onto his shoulders with every step. It was beautiful, the way they bounced and swayed in the wind as he walked. The way the droplets settled in the wrinkles of his leather coat. The way it tapered toward his narrow waist. As he braced the cart, you selfishly admired the angles of his shoulders — broad and capable. Selfishly, you wondered what else they could accomplish, how they would feel, bare under your palms. Crossing your arms coyly over your turtleneck, you snatched your mind from the gutter.
Eddie lolled his head toward you, peering under heavy lids. His smile was lazy and generous, brimming with boyish glee. “God you look pretty today,” he sighed. Your uterus beat your stomach to a backflip. 
Halting outside the door to your classroom, you turned to face him. “Eddie, we can’t—” your desert mouth hung open as those soft umber eyes ushered your words into the din.
“I’m allowed to talk to you,” he asserted, shifting to the fullness of his height as he dropped his hands from the cart. 
“Not like that. Not here,” you corrected, just above a whisper. 
Brow lowering, he swiped his coat aside to access his hip, resting his hand above the chain that dripped toward his thigh. It was suffocating — the heat from his gaze, from your turtleneck, from the thoughts hammering like pinballs against the inside of your skull. 
“Listen, I just…” you swallowed, “it’s just—” you glanced around, meeting the waves and bright hellos that passed through your door with a vacant smile before lowering your voice, “—hard to be back here today.”
Eddie tipped his head forward, shifting on the balls of his feet with a subtle nod. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”
You huffed through your nose, eyes pleading with him as you shrank toward your door.
“I’ll see you later,” he promised, drifting in by an invisible tether with every inch you moved away. 
“Yeah.” Your exhale was heavy, lingering in his gaze for an aching second before ducking through the threshold. 
______
The static from the television prickled your forehead as you rewound the tape, fussing with the buttons on the VHS player seated on the shelf below it. The screen fizzled grey as as your fourth period class filed in, shuffling feet and relieved exclamations echoing behind you as they passed.
You could have left it alone and walked away, but you would take any excuse not to face them today. Leaning against the cart as you stared into the crackling static, that telltale scent wafted in on the air, tugging at memories of smoke rings and stage lights, filling you with equal parts dread and aching familiarity. You could see his silhouette out of the corner of your eye; tall and dark with a halo of frizz, boots heavy against the tile as he approached you. Swallowing your rising pulse, you couldn’t help but indulge for a second, shifting just enough to catch the soft pink of his smirk before his shoulder nudged yours in passing. Desks squeaked against the floor behind you, yielding to the weight of twenty students as they filled the five tidy rows. When the bell finally rang, you shut the door and mustered the courage to address them.
None of your classes were studying To Kill A Mockingbird. Irrelevant as it was to your lessons, you would excuse it to all of them by citing it as a great example of storytelling. Weak, but it was the best you could come up with on such short notice. You doubted anyone cared, they all seemed just as relieved as you were for a break from the fluorescents. 
You flicked off the lights and pressed play on the VCR. The room was bathed in white and blue as the opening credits rolled, and you took your place behind the big desk. Propping your head wearily against your hand, you stared down at the sea of white below you. Eyes unfocused, black ink and graphite chicken scratch blurred together as a different film played out behind them. 
The set was dramatically lit; a spotlight of interrogation that beamed down on your small chair facing Martha Higgins’ desk. The props were hyper-realistic; files she flipped through with her spindly, arthritic fingers containing your teaching license and contract for the year. The prominent lines on her forehead were growing increasingly severe as she considered the delivery of your inevitable punishment. 
A jungle of items framed the papers that sprawled across your real desk — the spider plant Susan had given you when the leaves were beginning to blush with oranges and reds, the stapler you’d had since college, the mug with a quill printed on it which now held your pens. You wondered what it would feel like to pack them all into a banker box in the middle of a winter afternoon. To lug it down the hallway, dodging the scorn of your former colleagues. With a heavy sigh, you buried your spinning head in your hand.
Eddie was seated as he always was, cheek pressed to his knuckles as he watched you from his corner of the room. A straight shot toward your desk in front of him, he gazed with reverence as the white light from the television bathed your one exposed cheekbone in a holy glow. Picking at the chipped veneer on the desk with his restless thumb, he recounted the feeling of it in his hands. The angle of your jaw, the notch where it met below your ear, the soft skin of your throat that hummed beneath the pads of his frozen digits, warming them to life with every swell and swallow as his mouth enveloped yours. He’d played it over and over the whole drive home, every moment since he’d opened his eyes this morning, convincing himself with every replay that it wasn’t a dream. 
He’d gotten a taste. Not enough to satisfy him — the opposite really. Like first bites often did, it only brought awareness to his hunger. The light played softly on your stiffened jaw. How he ached soothe it with his lips again, to feel the hard bone under supple skin, to hear and taste your sighs again; more moving than any music he’d ever heard. 
The darkness gave quiet permission for his mind to play a film of its own. In this one, the room would be the same. Just as dark but empty, save for you and him. He would scale the isle in five swift steps. Lifting your worried chin with his knuckle, he would draw you to the fullness of your height, capture your body in his arms and pull you into a searing kiss. He knew what it felt like now, and that only fueled his wild imagination. He knew you’d melt like putty, let him be the only thing holding you together, keeping you from falling to the floor with the strength of his arms around your soft cotton waist. 
He had memorized the shape of your lips, how slick with hunger they were as they slipped against his. Your hums would be quiet here, timid and shy as you glanced over his shoulder toward the door with worried eyes. On this set there were no real hallways, no extras making noise or slamming lockers. Nothing in the script suggesting an interruption, only the pretend risk that made a thrill rise in him like the tent in his jeans. The way you would shyly toy with the pins on his vest, insisting that “we shouldn’t,” and “it’s just not right.”
You wouldn’t protest for long, not in this script. Not when his teeth found your neck again, dipping down below the collar of your turtleneck. It was a nuisance really, nothing but a sponge for his spit as his tongue soothed over where his teeth left off. You would be needing it later because he would leave a mark this time. Several, tasting every moan you offered as he sucked bruises onto your delicate skin. He hadn’t tasted nearly enough of you, hadn’t felt nearly as much as he’d wanted. 
Closing his eyes, he surfaced a touch-memory; the shape of you beneath your coat. He imagined the slope of your waist in his hands as it looked like today; where the cotton met the wool of your skirt, heaving against his palms as he left his sloppy trail. Impatiently, he would free you from the confines of it, tug at the cotton and greet your warm, soft flesh with his aching fingers. You, of course, would give him full permission to remove it once you felt the insistence of his touch, felt his thumb drag over the small of your back, across that dip he caught a glance of last night. 
Tugging the cloying barrier up and over your head, he would shield you from the door with his body, letting the mass of the AV cart block any eyes wandering the hall from what he was about to do next. In the soft, flickering light from the television, your chest would rise and fall, spilling over from your white lace bra as it heaved in anticipation. 
The real you sank deeper into your chair. Shoulders slumped, shielding your eyes with your knuckles as you stared blankly down into the sea of papers. There was a heat emanating from the back corner of the room, one you could feel with the crown of your head. You knew exactly where it was coming from, and from whom. Hesitant as you were to address him, it was burning too hot to ignore, boring into you with a palpable insistence. With a swift, upward glance, you faced off. 
Eddie’s lids were heavy, cheeks pinking at the sudden confrontation. He licked his lips, eyes darkening as he swallowed. You could almost feel them again, cradling yours in a phantom kiss just like they did fourteen hours ago. His mouth had been so needy. So hot and plush, tongue slipping against yours like he’d been starving. 
Eddie closed his eyes in a slow blink. When he opened them again, they were so heavy with want that it rippled from across the room, shooting straight between your legs. You’d never been kissed like that before. Kissed so hard it robbed you of your senses, of your oxygen, of your goodness. It was easy to imagine; doing it again. Especially when he was looking at you like that. 
You indulged for just a moment, joined him in the scene. Alone together in the dark, empty room. It was easy to imagine what those lips would feel like going further; sucking your collar bone, grazing it with his teeth, trailing his sopping mouth to the place where your neck meets your shoulder before his calloused thumb slipped the strap of your bra to the side. 
Wringing a hand behind your neck, you glanced toward the television with a sudden feigned interest. The feeling wouldn’t leave you though; clouding your mind with wet smacking lips and the chill of the air at your nipples. 
He knew they would be perfect. He could just tell. They would heave beneath his watering mouth, puckered and primed for him to latch. Capturing one of them in his wet heat, you would melt into his waiting arms. Back arched, mewling so needy and loud it would cause the door to open if the scene was real. He was certain he’d be able to taste your hums through your skin here too. Even better perhaps.
Eddie shifted in his seat with a mild grimace, hand darting beneath his desk in time with a swift raise of his hips as chair legs scraped the tile. He glanced at his lap, then back up at you. 
Your face became a roaring furnace, paling only to the heat pooling under you. The pale television light flickered across his flushed cheeks, his lowered brow, his smoldering eyes that held you captive. He wanted you to know. Indulging, you imagined what was going on under that desk. What it would look like if he were to stand, to scale the room in a few eager strides and show you up close. 
“Need you now, Eddie,” you’d croon with a swipe of your hand up the generous bulge he was sporting, punctuating it with a pinch of his weeping head through the denim.
Eddie took his cue. In one dramatic swoop, the papers fluttered to the floor, the plant made a mess of the tile, the stapler clattered beside your shattered mug as pens rolled down the isles. Backing you into the edge of the big desk, he kissed you again. Hot and slick, body flush with yours, pressing his need against your pelvis as he probed your aching mouth. Parting only to shed himself of his outer layer, to lay it down behind you like a blanket, shielding your bare back from the cold wood.
From the confines of his small desk across the room, real Eddie took a deep breath, lids closing heavy on the inhale, fluttering open to a pained pout on the exhale.
Seating yourself on the edge of your desk on set, you would free him from the confines of his jeans. Pawing at his belt, you would tuck your fingers beneath it and tug urgently, rattling metal and leather before working his button free. Slowly, your nimble fingers would locate and lower his zipper, and a sigh would be the second thing that escaped. 
You were an A-list actress, looking down at his proud length like you’d never seen a dick before in your whole life. The coyness with which you peered from under your lashes was thoroughly convincing. Oscar-worthy. With a timid, chalk-dusted finger, you would draw a line from base to tip, admiring the way it bobbed, the way your touch encouraged it to glisten. Real Eddie swallowed, drawing a deep, impatient breath. Convincing as you were of your innocence, he was certain those fingers would know what they were doing as they traced his ridges with a teasing curiosity.
Unable to take any more of it, his hands would find your knees; bare where the stockings left off. They would roam under your thick wool skirt, up those impossibly soft thighs and draw back the curtain as you braced yourself against the desk behind you. In this scene, of course, your costume called for nothing underneath. You would be ready for him. Back flush with his coat, legs spread, glistening with need in the pale light from the television behind him. 
Impatient as he was, he would be remiss not take this opportunity to satisfy a curiosity of his own. Crouching down to level with your sex, he would take in your scent first. Breathe in your delicious, heady pheromones, let it cloud his vision further, as if there was room for anything else other than the persistent thought of you. Eddie wondered what you tasted like. Your mouth was exquisite, so what must you taste like here? With a generous swipe of his tongue, he would find the answer. 
The real you crossed your legs tightly, as if that would stave off the throbbing between them. Real Eddie caught it, the shift in your seat, the subtle raise of your knee under your plaid skirt, the way you worried your lip with your teeth as you glanced shyly toward the papers still, unfortunately, on your desk. 
What might his tongue feel like there? The question grappled for your attention despite futile attempts to shove it away. His tongue had a certain talent, you’d noticed, as it probed against yours in the dark last night. A sense of rhythm was a hard thing to teach. His tongue would be warm, you were certain of that, saliva slick as he pressed it flatly to your heat. He would take his time, savoring every groove and fold across this new terrain as if he were committing it to memory. Propping up on your elbows against the satin liner of his coat, you would catch those deep brown eyes, peering into yours with a smoldering hunger, lower lids pinching in pleasure as he drew slowly upward.
You would paw at the crown of his head, rake your fingers through his curls and tug, feeling his approving hum against your core. Halo of frizz tickling your thighs, his tongue would lathe slow and steady, closing those plush lips over your aching bud before sucking a kiss where you needed it most.
Exhaling deeply, you toyed with a pen on your desk; pressed your thumb into the cold metal nub, studied the tension a moment before releasing. Eyes unfocused, you were helpless as the film played out behind them. Click. Click. Click. Light flickered from the TV, twenty eyes distracted and oblivious. Throbbing, you shifted in your seat and caught the scent of your own arousal. Embarrassment flooded your cheeks. Never in your life had you been so grateful to be in the dark.
Try as you might to gleam a single chaste thought from the words printed below you, there was no space in your head for it. Just Eddie, crouched over you like a preying animal, looking at you with those lust-blown eyes like he’d make you his meal. Wrapping those ringed fingers around your hips, shifting his to meet them as he stood. You could almost feel it; his cockhead pressing with insistence at your entrance. Almost feel the safety of his shadow, how his curls would kiss his cheekbones as he hovered above you, how his lids would flutter as he pushed in. That deep, relieved sigh you would both breathe together as the long ache was soothed upon joining.
It was a moving picture. 
From the back of the room, Eddie watched your face burrow into your hand; fingers splayed across your forehead and eyes, shoulders slumping on your ragged exhale. How desperately he itched to ease them with his hands, his teeth, his tongue. It was painful; his cock straining against the confines of his jeans. Silently, he thanked himself for grabbing the black pair from the pile on the chair in his bedroom this morning, certain he was leaking through by now. 
Slowly, he shifted his hips upward, relishing in the drag of the fabric against his sensitive head as it moved toward his waistband. He paused before tucking it, arching forward again with sinful fulfillment. It felt good. Too good. Good enough to do it again. The way the cotton raked against the heart-ridge of his cock, the way the stiff bend in his zipper hit that sweet spot when his hips canted forward. 
Eddie glanced around the room, flushing furiously. All eyes were forward. No one seemed to notice.  Gripping the edge of the desk, he continued to rock his hips; slow and quiet micro-movements, careful not to creak the plastic chair. The shrinking, logical part of his brain couldn’t believe he was doing this. It was a new low. Perverted, even for him. But the tension was mounting, becoming unbearable, and the relief it offered was enough to drown out the shame.
He bet you would be so tight. He could almost feel those gorgeous legs wrap around his waist, your boots crossing at the ankles behind him, drawing him closer as you whined from the stretch. He could almost see you bite your lip and knit your brows, feel your fingers dig into his strong shoulders as you adjusted to his size. He would go slow, knowing it’s been a while for you. You would clench and arch but take him so well as he inched his way to the hilt. Then, bracing against the wood, he would happily give you what you needed — jack hammer hard, rutting like an animal in heat. You would be sinfully wet. He bet you were right now, sitting up there with your legs crossed and head down. Pity it would go to waste. If he had it his way it would be dripping onto the desk, slicking his balls as those pretty, perfect tits of yours bounced with every snap of his hips. 
The fabric was hitting him just right, scratching that itch with each flex of his cock against the dampened cotton. It was a slow mount, subtle and teasing, but it was enough. Anything would have been enough. A breeze. Eyes closed, forehead hung on the heel of his hand in feigned boredom, he imagined it what you would feel like under his thumb; rubbing that little button of yours that made you squirm and moan so deeply he could feel it from the inside. 
The hardest part was steadying his breath. He supposed he couldn’t fault his body, it was just doing what was natural in a place he shouldn’t be doing it. He couldn’t fault his heart for hammering, or his hips from wanting to buck, or his hands for itching to expedite the relief. What he would give to crank the volume on the television, to draw a curtain and just get it over with. God forbid you wisened up to his antics, although the thought did send a jolt to his dick. He knew he should stop before he did something utterly shameful, but the spot he was hitting was just too sweet, a feeling he was helpless but to chase.
He would give you everything you ever wanted. With gritted teeth he would ream you until you came undone, make that pretty face of yours contort over and over as you writhed against the desk, howling his name into the drop ceiling. The slap of skin on skin would echo off the tile until he’d rendered you utterly stupid, which was difficult to do.
“You want it, huh?” he’d huff into your ear, peppered with nip of your lobe. “Want me? Want my cum?”
Tugging the hair at the nape of his neck, you’d mewl your answer. “Yes. Please.”
Slumping forward in his desk, Eddie buried his head in the crook of his arm. Fuck. His boots dug into the tile, thighs straining, lip pinched in his teeth, desperate to restrain the bucking of his hips. There was an animal inside him, tugging like a rubber band waiting to snap. His aching balls begged as they drew upward, cockhead so sensitive it could feel every stitch. Eddie burrowed his nose into the desk, both chasing the feeling and running from it.
He would show you how much of a man he was, paint you with proof on the inside. Remind you as it slicked your thighs with every click of your boots down the hall.
Huffing into the dark cocoon, his free hand gripped the metal legs below him, holding on for dear life as the wave approached its crest. Hips stuttering, breath fogging the desk, he hit the wall. The one that made his mind go blank, his eyes roll back, his whole body tense and tingle like a yawn. 
It came out like a whimper. Warmer and wetter with each pathetic spurt. A small, strangled sound threatened the back of his throat. It tried to escape his gaping, downturned mouth, but he choked it back. It was a relief to get it out, like a dirty confession. Wave after hot, thick wave of frustration pooled in his boxers, clung to his balls as he emptied them completely. When the last of it crested with nothing more to give, his hips rocked to stillness, and the rest of his body went limp. 
He looked like a puddle of leather and hair. Squinting as you peered around the student in front of him, you wondered why his back was heaving like he had been running. 
Eddie peeled his face up from the desk; cheeks flushed, mouth slack, looking at you in a way you could only describe as absolutely fucked-out. A stray ringlet swayed in his ragged breath. There was that feeling again, that pulse between your legs that made you clench them. Quickly as he’d met your eyes, he blinked away as if it burned.
Eddie was a mess. Shifting in his seat with a grimace, he could feel the cotton cling to his skin as he sobered to the chalkboard, and the desks, and the twenty other people he prayed were oblivious to what he’d just done. It was like he was waking up from a wet dream, only he had never gone to sleep. He blinked down at his desk, mortified as his cock softened happily, lolling in its sticky puddle. It was seeping through the denim, cooling in his lap as the seconds ticked by. Glancing at the clock, he calculated another twenty minutes before he could clean it up. Twenty whole minutes to sit with the consequences, to stew in a puddle of his own shame. He supposed he could excuse himself to the bathroom but that would, of course, mean addressing you. It would mean getting up and walking in front of your desk, and the entire class, while you handed him a hall pass like a fucking child. He would rather sit.
Blinking back your thoughts from the gutter, you righted yourself in your chair, chastising yourself as you uncrossed your legs, your own mess trailing cooly against your inner thigh. It was uncomfortable, embarrassing, but there was nothing you could about it now. Flipping through your Rolodex of thoughts, you searched for anything. Anything at all that was chase, or sensible, or mildly interesting. 
Looking down at your naked hands, another scene fell open. This time the set came from memory. A pawn shop in early summer. It was vivid — the rain beating against the large window framing the on-ramp of the highway, Frank Sinatra mocking from the dusty speaker in the corner. The diamond sparkled magnificently as you passed the ring over the glass countertop. Brilliant rainbow fractals brought out by certain lights. They would catch you by surprise sometimes, tickle you with delight in the supermarket or the mall. It winked at you under the fluorescents then, a fleeting goodbye. In the moment, you weren’t sure which was worse — catching your own pained reflection in the glass below you or the pity in the eyes of the man who took your once-prized possession.
You left with twelve hundred dollars in an envelope, a fraction of what it cost him. The banker box rattled in the passenger’s seat as you slammed the door. Stuffed too full for a lid, your quill mug clattered against the plates your grandma gave you. You’d run out of newspaper wrapping your knick-knacks, resorted to your clothes to pad the rest.
The mug cast a shadow across your desk now, flickering in the light of the television. 
You clenched your fists, fighting the touch-memory of Eddie’s ribs under your palms. You’d felt safe for a moment; nestled in his coat, in his hair, melting into the heat of his mouth. What you would give to live it all again, right now. What you would give to have him all to yourself, every day. For the luxury to go on a date, to be seen in public together, to explore where this was going. Glancing across the sea of twenty desks, reality stared back. Where did you think this was going? 
Eddie’s pencil clattered to the floor. His curse was audible, even from the front of the room. Was this where you would place your trust? Your career, your future? In the reckless hands of a twenty year old man? He could ruin you. With a bold move, or a misplaced word, or a drunken gloat one night with his friends. Or god forbid it all went south and in a blind fury he lashed out and retaliated somehow. He wouldn’t do that, would he? You thought you knew him well enough to know that he would never, but did you really? You’d known Eddie Munson for all of four months, which felt strange to consider. It terrified you, the depth of your feelings in so short a time. Terrified you almost as much as the consequences for them. 
Your hand twitched beside the green grading pen resting on the pile of tests you’d barely touched in the last thirty minutes. There were more in your bag to be graded — the stack you’d abandoned on your coffee table last night. It would all catch up to you eventually. The homework, the papers, the secrets. After all you’d been through, had you learned nothing? No one really knows what they want at twenty years old. You certainly didn’t. A head full of fantasies is what you had. Snatching your pen with a firm click, you slashed an X through one of the questions on the test below you and buried yourself in your work.
When the bell finally rang, Eddie hung back in his seat like he always did, waiting for his moment with you. But by the time he had stripped himself of his jacket and secured his flannel around his waist, you had already made for the door.
______
The metal serving spoon smacked the plastic tray, leaving behind a glob of tomato sauce over the tangle of limp noodles. With a tight-lipped nod of thanks, Eddie took it from the lunch lady and made his way into the settled cafeteria, finding his place at the end of the Hellfire table. Steamed carrots bounced from the tray onto the sticky veneer as it fell from his hands with a clatter. Slugging off his backpack to the floor, he slumped into the empty chair that had been waiting patiently for him for the past twenty minutes. 
“There he is,” Jeff nodded to Dustin across the table.
“What’s the story this time? Got abducted by aliens?” chortled Dave.
He would think they would stop asking questions by now, but apparently he needed to teach them a lesson. “Nah, just… jerking off,” Eddie said with a deadpan shake of his head before spearing a meatball with his fork.
The half-truth earned him a rowdy chuckle from the peanut gallery, a gag from Mike. He would spare them the uglier details, like the balled up boxers shoved in the bottom of his backpack or how awkward it was to strip them off in the stall of a bustling bathroom. Glancing down at his lap, he checked that the flannel was still cloaking the drying white stain. 
Jeff’s leather jacket squeaked from the bend in his arm as he leaned against the table. “I was just filling the boys in on the show last night,” he said with a glint in his eyes.
Eddie looked up with a full mouth, eyes like saucers. 
“Yeah, told them about our special guest,” Dave added with a raise of his eyebrows.
He could only respond with a nervous huff, turning back to his tray as his stomach did kick flips. 
“Is it true?” Mike asked Eddie. “She seriously got up and danced?”
Eddie swallowed the whole mouthful at once. He couldn’t lie his way out of this one. “I mean, nothing too crazy. Just for a song.”
“Yeah a song Eddie made us play for her,” Jeff said with a wink. Dustin and Mike’s mouthes fell open simultaneously.
“Think I saw her tits at one point,” Dave reminisced. 
Eddie scoffed. “You did not see her tits, dude. You’re so full of shit.”
“I dunno man, her shirt was pretty short,” Gareth added with a playful nudge. 
“They’re both full of shit,” Eddie shakily assured to the two youngest members. 
They barely paid him a glance, chuckling amongst the rest while Dave rubbed lewd circles over his chest. 
“HEY,” Eddie barked. “Look at me, all of you. This doesn’t leave this table, do you understand me? If I catch wind that any of you went and told anyone about last night I’ll skin you alive, I swear to god.”
Gareth shot him a tired look. “Jesus, dude. Nothing even happened.”
The knot in Eddie’s stomach released slightly. “That’s right. Nothing happened.”
Dave snorted, stabbing his bendy straw into a leftover carrot. “Yeah man, chill out. Nobody’s gonna get your girlfriend in trouble.” 
The blood drained from Eddie’s face as the whole gang erupted in laughter. The uproarious, table slapping kind. It was a joke. A good one, it seemed. The word echoed like the pulse pounding in his ears. Girlfriend. Girlfriend. Girlfriend. A warm, gooey word. One that made his stomach churn with longing. Biting back venom, he wondered how their faces would change if he slapped them with the truth. Would they still be laughing? Would they even believe him? They could laugh all they want—for your sake at least—but it stung nonetheless. 
Dave caught the bitter shift in his expression. “What? You clearly have the hots for her.”
“Who doesn’t?” Jeff laughed.
“ANYWAY!” Eddie punctuated with a smack of his hands against the table. “Gareth, you’ve been awfully quiet about your date this past Sunday. Please, regale us,” he gestured grandly.
Gareth chuckled nervously, pushing a noodle around with his fork. “Oh uh, nothing really happened there either.”
Dave rolled his eyes. “Seriously dude? You’ve been on like three dates and you haven’t even made it to first base?”
“I told you, Cindy’s not like that!” Gareth defended before glancing around sheepishly. “But we did…kinda… hold hands on Sunday.” 
A long oooh emanated from the table. “Hands cupped or laced?” Dustin asked with a raise of his eyebrows, demonstrating with his own hands.
“Ok so,” Gareth began with an emerging smirk, “you know the Large Marge part of Pee-wee’s Big Adventure where her face goes all,” he demonstrated with a bug-eyed look, hands splayed on either side of his face. 
The table responded with chuckles and nods. “Gets me every time,” muttered Dustin.
“Well, Cindy’d never seen it before, so she jumped and like, grabbed my arm,” he paused for effect, “so I just went for it.”
Approval bubbled up from his captive audience. 
“Cupped at first,” he clarified, cutting through the noise, “but after like ten minutes she didn’t pull away, so,” he laced his fingers triumphantly. There was a barking applause, fists rattling the table. Jeff clapped him on the back with a blinding grin. 
Eddie was an island. Oceans away, he managed a soft smile. His night had been far from innocent — a frantic tangle of hands, and tongues, and teeth in the frigid darkness. Phantom feelings that tugged at his lips and fingers, at the forefront of his every thought. Thumbing at the rubber rim of the lunch table, he dreamt of a universe where the walls and roles fell away, one where he could speak of his firsts too. 
______
Eddie had been watching the clock all day. In eighth period trigonometry he watched second hand crawl around the clock face fifty times as his thumbnail worked the paint off a pencil, chipping at the indents his teeth left behind. The final bell was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. Slugging his backpack over his shoulder, he didn’t even bother to stop at his locker before ducking down the hall where your room resided. He almost collided with a straggling sophomore exiting your door on his way in. 
Perhaps he had arrived too early. It wasn’t the scene he was accustomed to — you, standing at your desk, shoving folders into your satchel like you were trying to make a run for it. His small wooden chair still leaned against the wall. The AV cart still towered where it was when the lights were off. Glancing down, he quickly checked to make sure the flannel was draping correctly. 
“Going somewhere?” he teased, unable to hide the concern creeping in.
Your smile was a coy, fragile thing. Chest rising with the kicking of your heart, you opened your mouth but had no words to show for it. Fumbling with an overstuffed folder, you hovered it over the opening of your bag before sliding it in with a sigh.
Eddie shut the door. 
Turning over his shoulder, he snatched your eyes with a startling hunger. Your hands went slack, leather slumping against the desk as his heavy boots met the tile. He was slow in his approach, stalking past the empty rows, parched eyes drinking in every detail of your features. Like a moth drawn to a flame, you met him at the edge of your desk.
His curls were wild, chocolate eyes fiending, a soft concern weighing his brow. Under the fluorescents you could see very clearly what you’d felt last night. The shadow of stubble, the dip of his cupid’s bow, the soft ball of his nose that was cold against your cheek. Under his jacket, the taught landscape of his chest rose and fell. You swallowed, toying with the wool of your skirt. 
“Hey,” he half-whispered, lids drooping ever so slightly. 
“Hey,” you replied, like your tongue was feeling the word for the first time. It tugged a gooey softness from the corners of his mouth, and you cursed yourself for the pang to taste it again. So plush and pink, drawing your gaze long enough for him to notice. 
Eddie dropped his backpack to the floor, tossing it hard enough to collide with the wall below the chalkboard. Shoulders unburdened, he rolled them back to assume the fullness of his height. With pupils blown, he darted out his tongue to wet his lips, looming like a wolf that sees a rabbit. 
He closed in with a step, to which you retreated. The edge of the desk bumped the back of your thighs. Heart hammering, you peered into his hungry eyes. You’d been here before. Not long ago, in your imagination. Different, darker, quieter. 
Eddie drank in the sight of you — your tight cotton shirt and your soft heaving chest. How the band of your skirt hugged the curve of your waist. You, woman.  
Like a false sense of safety, his scent enveloped you. It was dizzying, how badly your hands burned to trace the swell of his pecks, to tangle in his hair, to capture his hot, slick mouth again. Terrifying, the part of you that begged for him to press forward, to tumble you backward, to take his place on top of you. Timidly, your fingers curled over the corner of the desk. 
As he leaned closer, you could feel the tingle of heat from his chest, the ghost of his breath on your face. His arm became a cage as he steadied his palm against the wood behind you. “Been thinking about you all day,” he murmured in your ear. 
You shivered, lids fluttering closed for a selfish, greedy moment. Glancing over his shoulder at the narrow sliver of a window in the door, you peered at the lockers on the other side of the hall. There were some still slamming, slowly petering out as voices drifted further with each passing second. “Eddie,” you warned, placing a hand over his sternum. Eyes dipping slightly at your touch, the solid swell of his chest expanded under the cotton. He stepped back with a gentle push, your palm lingering before falling away. 
A deep breath fumed through his nostrils, heavy and tired. With a tight lipped nod, he backed away, pivoting toward his folded chair beside the door. It screeched as he dragged it across the tile, past the rows of desks, in front of yours, all the way to his usual place beside you. He snapped it open and paused, gripping the wood in his palms, staring down at the place where he’d sat countless times. How small it was compared to yours; padded with armrests and wheels. 
“So we just…” he flexed his fingers and shook his head, unable to suppress the sting in his voice, “go back to normal then?”
Eyes cast down at the empty seats, you sighed. “I don’t… think we can.”
“Good,” he stated, shoulders relaxing slightly. “Come on, let’s sit down.”
It was enticing, that chair with its worn leather padding. What was more enticing was the space beneath the desk; a safe haven for hands and arms, for cupped palms and laced fingers. On top of the desk lay your bag, and your keys, and the plant still alive in its unbroken pot. Your head was pounding; a dull ache that had been radiating from your temples since lunch. Lockers slammed outside the room, fluorescents hot on your skin. With a deep, lamenting sigh, you gave him all you could manage — your honesty. “It’s been… a hell of a day for me—”
“You could say that again.”
“I—” you sighed sharply, “I really think I just need to go home a-and… think things through.”
“What’s there to think about?” The words tumbled out like an avalanche he couldn’t chase. Your balking expression made him wish he could suck them all back.
“Oh gee, I don’t know,” you gestured wildly to the classroom, “we could start with my job.”
“I’m sorry that was—y-you know what I mean.”
“Do I?” The steam from the pressure could have burned him.
“We—we both clearly have feelings for each other,” he explained, lowering his voice. “I just… thought we would figure it out.”
There was a gap between you, cluttered with papers and pens. Your bag slumped in the middle of the mess, gaping and stuffed to the brim. Pulse hammering behind your eyes, you blinked them slowly with a pained sigh. “I know,” you admitted, toying with the strap. “Eddie, please, I need some time to think about all this.” 
It hurt to imagine. You, going home, sitting there in your slippers at your coffee table and deciding that he wasn’t worth the risk. Closing the flap on your satchel, you tugged the leather heap across the desk, but Eddie’s hand was quick to pounce. “No, we need to talk.” 
Frustration pinched your brow. “I know but—”
“Then let’s talk, yeah?” he gestured to the chairs.
A cluster of shadows passed by the window over your shoulder. “Not here, not right now.”
Eddie rolled his eyes. “Then let’s get out of here.”
“And go where? A table at Benny’s?” you snapped.
“You’ve got a place, right?”
Folding your arms, you shot him an incredulous look, though the thought was both thrilling and terrifying. You lowered your voice. “What happened last night was… impulsive.”
“I’d say it was a long time coming.”
You sighed. “Regardless, I think that’s enough for this week.”
Eddie would disagree, but his tongue had a wrangle on the words this time. In the pause, it was easy for both of you to picture; his clothes on your bedroom floor. Easy to picture the ways he could ruin you in private — fold you like the chair under his wringing palms. Still, the ways he could ruin you in public were equally vivid. 
You turned to grab your coat, brushing past him. The arm of his jacket was smooth against yours. Electrified by the contact, you lingered for a moment, unable to abstain from drinking in his form, his scent, from basking in the prickle of his aura. 
He could see it clearly in the harsh light — the shadow that clung beneath your lower lashes, the sagging exhaustion in your eyes. Gravity tugged at the corners of your natural lips, so different from how they appeared last night — dark and dusty red, framing a smile that outshined the moon. His fingers twisted against the wood. “Please stay,” he begged softly. 
Your eyes drifted shut, a split-second relish in the sweet pang of his voice, though the words rung a different bell; a different man saying them. In a flash, another scene appeared — you, at the door of your old home in Indianapolis, cradling the last of your belongings as your free hand gripped the knob. 
Opening your eyes to the radiator, and the windows, and the pale grey sky before you now, you relinquished a shaky sigh and tucked your fingers under the thick collar of your coat. It still held a subtle fragrance, clinging to the memory of last night, desperately as you were. Eddie watched with rapt attention as your brow pinched in pain, fingers twitching under the wool he’d memorized the shape of you through. When your lip began to tremble, his hand lost control. 
“Hey,” he whispered, meeting the soft cotton slope of your shoulder with his palm. 
Your head snapped toward his umber eyes; warmer than the hand that thawed your shoulder, callus catching on the cotton as his thumb soothed over it. You followed it down to his wrist, to the tendons flexing beneath the chain, dipping under the sleeve of his worn, leather coat. How desperately you longed to wrap yourself inside it again, to nestle into his beating chest and hide there forever. 
A voice crackled over the loudspeaker, and reflex had you flinching. “I’m sorry,” you mouthed, tears burning behind your eyes as you snatched your coat off the hook.
Bitterly, he dropped his hand. The contact hurt to break, almost as much as it hurt to watch you don your coat, to snatch your bag, to sling the heavy strap over your shoulder. Helplessly, he stood there, feeling like a fool until the welling of your eyes made it unbearable not to advance. “It doesn’t have to be like this,” he pleaded. “Like—like a big deal. Not if we don’t make it one.”
You froze, eyes narrowing as a pained fume left your nose. “That’s easy for you to say.” With a bitter huff, you turned on your heel and left him in the classroom with only the echo of your footsteps. 
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A/N: Yes, in my story Principal Higgins is a woman. I know in canon Eddie says “flip him the bird,” but for some reason my brain didn’t register that until literally two months ago. I always pictured Higgins as a stern, ancient, nun-like woman and I can’t seem to shake that characterization from my brain. Perhaps I’m just scarred from Catholic grade school. I think it works well for this story, so Martha Higgins it is. 
Also sorry I never stated this in the tags but the upside down does not exist in this universe.
The smut is coming very soon. Pinky swear. Our Lady of Internal Conflict is just having a moment. 
Taglist: @mermaidsandcats29 @toxicjayhoo @ooo-protean-ooo @jadequeen88 @wroteclassicaly @kissmyacdc @mantorokk-writes @storiesbyrhi @trashmouth-richie @carolmunson @blueywrites @alottanothing @bebe07011 @latenighttalkingwithgrapejuice @idkidknemore @alizztor @godcreatoreli @ethereal27cereal @munsonsgirl71 @mrsjellymunson @emxxblog @siriusmuggle @sidthedollface2 @dollalicia @lma1986 @catherinnn @eddiemunson4life420 @readsalot73 @big-ope-vibes @barbiedragon @ladylilylost @3rriberri @princess-eddie @nightless @eddieswifu @thew0rldsastage @chaoticgood-munson @hanahkatexo @eddiemunsonsbedroom @beep-beep-sherlock @averagemisfit03 @vintagehellfire @haylaansmi @sllooney @lunaladybug734 @callingmrsbarnes @ajkamins
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MASTERLIST ⎮ AO3 ⎮ KO-FI
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imitransform · 2 months ago
Text
get ready... reset... and recharge!! - steilum (AYakshaDreams) - Transformers - All Media Types [Archive of Our Own]
When Shockwave opens the door and sees a blue, blocky shape resting on his berth, he does not do anything so illogical as to cheer, or laugh, or crinkle his optic. He does, however, move swiftly in Soundwave's direction. Or: Shockwave is long overdue for a recharge. As per their prior arrangements, Soundwave helps him settle down enough to sleep.
Wrote a short, fluffy wavewave fic about Soundwave trying to get Shockwave to finally sleep ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ (though this is also very reciprocal between them lol)
If you're looking for semi-established relationship wavewave with a bit of mind meld and cuddling, free to check it out! (ㅅ´ ˘ `) 💜💙
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An excerpt:
Shockwave can hear gears shifting, pistons churning, and pumps whirring as energon is circulated outwards, inwards, and in all directions. The sounds are myriad. Hushed yet distinct; regular yet captivating. They are clear proof that Soundwave still functions, and after one point or another, that has become reassuring for Shockwave to know. Past a certain point, it is difficult to tell where his own machinations stop and Soundwave’s begin. Shockwave belatedly realizes that he has slowed his processes to match Soundwave’s relaxed pace. Soundwave too seems to detect the shift and must enjoy the rhythm, his vocalizer thrumming a pleased, harmonious chord.
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