#she's not as good about cleanliness as she used to be anyways

[neganium]

Still kind of debating being brave and trying out youtube for a bit. the thought of the huge pile of unwatched videos waiting there for me kind of puts me off, however.

[writella]

Screwed Up and Brilliant

Synopsis: Negan is ready for you. Daryl isn’t; and maybe he’ll never be. Negan makes that clear to you tonight.

Details: Negan Smith x fem!reader, Daryl Dixon x fem!reader (mentioned), Negan is a bad guy but there is nuance— at least I hope I accomplished doing so, angst, guilt, forbidden love, probably super stereotypical, reader at the Sanctuary, moral dilemma reader (but you got to understand, they’re both so fine!!), I feel like I need more cws but I can’t think of them and of course, smut, 18+: consensual, unprotected, vague dacryphilia, soft? dom!Negan, lite daddy kink, fingerings, riding, and basically just Negan blowing your brains out… but not in the walker way— the good way, the way we like. Amen.

A/N: Could you believe I started writing this in October or something? This is my first time writing Negan and I’m scared I may not have gotten it right so definitely feel free to give notes! This is set during season 7/8, I’m picturing Negan at the end of 8 and later seasons but there’s something about him older that gives me heart eyes everywhere, but whatever you prefer makes me happy. Anyway, from my heart, and maybe somewhere a little lower, to yours; with love from writella. ♡

You’re screwed up and brilliant, look like a million-dollar man; so why is my heart broke?

—— LDR, Million Dollar Man

The space was clean; minimal. The kind that let out no secrets of the owner that inhabited its insides. And of course there were the little things that let out some slight details: the ashtray on the nightstand— a smoking habit; a ring, a metal chain, another of black rope— an unsuspected, albeit small, interest in jewelry; the bottom nightstand closed by a lock—mysterious and cautious, though that was to be expected. It was only reasonable he’d have something he wanted hide. But other than that, Negan’s bedroom was quite unreadable; almost purposefully mundane.

There was a fireplace, a window at the corner, and a bed at the center. It had a dark, brass, rusted headboard that leaned against the wall. Two pillows at either side. The sheets were white, and the large blanket was of fur, a tan or medium brown, it was thick and heavy. Probably unnecessary for the approaching spring heat, but it adored the bed end well; matching the other bronze, or brown, wooden and darker aspects of the room. Even the light from the small fire, though you could see clearly, made everything mildly dim— the Sanctuary wasn’t known for its brightness after all.

And truly, nothing in this bedroom, or in this fortress of a place could be described as anything close to bright. Unless you counted the sun outside in the courtyard, or the largest fireplace that blazed in the main hall, or Negan’s piercing, priceless smile— so pristinely white, so wide it almost looked painful to perform. There was an eeriness to it as well. That was at the forefront, and everyone saw it. With the way he maintained their cleanliness, it was something that could look so pure, so put-together on any other; but on him, its power could scare you into worthlessness. It’s the one he used when he told someone what to do even if they hated it; it’s the one he used when killing someone’s best friend.

It’s also the one he used on the first day he ever spoke to you. The first time that truly mattered, really.

It was during Negan’s first supply gathering at Alexandria.

You still remember it well.

Your faces filled with desolation, but chins held high; you were strong— good at hiding the pain, the fear— only straight, pokered eyes and mouths allowed as everyone silently agreed with you. You had told Negan that Maggie was dead.

The Widow, he had coined her. The wife of your good friend that he killed— so generous a man was Glenn, even when he wasn’t trying to be. And she’s your friend too, brave Maggie. That’s the one he wanted, but as far as he knew, she was gone.

Thank God, you thought, Thank God, yes, indeed, until—

Negan’s eyes glazed over your frame for just a moment too long.

You weren’t speaking anymore. You kept it short enough. He should have turned his attention back to Rick but he didn’t.

Where there was sly roguery in Negan’s eyes, anxiety weld in the looks of all others: Rick’s throat tensed and tightened uneasily, sweat trailing down his curls and onto his forehead; Rosita’s jaw clenched with bitterness, brows furrowing under her green khaki cap with anger; and then there was Gabriel: his eyes turned from solemnity and pretend peacefulness to wide bewilderment. The plan you two exchanged had worked: you would tell Negan of Maggie’s passing, as per your idea, and Gabriel would swiftly solidified your lie by saying he was the one who officiated the short funeral. But then, another problem arose; one where he could be nothing else but helpless in aiding you. What was he, or anyone to do? It was easy to help Maggie, she was more than twenty miles away. But you, you were here. Right in front of him.

“Wait a minute…” Negan’s pointer shakes lightly by his temple, his mind turning curiously. “You.” He said, shooting his finger in the direction of your chest.

His smile, mischievous as ever, only grew wider as a moment passed and he made his realization: “You’re the one with that- tight- grip!” He balled his raised hand into a fist as he said it. A slight snicker came after, proud of his entendre. “My men were tryna put Daryl in the trunk and you latched onto his foot like it was your dying- act- which—” you attempt to lessen the startle in your eyes at his upward hitch in tone, “—it most certainly could have been.”

Negan comes closer now, his face nearing your own, “But you know better now, right?”

Obviously, you did not.

Or you would have stayed home, not given him the chance to remember you as he said he would after your nails could no longer claw into Daryl’s ankle. He was thrashing too much and Negan’s men pushed you away; they were too strong together against the two of you. They kicked dirt in your face for it, held a gun to your head until Negan told them to stop. His point was made with your two friends he had killed, no need for another— especially not one who amused him like you had just done.

‘DAYUM. She is surprisingly strong!’ He had yelled, ignoring the weeping faces of you and the group kneeling in a line on the ground; sweat, blood, and tears dripping everywhere. ‘And I do like ‘em loyal…’ He had given you a once over while telling his men, ‘Hands off, gentlemen,’ and before returning his attention back to Rick, he added, ‘I’ll keep my eye on you.’

And he did.

You made an impression.

Now you’ll pay.

Rick should have told you why he wanted you to stay with Judith. He remembered what Negan said too. He remembered what Negan said to everyone. He couldn’t forget. But maybe it didn’t matter. It was only the start of Negan’s day here. Maybe he would have found you anyway.

Rick would feel it was all his fault nonetheless, but all you could think about is how truly, it was your own, and no one’s at all.

The sun allows glints of wickedness to sparkle in the whites of Negan’s teeth as he continues imparts his demand, “From now on, don’t stop me when I’m giving an order, okay?” It’s like you can hear him underlining his words just with his darkened voice. Turning his waist, he extends his hand to everyone as he finishes, “And that goes for all of you.”

You force your face to remain leveled as he meets your eyes again, that cheshire look returning directly toward you. He curls his head to the side, whispering near your profile, “So… you’re his girl, huh?”

Your mouth becomes slightly agape. You don’t even realize it before you can try to close it. He asked the question of aversion, or at least that’s what you assumed it was to Daryl.

You knew it was just his way, that speaking about things like this might have not been his strong suit. Besides, there were more things to worry about almost all the time, but it still hurt to know that when asked, the only complete and honest answer there could be was no.

Your eyes trail down slowly, desperate to avoid his, and Daryl’s face— a few feet away from you— turning to the side, looking at nothing. He could not hear what was being asked, but maybe Rick did, Rosita and Gabriel too. It was unclear, but their eyes prodded with more tension, more worry, Daryl could register that, and even more so, he could not stand Negan’s face that close to yours; he was probably trying to make an advance on you, scare you, or both. He pretends not to care, but ultimately it’s useless. Negan detects your expression and turns to look at Daryl’s; he notices both failing attempts at impassivity.

“Oh,” he muses, voice returning to its normal volume, “or not, my bad…. I guess that does make more sense though.” He speaks louder now, casually, like he’s a close friend consoling you about your boy troubles, “I personally haven’t been able to hold a conversation with the guy either, and I’m just tryna be friends.”

Daryl was right. Negan was weaseling his way in. He snarls because of it.

Only Dwight hears this and sends him a warning glare.

You feel the sweat beading from your hairline to the nape of your neck. The danger felt from Negan’s presence was as thick as the sun’s heat that shone directly on the cemetery grove. It’s hard to look up and especially to look at him directly for that long as if he truly was the fire in the sky, so you look down again.

Negan pats your shoulder sympathetically, his hand then going to hold up your chin, his thumb tracing your jaw softly.

It makes Daryl’s arms twitch and his stance jerks forward, but he’s pushed back, Dwight beating him on the chest. It’s only once but you can hear it, everyone heard it.

It only makes Negan’s grin become more sly because— there it is— a reaction; an answer. It makes what he’s about to do that much more sweet: “Fuck, darlin’. I’m sorry. Idiot,” he tisks. Then more quietly he adds, “I’m not one though.”

This time it’s for sure: Rick caught that, and Rosita too. They give each other an alarming look as Negan continues to trail over your dispirited form, like a wilted flower. His hand lowers back down to your shoulder, then trails to your arm, to the elbow, and then off of you entirely.

Despite the feeling of Lucille under his grasp telling him he shouldn’t, Rick urges himself to speak before Negan says what they all know is coming. “Negan,” he starts, swallowing the slight shake in his voice, “would you like to see the pantry—”

“Did I ask you to speak, Rick?” Negan states, his frame still positioned in front of you. “I’m thinkin’ here… I’m thinkin’… particularly, that you should come with me.”

Daryl makes a sound that you couldn’t hear, for Dwight was already barking a “Shut up,” at him. Only the swat he gives to Daryl’s shoulder is what is once again heard by all.

You almost choke on your gasp, but you hold it in. Only letting out the faintest sound as you ask, “What?”

“You heard me,” he plainly says. “I mean, what do you even do here anyway?”

You almost felt embarrassed to answer.

“No, I’m askin’. Seriously. Does Rick actually utilize you?”

As you begin, your voice is still quiet, “I… I work in the garden, with the produce… I help tutor the kids… I go on runs, gather supplies. I cook. Help with weapons maintenance, I—” you stop, realizing your grocery list of jobs probably sounds pathetic to him, you’re like a chore boy, “— I do a lot. But everyone does.”

“Hm,” Negan responds, playing with his nails nonchalantly. Your thoughts come to fruition with his next words, “So you’re just everyone’s helper?”

He noticed the sad offense emanating from your eyes, so he raised his hands, “And those are important things to do, I mean it. It must mean you know quite a bit from everyone, that’s smart, and there’s no trouble in it. But… I saw you. I think you can do more.”

“How?” You can still only gasp out your words. “I’m not Maggie. And she’s not here.”

“No.” He brings up one finger, “But you’re clever,” you look at him confused as he brings up his middle finger to join the first, “and quick on your feet, that I now know.” A third and fourth finger comes up, “You’re strong, you’re loyal— things I’ve stated before.” Then the fifth he says with a smug smile, “And you’re a looker, I must admit.” He moves his hand to one side of his mouth, pretending to secretly tell you, “But that’s just a plus,” he winks. “And more importantly, it seems to me that just like most people in Prick’s community, you are undervalued and not paid attention to whereas I see potential.” He says it all so simply, he truly believes he’s offering you so much better that he finally ends by saying: “Hm. Yeah. I think you’ll be much better off with me.”

And so, with no true goodbyes said, in a van you went after Negan’s visit was done. A different one from Daryl’s, of course. Taken away from the first home you had in ages.

Before the trunk door closed, Negan gave you parting words: “You see?” He had said, “I told you I’d remember you, didn’t I?”

The words rang in your ears for the entire ride as they still do now, even more or less than two months later as you sit in his room.

Your heartbeat started to rise little by little as time went on and he hadn’t arrived. With the window allowing you to escape into thought, you were left to think about the last couple of days, and specifically, the last time you were in here:

You were sitting with him on his bed. You had asked if you could talk about anything other than the world you two lived in now, and surprisingly, he obliged. It was nice. Sometime later, he had finally opened that locked drawer.

You heard him suck his teeth, what he was getting seemed lost, which allowed you to take a closer peek inside.

There was a picture of a woman. The first wife? The only real one? You couldn’t tell and you wouldn’t ask, it would have been too much. You didn’t even get a good look at the woman anyway— part of her face was covered and he was fast. But he saw your eyes, so you decided to take note of the books you caught a glimpse of, pretending it was the only thing you saw. You try to think of something to say… It did make sense he was a reader, at least even mildly if that was all it was. The way he describes his ideals, his persuasiveness, his diction— it impressed you, even if you disagreed with a lot of it. It was almost ironic that the only cover you saw was of a dictionary, the more valuable ones probably hidden under. “Is that where you get all your big boy words from?” You asked.

“Some of them,” he joked back, composing himself.

It was strange to almost catch him off guard. It was so unlike him to allow it, but what happened next felt even more surprising.

Whatever he got from the drawer was enclosed in his hand. He put the free one on top of the other as he started, “Now… I don’t want you thinking I’m growing soft on you. I just thought you deserve it because—” and then his voice fades. Even Negan, the ever curse-filled wordsmith, was finding it hard to describe in any other way that he was pleased with something as absurd as you not trying to escape anymore. He knew you would probably think that was the only reason for a gift, but then he opted for something that even you couldn’t help but know was equally true, “You don’t seem to proactively hate me anymore. You’re here. I appreciate it, so I wanted to,” he says sincerely. “That’s all.”

Negan opened his hand, resting the piece in your palm— it was a locket; lovely and rusted floral engravings all over it.

You felt sad that you thought it was beautiful, and even worse for knowing the reasons why he was giving it to you. No wonder his voice had faltered.

You remember the soft shock and awe on your face, how you said thank you and how your face felt so hot when you said it, how he asked you to turn, and how you looked at him from behind you after he put the piece on. He was so close and it felt like he was coming closer. You don’t remember if that part was real, but you can see it so clearly that it must have been. Unfortunately, the only thing you remember for certain is that knock at the door that sent Negan away to handle whatever was going on downstairs.

Had you almost let him kiss you? Would you have liked it? Are you the most deplorable person for even thinking that while Daryl was somewhere else locked up at the time?

“I see they delivered my message.”

You return from your daze, your startle leaving as soon as it comes.

It was just him. There Negan finally was.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to just come in. The door was unlocked.”

“I knew the meeting was gonna go longer than expected; thought you might as well make yourself comfortable.” He gestures to you, “which I see you did, and no—“ you were getting up from his bed, “it’s fine.” Negan sets Lucille near the door. He walks over to you, sitting down on the edge of his bed as well. There is a bit of distance between you two.

“You know, I came back the other day,” he informs, “I was actually going to talk to you last night, but then I heard you tried to leave. Again.” His eyebrows furrow, “We still on that?” He asks. “Thought we had a breakthrough the other night.”

“But after Carl—“

“—Carl,” he interjects, “came here all by his badass self, and for that, I did not lay even my pinky fuckin’ finger on him.” His hand goes to his chest, “I even took him home like a gentleman. And after I got here and found out they put you in a cell without supper, I had you back in your bed before midnight yesterday, so I’d say I’m doing pretty well.”

“Seriously?” Your incredulity is hidden under the softness of your voice as you say it, but it’s cracking.

“As a heart attack. It’s your ex-people who don’t listen. At least I was nice this time.”

You sigh heavily, docility officially fading. You shake your head with a slight chuckle, “That’s hard to believe. Especially if you were gone for most of the day. I know what that means. You had whatever the fuck your version of fun is.”

He grits his teeth, holding his words back. You’ve gotten a little too comfortable with the back talk, and you especially shouldn’t be saying anything after the night you had yesterday, but he allows it.

This time.

Of course, he didn’t like you leaving, but he rather that it was Daryl who escaped than you. And based on the bruises: one on the side of your head, one high on your shoulder— he imagines you might have gotten pushed against a wall— and the light ones that littered in a couple of spots on both your arms— he could tell his men must have been rough with you as they brought you back. He didn’t like that; therefore, he lets you quip. Someone would be getting their own bruises for it some time later anyway. He would take your smartass mouth out on them to cover for it.

“Maybe,” he finally says. “Nothing was undeserved though.”

You breathe in, the back and forth was no use. “What happened yesterday?” You asked, losing the sarcasm. Your eyes peered into his for honesty, hoping to skip the sly replies and get to the truth. “Just tell me what happened at home.”

Home. You knew better than to use that word. In fact, you have just stopped using that word. He let out an exasperated laugh, but skipped the lecture. “You want the truth? Or just the SparkNotes?”

You roll your eyes lightly. You probably don’t even notice you did it. Despite the situation being discussed, it makes Negan’s head turn endearingly— your tone of voice, the things you say, the way you react to him… you still don’t realize how fresh you’ve gotten with him, how comfortable. But he sees it.

“Alright. Well, Spencer’s gone.” He reveals offhandedly, replying to your silence.

Your eyes do not widen, you know what gone means. You simply nod and try to not think about how the now-cleaned bat most likely looked before.

“And don’t tell me that you care,” he says, pretending to interject to your continuing silence. “You gotta know he was a small dick nepo-prick, right?”

You bite the inside of your lip, shaking your head slightly. You won’t give in to a cheap joke even if it was pretty accurate, so he beckons you by name, “C’mon, that was funny.”

Still, you give him nothing.

He sighs; taking off his leather; and sits near you on the bed, his hands cupping the ledge. “Thought we were finally over this quiet thing.”

“A lot has happened this week.”

“Like…” he prodes. He would only talk about it if you brought it up.

Your eyes shut tightly before opening again. You didn’t want to say it, but you had to. “You know what. Daryl.”

He states the fact plainly, “Daryl left you.”

“Are you kidding me?” Your voice is fierce now. You can’t believe it. You won’t. “He’s not that kind of person and this isn’t an easy place to get out of— I obviously know that— he wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I know,” he jeers, “but he did and he didn’t bring you with him. Even though you were found trying to find his cell. That’s some real idiotic bullshit right there, isn’t it? From both of you.”

You glared at him hotly, you wouldn’t give it up, but unfortunately you had no rebuttal. Both of you would just continue on with the same argument, the conversation going nowhere. And not because either side knew they were completely right; in truth, neither of you actually knew what happened the other day. But in this regard, you felt there was no other choice: you believed in Daryl fully.

Because he wouldn’t.

He couldn’t.

Right?

You continue shaking your head, trying to find something to say in retaliation as you feel your sureness withering. Separating you two was the smartest tactic. You now have nothing to hold onto. “He wouldn’t,” you repeat pathetically, “I don’t believe you.” Unfortunately it’s not quite enough, so he continues with a rant you know all too well.

“You don’t believe me?” He cups the ends of the bed more tightly, positioning himself closer to you. “When I’m the one who gave you the safest roof? Secure food, clean water, access to all these pretty dresses, which, I know you’ve become accustomed to—” and here it comes— “I saved you!”

Saviors and their “saving,” you sneered at it. What bullshit. “You didn’t save me.”

“But I gave you someone to talk to… Huh?” He taunts, waiting for your response but nothing comes. He uses it to his advantage, “You’re quiet cause you know it’s true.”

But you know something too. He says it before you can.

“Or fuck, maybe I just gave myself someone to talk to.”

You pretend you can’t hear the earnesty in it. “Stop,” you scoff. “Don’t treat me like I’m special. I was the second choice.”

“I think with my dick sometimes. You’re the only choice.”

You start to shake your head, your face is flushed; scared, hot, and a little bit of something else that you refuse to let out. Then the tears come— the room feels so big and you two are so close and there are so many feelings you’re trying to push down. “It doesn’t matter,” you say wearily, “You took me. And you took him. You hurt him, I saw his face.” Your voice begins to tremble, almost in unison with the tears that peak out on your eyelids. “And that outfit you put him in. He didn’t even look me in the eye.”

“Stop,” he warns.

“You didn’t even let me see him.”

“He doesn’t notice you.”

“You don’t know us.”

“I know you.”

“You don’t know him.”

“I know you’re not happy… What about the other night?”

You ignore him, shaking your head: “You hurt my friends.”

“What about the other night?” He persists, his voice slowly growing louder. “What about every time I let you sit in on my meetings? What about how you have your own room? What about how I actually talk to you?”

“You let him get hurt—” the tears start to fall, there is a quiver in your voice but you still match his near shout, “And you almost killed Carl—”

“Shut up.”

“And you killed Abraham—”

He warns you by name.

“And Glenn! Maggie’s husband—”

“SHUT. UP.”

“The baby won’t have a father, Negan!”

His voice is low and grim as he demands you to “Stop. Now.” Negan grabs the sides of your neck as he says his next line, it comes out brisk and harsh and heavy like his touch as his hand wraps around your neck. “I knew you lied to me.”

Your voice is hushed, feeling his lightly pressed thumbs on the front of your throat as you speak shakily, “I’ve never lied to you.”

“Maybe not since you’ve been here, but did you hear yourself right now?” He pauses, allowing you a second to let it sink in. “You just fucking proved it.”

Your eyes widen at the realization. The baby, you had said. Fuck.

“See? Told you, you were smart.”

And he did. Brave Maggie. Clever you. That was his reason number one.

“You have to get why.”

His voice remains eerily calm. “I do.”

Another tear falls and his thumb presses its pad under your eye, spreading a tear on your face as the next one comes down.

“Negan…” you say. It’s a mix of a warning and a plea but you can’t tell for what, both fear and fire mix together because of his proximity. His touch and stare was dangerous, you wouldn’t be surprised if he was pleased he caught your slip up, thrilled to see you cry, but there was also something about it— his touch, his eyes— that was equally intoxicating. There was something more tender there as well, something you didn’t want to turn away from, he wasn’t as rough as you thought. Nonetheless, your answer to these conflicting feelings are ones of neglect, you stay your course. “You’re a bad person,” you tell him.

“Please,” he whispers back, “just stop.”

His eyes glaze over your features with an intent look you’ve only seen once before, it was that other night in fact. It’s almost gentle, but maybe it’s just pity, so you don’t let it stop you. “But you are.”

“Stop,” he pleads, then it’s hushed, “just stop…” he says, “just stop.” Then he starts coming closer. “Tell me to stop.”

And you know you should get up.

You should, you should, you should, you know it but— you don’t.

You breathe into it.

His lips latch onto yours; your heads tilt; you lock perfectly.

Everything after happens fast, the instantaneous mess of it all: he waited and waited, and of course he would. He was waiting for you to see it, to feel it. He thought the other night was the breakthrough, but no, it was tonight, it was how you didn’t back away just now.

His hand goes lower on your leg, nearing your knees so he can get under your dress, trailing up your thigh, reaching the inner side that’s pressed up to the other one.

His hand on your neck brings you in closer, traveling up to under your chin and jaw, holding you so tight, but so sweetly. All you felt was surprise. He slips his tongue in, it's deep and intense. He brings a velvet warmth that you’d never expect from him. It was paradoxical; a fiery heaven of a feeling.

He starts rubbing your clit over your panties, kissing his way up to your ear as he does so to ask, “When’s the last time someone’s fucked you?”

Your lips are parted, but you cannot speak, so he continues.

“Daryl never did, did he?” He asks in a muffle, continuing to kiss and kiss. “Who was before him?”

Again, no verbal response, but your breath does hitch at his touches. He continues to draw circles, your wetness now slowly dampening the material, making it easier for his finger to place itself between your folds, so he dips his hand under the band. That and his whispering makes you feel a kind of spark that shoots all the way down to where his fingers are touching. The first press of his thumb without any material in between forces a sudden heat to rise that instantly causes a flush of liquid to slip down your hole, it feels messier than it actually is until his fingers go lower spreading it everywhere. You were much wetter than you thought, and you can’t help how good it feels, how easily you’re responding to it.

Negan calls your name, holding in every cocky reply he wanted to give about how wet you are— he needed an answer to his question first. So he looks you in the face, making sure he has your full attention, “You’re fuckin’ with me, right?” His words are meant more genuinely than his tone implies. “Not at all during any of this?”

You shake your head small and slowly. No.

He laughs pitifully, he doesn’t mean it rudely, but he just can’t help it. A touch-starved baby at the mercy of his fingertips? “Well, god-damn.”

He felt like a rich man.

He begins to kiss your lips again, now pumping his fingers into you. Your walls tighten. It’s only two, but they’re his. It’s new and exciting. His kiss makes you lean into the bed, the force of his head and tongue going deeper into your mouth guiding you to lay flat as his fingers still play.

“I hope you know how fucking soaked you are,” he finally says. “You need it so bad that it feels this damn good with me only touching you like this?” You can’t help the way your body jerks up and he can’t help but be smug about it. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

Your eyes grow vicious at his grin, you almost want to hit him, but you can’t. All you can do is suppress your moan into a quiet whine. He’s so magnetic— his touch feels forbidden but so right; his voice so alluring; and his midas touch pulls you deeper and deeper into a trance, you might as well be turning into gold. Other than the involuntary reactions your body makes as his fingers continue going into your hole, now slowly going in and out as his eye gloss over your body in your favorite dress that you wore the most, you’re left paralyzed; subjected to following his lead. Wherever he wanted to go next, you’d let him.

He takes his fingers from inside of you and you look up quickly. You made sure not to whine at the loss of contact but your eyes couldn’t hide your dismay. All he did was smile and quickly lick away the wetness.

“Just takin’ this off,” he tells you as his hands cross over to the ends of his white t-shirt, slipping it off and onto the ground, one of those small rope chains hitting his chin as he does so.

It was only his shirt but you’re struck by him: to see more of his ever present sun-kissed skin felt almost godly. He was pretty lean, not too lanky like his stature, but not too broad either. Light curves of muscles adorned his chest and shoulders and arms. His chest and abdomen were slightly hairy, a tattoo placed on the upper right side and you finally saw the other tattoos placed on his upper arms more clearly. They looked nice on him. He was so handsome. You felt more wetness peeking out from down below. He looked so big above you.

“Like what you see, beautiful?” That typical snark still laced his voice, but there was a genuinity to it as well. He wanted you to like what you saw; to like him.

His words make your face hot, eyes casting off to the side. It was easier to talk to him when you were mad at him, when it was about home, even just small talk about the Sanctuary; this felt… different. Just like the other night.

You had almost already forgotten that his charm worked this way too; in a kinder way— when his eyes are wide, when his smile is soft, when he calls you sweet names without the irreverent, quip-filled pretenses.

It made you have all the words on the tip your tongue: how handsome and sexy you could say he is, how much you liked his tattoos, even all the greys that littered his hair and beard l, or how, if you had to admit it, you liked that dumb shit-eating grin of his, but all you can do is lightly smile, a quiet laugh escaping your lips at your bashfulness. You finally nod. “Yes,” you say, rolling your eyes, “maybe.”

He starts undoing his belt with a laugh of his own, “Oh I know you’re a fuckin liar if you think I’m a maybe.”

As his pants drop to the floor he takes each hand and places them over your shoulders on the bed to ask, “May I take off the lady’s dress?”

Your eyes widened, your open mouth only letting out a sweet, surprised, and whispered, “Huh?”

“What? Didn’t expect me to be a gentleman?”

You try to compose yourself, calm the fire you feel all throughout your body, and pretend you haven’t already given in completely right when he kissed you. “I just didn’t expect it would be all this slow.”

He laughs inwardly, glad to see the personality he came to know come back after all that happened these past two days. “Just give me a moment,” he jokes back. “You think I’m gonna waste seeing the reaction of you watching my cock spring out just so I can shove it in fast? ” He comes closer, his voice lowers now, “Believe it or not, I don’t think you’re just some doll or a fuck-piece.” The groundedness of his voice is something you’ve never heard before. “I’m pretty sure I’ve already stated that I see you. And truly, I think you’re damn gorgeous.”

Your eyes are stars. How can you even react? He thinks you’re gorgeous and you’re taken aback. “Thank you,” is all you can quietly say.

“You’re welcome.” He responds with eyes that have never looked so honest, so soft. You get lost in them and he has to pull you back, returning to his question, “May I?”

You nod, quick and excitedly, “You can take it off, Negan.”

He grabs your hands and stands you up. You look up at his face and his fingers move to the ends of your dress, pulling it over your head.

The tips of his fingers trace your chest and stomach lightly, delicately touching your skin as if it’s porcelain. He grabs your waist and travels up to take off your bra, then pushes down your wet underwear.

Negan’s cock stirs at the sight, you’re so pretty and so ready for him. “And I didn’t even need to see it to know I was right.” Just like he said, you’re gorgeous.

Negan pushes down his boxers. Cock springing up. Big and veiny with a red tip. He was itching to get inside of you.

And there you were, eyes and mouth open wide, scared and excited all at once. You were intimidated but surprisingly not scared if it would fit or not. You would let him do anything to get himself inside of you, even if it hurt.

“There it is,” he says, pleased with your reaction. He comes closer to your ear now, pushing you down by the hips against the bed once more. “And trust me, if you like that, you won’t fucking believe how I’ll feel inside of you. Just wait.”

“I…” He wanted to make you feel good, you’re almost speechless. “I’m ready.”

“Good.” He says, and then he places himself above you, admiring your glistening folds as he spreads your legs. He already lines himself up, he could look at you forever but he is in no desire to wait any longer. He pushes in. It’s a bit fast, a tight fit, it must have hurt you, but he’s too excited, he can’t help it. He lets out a hum and then a groan at the feeling of your walls enclosing him, and he hears you gasp at his size. He starts to pump into you immediately.

His face hovers over yours. His eyes study your features and he realizes he’s never been this close. Of course he hasn’t, he’s never fucked you, made love to you. He’s just now noticing the way your eyelashes curl, what birthmarks adorn your upper body or not, and how many earrings you may have, but most importantly, he’s noticing the way you react to him: the way your eyebrows might scrunch, or what elicits more pants and squirmings, the way your lips tug tightly against each other or open into ovals and circles depending on what he does, how he thrusts, where he touches, how he moves.

It all makes him slowly speed up. He can’t take it anymore. He kisses your neck and jaw— some kisses sweet, then others that are rough and he begins to pump and pump. Faster and faster.

“Oh,” you choke out before moaning, “ah.”

He continues, loving every facial expression you make until he finally speaks. “Alright. I gave you a break— now tell me how it feels?”

All you can do is whine incoherently.

“Excuse me?” He says more sternly. You know what he wants.

“Negan,” you whine again.

He stops. “Yes?” He asks all too knowingly. “Gonna use your words and tell me how it feels?”

You sigh, taking the hand placed on your hip and moving up toward the ends of your stomach, all the way up to your left breast. You let his hand rest there, feeling the heat and your quickened heartbeat radiating from the area. “You… you feel so good.” Your eyes are watery, “Amazing.”

You got him there, and he almost can’t help but start hammering it in, but then he remembers… he doesn’t have to help it. He could do whatever he wanted, so he does. He squeezes your breast, grinning wildly as he gives you one hard thrust. “Damn right,” he tells you, hearing your yelp before pounding fast.

You had always been quiet but he never quite saw you at a loss for words as you are now. Your mouth is completely open, your eyes threatening to roll back further, making sounds he’s sure you’ve never heard from yourself before. Have you even had it this fast? This big? This great? He knows it couldn’t be. And he’s the one who gets to show you. His eyes gloss over you with pride at the thought.

He grabs your chin to get you to look at him, “Who’s fucking you this good?”

You moan. You weren’t used to this. Your eyes roll back completely as he pounds into you with eye contact.

It makes him groan loudly, his jerks into you, letting out his own moan from the sight. “Oh fuck, baby. Don’t play with me.”

You give in, force yourself to speak, you can’t let this end. “You, Negan!”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes!” It’s so hard to speak, it comes out so pathetically.

“Who's making you feel like no one else?”

“You, Negan, it’s you!” Your moan turns into a pant, “It’s you, only you.”

He comes closer, his nose touches yours. His movements slow, but they don’t stop. He’s rocking into you now. “Only me?”

You don’t even think, “Who else? It's only you.”

His teeth sparkle, “Only me.”

“Only you, daddy.”

He laughs cockily, “So Daddy’s making you feel this good?”

“Yes, daddy. So good.”

You feel the groan he makes travel right to your clit, making it throb.

He kisses you, the corners of your lips to your cheek and neck and collarbones and back up again.

He restarts his pumping into you but his head remains close to yours. You decide to wrap one of your arms around his neck, pulling his hair, and the other hand travels down his back, holding him close.

Negan breathes you in, his head near the crux of your neck, hearing every little sweet sound you make that he’s never heard before. It all drives him wild, but then his eyes open. A question comes out that surprises you both: “Am I ruining your life right now?” He quietly asks.

“That doesn’t matter,” you say, breathing heavily from his touches, your eyes are still closed.

“I think it does.”

“You make me feel like no one ever has…” The bliss you feel from his current soft strokes and touches making it hard to speak, your voice is so light. “At least I got to experience it.” You open your eyes now, fingers tracing the cross drawn into his arm, “At least I got to see the real you.”

Your eyes say more than your words do. There’s a yearning and a sadness, an answer to what feels right in this moment, but an insight that there are doubts that could creep up later the more that you think about it.

“Just keep going,” you tell him, “I want to see you.”

You want to see him, you do see him. His head connects with yours again, and you moan into each other's mouths as he keeps pumping. Your legs come up to his hips and you’re not afraid to be loud anymore, to tell him how good it feels, how much you like him.

He takes your hands and places them over your head, crossing his fingers with your. It’s so pure, so lovely even when he’s going so hard down below. You hear your breaths heavy and your bodies slapping and the bed shaking.

You think about his skin, and his scratchy beard against yours, and the way you hate how he can make you smile by making the most ridiculous and raunchy jokes, and the way you love his voice, the way you can’t help but to like the way he cares for you.

“Negan,” you say weakly.

“Yes,” he responds intently.

“I’m gonna come,” you tell him. “I think I can.”

“Come for me,” he encourages, moving one of his hands down to rub your clit. “C’mon.”

“I’m gonna come,” you repeat, edging yourself on. Bucking up at his thrusts and his fingers.

“You can do it. Be a good girl. Do it for me.”

You swear the fireplace blazes louder and bigger, lighting up the whole room as you yell out, moaning once more as you orgasm.

Negan finally breaths out after, holding in for so long, and comes after you. His hands place themselves flat on the bed and he pushes in fast, riding out the high.

He scoops you up immediately, holding you in his arms. He doesn’t want to let go.

You two stay there for a moment until you look up. His hand caresses your face, “What is it?”

“I…” you were embarrassed to admit that you weren’t ready for it to all be over yet. “Can I ride you?”

A wiley smile appears on his face. He has to admit, he’s a little shocked you’re ready to go again, but he’d never turn it down. “Well, of course you can, babygirl.”

He flips you over, completely ready, but instantly, you become hesitant, almost overwhelmed. He was the world, not you, yet you were now above him. All the allowance to touch him anywhere you want at your disposal.

He puts his hands under his head, arms flexing. An ever wide smile present as he waits for you to begin. “You asked for it. Don’t get shy on me now.”

Your eyes grow excited again, deciding not to hold back, and you start to rock against him. You place you hands on his chest, feeling him up, touching his biceps, hands going over his tattoos— you could stare at them, at him, for hours. You honestly think you’d lick his whole body if he’d let you. And of course he probably would. To feel big and proud and irresistible while you look like a little desperate freak? You wouldn’t even have to ask him twice. Thinking about it and about how full his cock is making you feel, stretching and reaching all the right places, makes you moan and whine. You bucked your hips wildly, humming and giving him “mmms” because of how yummy it feels. You could do this forever.

“Ah- uh- Negan,” you moan and your stomach caves as you whine again and you hurl forward, continuing to rock but your pace is faltering. It’s becoming too hard and Negan can tell so he takes you by the hips, helping you move. First continuing to let your grind and then pushing you up and down his shaft so you can bounce on him. You push yourself up again, hand on his chest, pushing against it and you bounce along with his help. This was fun. You try to go faster and faster. It felt like being a kid on a playground.

“Open your eyes,” he demands. “Look at who you’re fucking, sweetheart.”

So you do, and moan at the sight of him, “Ohmygod,” you say. “You’re so handsome, Negan.”

He's so proud of you. Enjoying your actions, enjoying your noises. He groans as he sees your breast bounce and it makes you squeeze against him.

“Good girl,” he coos, “finally listening when you’re spoken to, about to make yourself come on daddy’s cock again.”

He starts to rub your clit again and you continue to bounce. It almost hurts because of how overstimulated you’ve become but you don’t tell him to stop. Your hands come to reach the headboard, helping you bounce harder. He tells you again how much of a good girl you are, how he loves that you’re not stopping, then he tells you how dirty and desperate you are for wanting him again after he already made you come. But he’s obsessed. This is all he’s ever wanted since the day he brought you here. His hands trail up from your hips to your waist and breast and back down again. There is nothing more he wants than to fuck you or for you fuck him.

You look down. You both notice your necklace still wrapped around your neck, almost nearing between your breasts, bouncing along with all of you. It reminds you of why you're here, why he gave it to you. It makes you have the realization he had… Was he ruining your life? Were you ruining your own? But how could you be when it all feels this good? It was completely screwed up, but everything felt so magnificently brilliant. His touch is everything, his voice is everything, his body is everything. It makes your hips stutter, it makes you moan, and at last, it makes you come again. You ride your high, going and going and going until you fall into his chest. His hands come to hold you tight thereafter.

Unthinkable bliss is all that is felt for a long moment… then… your head turns to the window. You remember what is out there and what isn’t in here.

A tear falls down your cheek and he realizes what’s happening when it falls onto his shoulder.

It hurts him now. To see you cry. It’s not fun anymore. You feel it, yes. You see what he saw, it’s true. But you aren’t really his wife. You’re nothing that is his at all. You both know that as well.

It takes you a long time to speak, you have to force yourself, but you do. “You have to let me go now.” You say it sternly but there is a sadness to it; a small part of you wants to not mean it even though you completely do, even though you do wish to stay here, to be enveloped by his embrace— you simply cannot forget.

“Mm,” he shakes his head, remaining leveled, “you know too much.”

“I barely know anything,” you say. “And not that anything I do know matters. Knowing the way around the Sanctuary isn’t going to help anyone when I know there is no way we could actually get in…. And what’s more important anyway is that I’m not changing my mind and you’re not either.”

“I’m not.”

“And I can’t. I wouldn’t. And they’re not going to. Never…. And if some of them die…” A whimper almost leaves you but you manage to swallow it, “I have to be by their side, Negan. I can’t only hear about it. I… I can’t see it next to you.”

His lips are pressed firm, his jaw is fixed and tight, almost like he’s grinding down on his teeth. The breath he takes through his nose could be a heavy sigh if he opened his mouth, but he doesn’t. He keeps it all in.

You words and their weight hang in the air for a moment before he finally speaks: “One of my guys that watches the armory doors has a shift that ends at 6:00 am… but at 5:50 I’m going to come up to him and tell him he gets off 10 minutes early that day, that I’ll wait for the next person to come.” He lets his words hang in the air for a moment, your confusion spirals before he keeps going. “It’ll be fucking weird, but he’ll look dumb as shit if he questions me, so he won’t. Then when he’s out of sight, I’ll leave. The next person is coming right at 6. That’s all you get. 10 minutes. A little less really.”

Your eyes round slowly as the stun continues to sink in. He’s… letting you leave.

“You take one gun and one knife. Just one. Don’t make it noticeable. I’m going to check. Then you go out of the back door that’s inside.” He didn’t have to tell you the way. “It should be easy, I know you’ve tried it before.”

You look down, taking in all he says, but then he turns you face to meet his, “If anyone sees you, I’m gonna have to make a show of it when they bring you back. Not what I want. But if I get there before you get out, maybe 5:58, just cause I’m an asshole, just to see you one last time… And if I do, I’m gonna turn you around and you’re stayin’. Fair?”

You nod. It’s small and light. You don’t question any of it, you can’t. “8 minutes.” You respond.

“8 minutes.” His voice is neutral, but underneath there was a tinge of solemnity to it. “8 minutes,” he says under his breath.

“What about now?”

“Now?” He asks. He didn’t think about it. He assumed you would want to go after this, after you got what you wanted. “Well,” he turns to his nightstand, “right now it’s half past 10.” He stares at you for a moment, you can’t tell what he’s thinking. This whole moment has felt so quiet, both eerie and gentle. You still weren’t used to the latter from him, even after what just happened. “You can go if you want. Sleep in your bed for one more night, or…” he stops, “You can stay with me, if you’d like.” His sigh is short and whispered but you both hear it, you feel its weight. “It’s your choice.”

You stare at each other for a moment. Your eyes trail all of his face and the arm that is still holding your own, adorned with all the tattoos and skin you had just fallen for. You wanted to study them and hold onto him forever. And his eyes: they said so much— there were so many little inflections, ones that you had finally read, and so many others you’ve yet to decipher. You desired to know him, but you had to go, so all you decided to do was to hold him. For now, you chose to stay, and hoped that your embrace would transfer the fact that the only reason it would be hard to leave is because of him and only him. You would remember this forever. “8 hours till 8.”

“8 hours till 8, kid.”

You close your eyes tight and nuzzle into his chest, A peace you had never known in the Sanctuary finally subsumed you. You feel free to finally tell him, “Thank you. I really do miss home.”

Home. There it is again. There was no malice in the way you said it, but there was still a pang from your melancholy words that made his heart throb. You missed home. And as peaceful as you looked, and as safely as you held onto him, your words reaffirmed that home was not here and it was not with him— no matter how you looked, and no matter the fact that you were allowing him to hold you for the night, to call you his. In the end, you were not.

He had to finally accept it.

“8 hours till 8,” are your last words until you finally drift to sleep. This would be your last and most tranquil night here. To you, it felt right, almost harmonious, albeit sad. This is how it was and how it was meant to be. You needed it.

But to him, it’s shattering. He doesn’t repeat the phrase back this time because, for once, he has nothing to say. The fire glow of the night has now withered into darkness.

You won.

He lost.

But both your hearts broke.

[uncouth-the-fifth]

good morning, charlie - Leon Kennedy/Reader

read it on Ao3.

Pairing: Agent!Leon/Detective!Wife!Reader Tags: domestic fluff with the tiniest dustings of background angst, married life, hugging, kissing, and snuggling. Words: 3k (yes, I'm capable of keeping something this short) Notes: read this in a WWE announcer voice: THAT'S RIGHT! UNCOUTH HAS COME CRASHING BACK INTO THE RING AFTER YET ANOTHER MONTHS-LONG HIATUS. i'm magical, truly. here is the first Leon fic I promised last month! There's so much I want to say about this little drabble, but I'll save that for my curious ppl on Ao3. this is going to be a big 180 from my spn content, and I sincerely hope that's okay with the public 😭 for my RE people: enjoy domestic Leon bullshit!

At two in the morning, Washington D.C. is pouring everything it has into crafting the coziest atmosphere of all time. A pleasant window-tapping storm had rolled in right around when you resolved to stay up working. Some late-night radio host is making soft, fizzing chatter in the next room, and coupled with a stellar view of the city from fancy floor-to-ceiling windows, you have a prime opportunity to pass the fuck out.

Unfortunately, you have made some spectacular life choices that don’t mix well with a full night’s rest. Nope, no sleep for you. Despite all of fate’s attempts to stop you from being a cop, (including throwing a city-wide outbreak at you on your first day), you are still here, gripping your job with both hands. At two in the damn morning.

Since scrubbing your eyes hadn’t woken you up the first five times you tried it, you give it another shot as you pace the length of your living room rug—from the coffee table you’ve stacked with files, then back to the whiteboard pasted top-to-bottom with pictures of missing young women. The whiteboard had been Leon’s idea. After the fourth time you’d transformed a flattened cardboard box into a morbid case-board for work, he’d cajoled you into letting him buy one for the apartment.

But I won’t be able to stab the tacks into it, you’d pouted.

Oh, the agony, your husband had drawled. He was a master of delivering a good, dry look.

You’d propped your fists on your hips and tried your best to look serious. The red yarn connecting everything isn’t just a detective-movie thing, y’know! It’s actually really useful. And I need my tacks to stick the yarn in—

Leon had cut cleanly through your building sass with another look, this time one glimmering with humor. Then I’ll get you magnetic ones, detective. Don’t you use whiteboards at the precinct anyway?

You’d grumbled. Because, yes, you did use whiteboards at the station, and they did have the little tacks with the magnets on the bottom. But you’d refused to deal with Leon being all smug (he was unbearable pretty when he was right), and had teased back instead, Whatever, nerd. Why don’t you and the other two angels go call Charlie already?

The reference had gone clean over Leon’s head. Of course, he hated being left out of a joke, so he’d roped you over by your wrist and pinched an explanation out of you until you were squealing with giggles.

Summarizing Charlie’s Angels to Leon had been a lot like offering a paper rocketship to an aerospace engineer. But, hey, picturing him running around in skimpy outfits and escaping action movie explosions on a motorcycle is a whole lot more fun than… than the real deal.

You don’t want to think about what his missions are really like. Not that you’re even allowed to know in the first place. Being Leon’s wife permits you a government-issued phone with his handler’s number, and on antsy days you can push Ingrid for details if you want. But after so long you’ve learned it only hurts both of you—for her, in the inability to answer, and for you, in the excruciating pain of being unable to know. Where is he? That’s classified.

She can’t always tell you when he’s coming home, either. So much of your life is hinged on her check-ins, and even more is forced to live off a simple, He’s okay.

For the seventh time, you scrub at your tired eyes and suck in a deep breath. You’d gotten that fabled text from Hunnigan—he’s okay—earlier today, and like always you crawled through the rest of your shift roiling with anticipation, waiting for Leon to materialize back into your life.

You force your gaze back to the whiteboard, littered with notes and pictures hung up with magnetic tacks. The faces of five missing women bore back. The ten-ton weight of your caseload slams down in full, and again, you scold yourself for floating back into comforting memories of your husband. These girls have lost all comfort in the world since they were taken. Your Captain gave you the responsibility of finding them, and after all you’ve been through, after all the other cases you’ve closed, there can’t be any room for failure. Think.

Your legs ache from being on your feet all day, chasing leads, but dropping into Leon’s armchair for even an instant will just have you nodding off again. More pacing it is, then. This is your pattern for the next half-hour: pace, re-read witness statements, turn, sip your coffee, pace, cross-reference alibis. He’s okay. Two of the girls were taken from Queen’s Chapel, two from Takoma, one from Woodridge. He’s fine. The last victim breaks the profile. What’s different about her? Why take her? Think think think— You know what Leon would do. He was the kind of person you could put in front of a problem, and no matter what he would find a way to shoulder his way through. With physical force, sure, but mental force too. He would sit and just look at the puzzle, and sheer willpower would lead him to some kind of answer. But you’d been pushing and pushing for days now, pursuing every lead, pressing every witness, yet nothing will give. The whole thing feels like a punching bag you’re beating at over and over again, knuckles raw and bloody—

Keys rattle just outside the front door.

First the big deadbolt scrapes open, unlatching with a heavy thud, and that sound alone is enough to shock you awake. More than any coffee could. Then comes the doorknob. Leon hasn’t even turned his key before you’ve twisted the lock open, yanked the door out of your way, and sent it whipping into the jamb with his keyring still swinging from its slot. You give him one full blink to register that it’s you before you’re throwing yourself on him without a single lick of shame, legs and all.

Of course, Leon bears your weight with grace. He grunts out an oof! when you come in for landing, and the living, breathing sound drains into one gruff laugh. You’re scooped up under the thighs and teddy bear squeezed against him. He reeks of cheap motel soap and something faintly coppery—then mint, a whole world of plush, wet spearmint when he nudges your face up with his nose and lays a hello kiss on you. The taste of his gum and the scratch of his stubble on your chin make your skin feel like it’s fizzing, inside-burning-out, every inch of you stood on end by his static charge. Jesus, this guy. He feels like fucking magic, and you’re confident that the laws of physics don’t quite apply around him. Everything in the room, in the too-big apartment that’s painfully empty without him in it, tilts toward Leon.

You shove your face nose-first into his neck and clutch the back of his jacket in both fists. Swallowing hard, you manage, “Hey, angel.”

“Good morning, Charlie,” Leon says.

If you had any resolve for today left in you at all, the wash of his sizzling butter voice would squash the last of it. You’d been trying to be sweet, but your husband has to be funny about fucking everything, of course. Even after weeks spent apart. You love him so fucking much.

“Don’t tell me you found time to watch that stupid movie.” Your voice is muffled by his coat, and you’re grateful for an excuse to hide.

You’re moving. Leon carries you inside, his wedding band pressing into your leg and his other big, warm hand spooned around your back. “Boring plane ride. I wanted to get your jokes.”

Your front door is toed shut, and with all the efficient maneuvering of a proper agent, Leon gets the place locked up behind you. Somewhere in all the commotion he’d dropped his go-bag by the welcome mat, and you hear the dramatic thunk, thunk, of his fancy work loafers being kicked off beside it. Only then does he slip you onto your own feet again.

Your hands slide down his arms as you make contact with the floor. Somewhere in the back of your mind you’re aware that he’s damp from the rain, but that fact hangs in the little alternate universe he’s made in your front hall. Standing there and being able to look at him straight-on, Leon doesn’t feel real. It’s like your constant thoughts of him have manifested a ghost in his shape, mimicking the smiley rookie you remember.

He greets you with a quiet, beaten-down smile, and you understand immediately that the world has thrown its fair share of punches at him, too. You’ve both had a shit week. The Kennedy surname just brims with good luck, huh?

Your hands work on autopilot as you take him in, slipping under the fabric of his jacket and lingering over his thudding heart. His warm blue gaze swims over your face, and you can almost hear the clicking mechanisms in his head as he forces himself out of operative mode and into home mode by looking at you.

“It’s a really bad movie,” you say, choked up.

Leon’s jacket hits the floor with his shoes. There’s a swath of ugly, purpling bruises crawling up his bare arm, old enough to be greening at the edges, and your stomach churns when you see it.

He taps your chin up, pulling you away from the damage and back on him. His voice rolls over you like bourbon in a glass. “Absolutely. So-bad-it’s-good, even. We should watch it, make fun of it together. Like, why the hell does…”

Leon flawlessly falls into an analysis of the movie’s poorly-written espionage elements. The movie you made one offhand joke about several weeks ago, mind you. He’s pulling at straws, saying whatever the hell comes to mind to make you laugh, so exhausted he’s literally swaying on his feet. You can’t believe he’s trying to distract you with something so trivial, but this is your husband. One flash of that weary closed-mouth smile, one brush of those callused hands down your wrists, and your whole world resumes its orbit around him.

You laugh at the jokes he’s obviously crafted for your benefit, a weak chuckle your heart isn’t in. With his hands looped around your wrists, he guides your arms around his neck and welcomes you back into the toasty bubble of his touch. Leon’s even warmer from being tucked underneath his coat. Pure goodness and safety glows off him like a fucking nuclear reactor, and it dawns on you that you haven’t felt safe at all since he left. Anyone can be plucked off the streets here.

One more scratchy kiss and then he’s leading you deeper into your apartment. No one on Earth would believe that he’s a chatty guy, but he talks the whole way through. Too often he’s left to sit in his own mind on missions, and you’re treated to two week’s worth of his backlog in the next ten minutes. All the little things he wanted to say to you. The streams of smart-mouth commentary he was famous for at the academy are all inner monologue now, but you’re confident the Leon radio show still runs twenty four hours a day. He chatters so much in his head that it slips out of him like water sometimes—

“…that close to an explosion would disintegrate you, but fuck physics I guess—“ Leon interrupts his own flow of thought to squint at you. “Quit looking at me like that. It’s unfair how pretty you are when you’re tired. What was I—not like the laws of physics apply to that movie anyway, but…”

—and you’re stupidly charmed by it. He talks to comfort himself, and because the two of you are one unit, one person to him, he does the same for you.

With your hand tethered in his, he clicks off the radio in the kitchen. One of Leon’s side-stories replaces the random late-night station that’d been playing, floating over the din of the rain like bass over relaxing drums. He pours out the dregs of your coffee. He closes the files full of gruesome crime scene photos on your coffee table, and you watch, barely able to keep your head up, as he flips your whiteboard over to its blank side. You’ll get his second opinion on the case tomorrow.

Leon sweeps the place with you in tow, and once the security system’s armed and you’re almost sagging against him, the lights come off. Though you’ve had plenty of time to adjust to the Leon that returned home from training, you’ll never get used to the little alien ticks it’s given him. He navigates to your bedroom in complete blackness. He avoids the creaky floorboard just outside your door without seeing, deathly silent. The broad presence of him looms in the dark.

One wall of the bedroom is nothing but paneled glass, throwing a long square of dark blue moonlight over your rumpled comforter. While the view of the Potomac and Capital Hill is stellar from up here, you’ve always felt out of place among the things Leon’s generous salary has earned the two of you: a flat with a private elevator in the nice part of town, fresh-off-the-press sports cars, a getaway cabin up north. So much of it you end up enjoying by yourself. It only ever feels worth it when he’s here, smacking his elbow into the digital wall-panel that controls your A/C.

“—s’ supposed to be a touch screen,” he sidebars himself for the tenth time. Softer, Leon adds, “Brush your teeth. I’ll be right there.”

You rope your arms around his middle and press your face into the heart of his back, careful of the bruises he’s doing his best to hide. “Wanna wait for you.”

Leon doesn’t protest. There’s more little beeps as he screws with the temperature of your mattress or something, deciding, “We live in a damn spaceship. Are we too good for plain old-fashioned buttons now?”

Apparently you are, since old man Leon fails to figure out how to crank the heat up. You let him play with it for a little while longer (it’s not his fault he’s rarely home), and then intervene with a few quick taps when things get dire. The heater hums to life under the floor a beat later, and he turns in your grip to scoff, mystified by your vast and incredible knowledge.

“My smart girl,” he hums.

Just that is enough to chip off a piece of your strength. Had he said that to you over the phone, a million miles away in god-knows-where, your knees would buckle. He is the only one who talks to you like that—with so much simple, uncomplicated love. Too tired to put your thoughts into words, you flatten a hand over his heart and kiss the sun-freckled nape of his neck.

“Clingy,” Leon mutters. You’re pretty sure it’s supposed to sound dry and funny, another one of his jokes. But then he’s smoothing both of his palms down your arms in two long handsy swaths, and the gesture tells you everything about just how clingy he’s feeling, too.

His stories make getting ready for bed an even slower affair. You couldn’t mind if you wanted to. As you help him out of his starchy dress-shirt button by button, he surprises you with a rare explanation of where he’s been for the last weeks. The UK. Truly, your husband is the special secret agent to end all special secret agents: he talks around his job as if it was a bump he’d hit on the way home, entertaining you instead with his Leon-ified vision of London. Touristy as shit. Loud as shit. Smelled like shit.

“Just like DC,” he chuckles, and then a second time when your fluffy head pops through the collar of the sleep shirt he’s dressing you in.

It’s too much rough, cinnamon spice laughter for one woman to stand. You duck away to brush your teeth and groan into your palms like a schoolgirl over him, but sure enough, Leon trails you, fingers chasing the hem of your shirt (his shirt) in a sleepy daze. He always keeps you in view. Nervous, maybe, to have you out of his sight.

This tradition continues when the two of you crawl into bed. Your eyes have adjusted to the darkness, and so has your body, able to sense him on the stupidly expensive mattress beside you. He thinks you can’t tell, but his gaze roves over you again and again—down your back when you flop face-first into the plush bedding, over the slope of your shoulder when you wiggle under the covers. Leon draws you into the glorious halo of his body heat with a gentle hand on your belly. If you could bottle this feeling, the whole world would be sick and stupid for him in hours. Minutes even.

You feel so safe that the word doesn’t even come to mind. Just vague, peaceful shapes of things you know, home, sleep, cologne, cozy. His work-rough palm with his body-warm wedding band slips under your tee to sweep over your ribs. Then comes Leon’s face, just on the right side of stubbly as he shoves it between your shoulder blades without a single lick of shame. The breath he takes of you is so heavy that his whole frame shudders with it, top to bottom.

You remember how you’d burrowed into his jacket the second he got home and think, You are me and I am you. We’re always on the same page.

With that, the stage is set. DC’s faraway glittering cityscape lights up all the raindrops on your window, and you watch them run as the two of you melt into one another. Leon’s warm breaths slow across your neck. Time for you to deliver your line.

You wet your lips and murmur into your pillow, “Do you want to talk about your mission?”

Legally, he can’t say yes. Government secrets, bureaucracy, yadda yadda. Leon isn’t always emotionally ready to crack open a coffin he’s just finished sealing, either, but while it is his job to close your case files for the night, you’re his wife. You’re the only person who can knock on that door. With how little choice he has left in his life, you try to give him options whenever you can. Regardless, you know the man you married—strong-willed on a mythical fucking level, and just as self-sacrificing. He’ll always try to spare you.

Sure enough, Leon says, “Tomorrow. Do you want to talk about your case?”

You shake your head at him, exhausted to the point of dizziness. “Tomorrow.”

A tender kiss is pressed to the nape of your neck, and the whole world goes silent for the perfect, husky whisper you’ve ached to hear. You feel his wry smile against your skin. “We’re always on the same page, baby.”

[justin-chapmanswers]

AAAA THE SILVER SPOON EXIT IS FANTASTIC!!! You guys always do such a good job with the Exit Interviews. They're super fun videos that also add juuust that little extra amount of characterization that makes them even better to watch.

What inspires you guys to add the little mini-stories in each interview? Do you usually have an idea of what direction you want it to go beforehand, or do specific questions give you inspiration?

Thank you so much!!! Had so much fun working on that one. And looooove the question. Partly cause I'm like "idk if anyone cares that I do this, but it's fun, anyway!"

When writing any Exit Interview (I've been sole-writing or co-writing all from Box's-and-on, but might not for Balloon's?), I always want to be writing with some sort of angle. Sometimes it's a story for the contestant (TK, Cabby #1, Paintbrush, Silver) , sometimes for the interviewer (Box, Clover), sometimes both (Goo). Sometimes it allows us to hit on an angle on a character that we haven't already, sometimes it gives us some time to show off how far a character has come. Sometimes something that affects the whole interview, sometimes something that'll pop up towards the end that we can hint at earlier. But we tend to try for at least a little-something! We like presenting new narratives wherever we can. The tale is never quite done with these pals!

As for how we plan it out, I'll often go into an interview knowing exactly what angle I want to come in with, and how much that angle'll need to weigh on the characters. I knew I wanted to tell a narrative about Paintbrush wrapping up their three-season-journey and expecting a hyper-dramatic interview to express every facet of their emotional experience... only to receive a bunch of nonsense questions that leaves their final wrap-up feeling empty. So I noted to the audience that we'd love silly questions. I knew that for Silver's Exit we were going to explore the anxieties around criticism, so I made sure to write in the question prompt that Silver would love to hear some compliments- so that we could then receive a bunch of complimentary questions for him to appreciate (but not enough to make a deep impact), and inevitably we received some negative too- which I could then use to show how hard one mean comment can hit for the guy.

For Cabby we wanted to prep for her eventual return by sewing in her current troubled state of mind without tying things up to cleanly in a bow. Clover we wanted to flip it around and have her help an interviewer down on his luck. With Bot we needed to let them reflect on what they've been through but also think on some of the elements of their existence that are still feeling complicated. In Yin-Yang's we knew we wanted to make sure we were following through on their tricky feelings regarding their experience Candle, while also demonstrating their growth as a fun lil duo. Etc.

Occasionally I'll need some inspiration, so I'll ask for the questions first and see if that sparks any particular ideas. When we received a bunch of motherly-oriented characters for Tea Kettle I was left to ponder "how would she feel about this?" With Goo's Exit a couple Cheer Factory questions popped up and I started to think about the fun juxtaposition of matching Goo with someone serious who expects Goo to be a legitimate entrepreneur. Since then we've enjoyed leaning into pairing contestants with very different-vibe interviewers when possible.

And the mindset of writing with an angle all stems to working on Inanimate Answers. Not sure how many people have seen that, since the newest ep predates Invitational, but there we had a very very similar format. It's sorta like the unintentional test-run of Exit Interviews, with some personal conflicts for the contestant, and some for Justin. I'd loooove to make more of those, but they were being made at a point in time where I didn't have a non-II full-time job, and II wasn't focused much on episode production. So finding the time has been tough. We did make a mini version for the Inanimate Direct which was fun (although funnily some of my favorite on-camera work I've done for the channel was in that same video but the Patreon-information segment- which no one will ever watch again cause the Patreon no longer exists haha). And I have an old Yin-Yang Inanimate Answers 5 script that would need to be pretty heavily reworked now that season 3 exists for YY, if I were to try at them again. Maybe there's room for IA in the future. Lots to figure out with the channel! But I'm glad we've had Exits to take on the legacy of some bonus viewer-interaction-based-storytelling.

[is-the-snake-video-cute]

Hi i recently adopted a 6 year old childrens python and shes going into her first shed with me and my first shed as a snake owner and im wondering if theres anything i can do to help her, what i should expect during the shed that i may not have already learnt about, how long it will likely last etc :) thank you and welcome back!

Congratulations, that's so exciting! First sheds are big milestones, and a shed that goes well is a great indicator that your husbandry is spot-on.

The biggest thing to be sure of: make sure you bump up your humidity! About a 15% increase is a good go-to; I find my Children's python sheds the most cleanly at around 70% humidity. It's always a good idea to provide a humid hide for your snake, too. They're very easy to make - find a plastic container big enough for your snake to fit inside, cut a door in the lid, fill it with damp moss, and you're done! Humid hides provide your snake with an area that's close to 100% humidity so they can easily get a needed boost during a shed cycle.

Even if she'll eat, I find it's always best to avoid offering food during a shed. Many snakes will refuse food when they're in a shed cycle anyway, but eating uses up essential moisture that they need for shedding. Some snakes are better at multi-tasking than others, but I prefer not to risk it!

As for what to expect: you'll notice distinct phases during the shed, and this is completely normal. The most noticeable phase is when your snake's scales will visibly dull and her eyes will look blue and cloudy - this is the part where she's forming a layer of fluid between her old set of scales and the new. Shortly after, she'll clear up and look very close to her old self (albeit a bit more wrinkly than normal), and that just means she's getting ready to shed. Some people panic when their snake looks back to normal but they can't find a shed, but it's perfectly normal for this stage to last a few days. Every snake is different in how long they take to shed, but expect the whole cycle to last around 2 weeks or so.

I hope it all goes well!

[soshadysoquiet]

An attempt to salvage S4, for your delectation. S4E4

EPISODE 4

Flashback to Klaus: Chasing down his siblings right back at the beginning and nearly hit by a car he only dodges last moment, laughs it off but then we see a little collection of him unable to get back close to his siblings but Does find old haunt of Mothers of Agony. We see him oscillate between drugs and siblings in turn, some rehab and relapses and increasing near death experiences. Ben at height of his squid-covered brand in crypto currency pays for a fancy rehab for Klaus at siblings' pleas, though won't pay off his debt. Klaus exits it to try living with Luther but it's filthy compared to the safety and cleanliness of the rehab he'd finally felt secure in. Allison is the face of a cleaning company though - he goes to her. We see him both gain more of his control back, and become more controlling of his surroundings and person with precautions. He coops up and covers up and controls and it becomes gloves and layers and face masks where it used to be drugs.

Present time: Klaus has same chained-up then forced ghost prostitution run in that we see in the show, has his money taken from him. The ghosts in the room are judging him, he accuses them of their voyerism and that they could pay too for watching the show, tries to banish them but can’t. Frustrated and has an emotional outburst.

*Klaus' scene above is cut into with Ben and Jennifer arriving at the umbrella academy ruins, Falling into bed much more willingly than Klaus and his seance woman. Waking up close and calm and sharing some affectionate words.

Allison and Luther arrive to find Claire shaken up at home and chat to her, she thinks she knows where Klaus is. They go off and Claire chats to Luther about how Space Boy was her fave, but he's not an astronaut now is he, what changed? Luther starts to say he's a stripper but tones it down at a cough from Allison. Luther tries to say some stuff about his life but it's a bit sad to hear. Claire is shooting her mother awkward looks, Allison asks 'but are you happy?' Luther thinks about it, there's bits he likes, he likes being good at the job, now, he takes pride from his work, but it wasn't the life he had thought he was going to have. Allison asks if he's really sure she's not here, Luther can't bring himself to respond.

Klaus hasn't taken the drugs yet, he's looking at them, debating them, scratching over his skin when he brushes the dog tags he lifted from Abigail's box. He remembers Dave. Murmurs how it shouldn't work, the timelines are different and anyway he hated me in the 60's, it's a bad idea. One of the ghosts croaks out 'worse than this' and Klaus succeeds in banishing them. He focuses, trying to move past the sound of war and screaming and in his head his little pre-recorded mantra plays for himself of how he's strong etc. He opens his mouth and calls for Dave. Before Klaus he appears, we see their eyes widening in joy

Five Diego and Lila arrive at Reggie's mansion finding Reggie, Abigail and Viktor outside cursing at the van being gone, Reggie is berating Viktor, Abigail begins snapping at Reggie and the three arrivals are confused. Lila says that's so and so from the Keepers meetings, Diego says I've found her picture taped up in the houses of people who get the inside-out umbrella packages, and Five is about ready to fight demanding who she is

Reggie steps in front of her and says 'that's my wife' which shuts them all up.

Klaus and Dave have a reunion, it's heartfelt. the mothers of agony dude busts into the room, says what the hell is this on seeing Dave and Klaus says, 'help me out for a second babe' and has Dave beat the guy into a bloody pulp. A few ghosts from the corridor cheer and Dave says 'wow, we've got some catching up to do' or something, Klaus is over the moon, takes the money he earned but leaves the drugs. They walk out together, Dave corporeal.

Allison and Luther pull up outside and start to talk strategy which largely consists of Allison 'They've pissed me off who needs strategy' and Luther trying to calm her down and both trying to stop Claire from following them. 

Klaus comes out and they and Dave have an awkward intro but sort-of reunion. Klaus says I guess I was my own saviour this time, Allison says I guess you were, I'm proud of you. Klaus brushes it off goofily but Luther agrees so proud and yanks all of them and Claire into a group hug, apologises as Klaus wriggles out saying he'll get there, but baby steps. Looks to Dave and Dave smiles as he vanishes from being corporeal, the others looking to see where he's gone, but Klaus and him are still smiling at each other.

You have a wife? (they've moved inside) Reggie explains that their world was destroyed and he preserved her on the moon, tries to move it back to their childish selfish problems letting things go to pot again, Viktor accuses him of 'oh but it's alright if it's your selfish desires?' And Diego chimes in with 'yeah you know if you think about it, all the apocalypses were kinda your fault Dad.' Viktor and Diego go at him for a while and Five has found something to drink, Lila and Abigail are watching the various issues until Five Snaps that they need to talk about Ben, where are the others?

Allison, Luther and Klaus turn up to the rest of them squabbling, Diego is saying 'it's just that, I don't know!' Viktor is arguing 'How can you not know?!' they come in saying 'what's going on?' and Five asks them to tell him how Ben died, the three of them repeat 'tragic accident, failed as a team, no one and everyone's fault, Ben was the best of us' and give each other a heebie-jeebies look when they can't remember anything else.

'Can't, or won't' says Reggie, unhelpfully. They all discuss needing to get to the bottom of this, that Ben's death has turned up in Keepers files related to The Cleanse, but the details are redacted and there are too many different dates that it happens. They're based on either memory bleed through or articles and artefacts passed through the timeline.

They debate how they're going to remember, if they even can. Lila pipes up with that she knows a thing or two about altered memories around Trauma (Handler being the one turning up just as her parents are shot etc) the commission's Infinite Switchboard was able to show her. Reggie debates that there might be a way to harness their powers to bring back the memories, after Abigail baits him into it and he's scowled a lot.

They set up in a quiet room, Reggie hooks them up to each other and monitors, explains that their powers should 'rhyme' at the right frequencies. They go through a lot of repetitions of trying to 'engage' their powers at the same level. Lila and Five are trying to direct them when it's not working, Reggie says they need to be in the loop too, it's all the marigolds harmonising that will put them in a meditative state, and he can guide from there. Five and Lila don't want to have their brains meddled with, but Abigail is giving Viktor a look, takes the time to talk to all of them about something that she's heard about them from Reggie that encourages them somewhat, and specifically to Viktor that it will take all of them to save the world. Five and Lila begrudgingly give in when Viktor reasons with them.

Five and Lila find it easiest to sync up powers (the machine gives a green light for each of them at the right sync), Five maintains whilst Lila keeps her frequency but morphs to Diego's power, he can feel the trajectories she's mimicking and copies that, Viktor tunes in to the pitch of Five's powers on his own and Allison changes her voice sill she's hitting the green with a hum. Klaus is feeling the energy in the room and links up, able to get a sense of the others' souls and syncs in and Luther is getting assisted along by Lila - matching the pressure from holding her hand till they all go green and the chime through the room sends them all slack and drifting. Reggie's voice guides them back through time. 

[lavenderbexlatte]

day 3: mirror sex

stray kids 1.5k words gender neutral reader insert Reader x Bang Chan NSFW

🖤 warnings: undernegotiated kink, implied consent, themes of negative body image🖤

🎂 happy bang chan day~

kinktober masterlist

connect with me! / masterlist

Truly, these are the dangers of not pre-booking a place to stay.

Last-minute travel isn't usually your thing, but an unexpectedly long weekend means that there's finally time in your favorite guy's backbreaking schedule for a little getaway.

But last-minute travel, with no hotel booked, means love motels.

They're not as creepy as they sound, not usually dirty or weird. Inexpensive, yes, and usually a little older than the resorts and boutiques that most people prefer. They get a bad rap just because of the connotations, but like, people have sex in all kinds of hotels.

You think it's kind of cool, honestly. Homey, in a weird way.

The person at the front desk is a nice older lady, and she doesn't even blink as she asks if the two of you have any plans this weekend.

"Plans outside the room, I mean."

She winks. She's not subtle, but it's sweet.

And now, in the elevator, Chan is looking around in unmasked horror. Taking in the garish burgundy interior, the thinly-veiled adverts for sex workers taped to the walls.

"It's not that bad," you say.

"It'll be fine for two nights," Chan replies, sounding as if he doesn't believe that at all. "Anyway, we're only sleeping here. We'll have stuff to do."

"Oh, come on. We might as well put the place to its intended use."

Chan scoffs, as if the idea of using the sex motel for sex is ridiculous.

"As long as the room's clean, that's all I care about," you continue. "It's a hotel. Whatever."

"Whatever," Chan agrees tentatively.

He's still lying to himself, but he does relax a little.

When you get to your floor, things are extremely normal. Nondescript hotel decor, the faint smell of carpet cleaning solution and lemon furniture polish. Cleaner than other places you've stayed for far more money, honestly.

The room itself is at the end of the hall, which you like, for the privacy, even though there are only five or six rooms on the floor.

You let yourself into the room, and it's as clean and fresh as the rest of the hall. Again, about as good as it gets in terms of a cheap hotel.

"See?" you say.

Chan looks at you, clearly unimpressed.

"What? It's clean. I'll check for bedbugs, but other than that..."

He points upward.

There is a giant mirror stuck to the ceiling above the bed, but nowhere is perfect.

"Even that's clean," you joke.

The surface of the glass is spotless, no fingerprints and not even any dust that you can see from down here. Chan still looks unhappy. Cleanliness is obviously not his concern.

"Don't be a downer," you say.

"Why do people like that?" he grumbles.

You've set your bag down on the armchair in the corner of the room, rifling through it for your toiletries to set out in the bathroom, but you humor him without looking. "Like what?"

"The mirrors."

"In the room?" you glance at him. "Isn't that, like, the sex motel cliche? The heart shaped bed, the red lights, the mirrors?"

This room only has one of the above. Pretty tame.

"It just means you have to - I mean, you can already see your partner, why would you need-"

"You're really thinking about this," you interrupt.

He is. He really is, standing beside the bed and staring up at his own reflection pensively.

"It's so you can see yourself," you add, walking past with your armload of cosmetics.

From in the bathroom, you hear his answer, still pouty.

"Why would I wanna do that?"

Oh, here we go.

"Some people get off on it," you say.

He scoffs a laugh, humorless. You're being generous by not calling him out, here, because he's being self-deprecating. You hate that.

"I'm gonna terrify myself in the middle of the night," he says.

That might be true. He's a little bit of a scaredy-cat. But that's beside the point.

"That's not your actual problem, though," you reply, as you come back into the room proper.

He shrugs.

"Haven't you ever been curious?" you ask.

"About what I look like?" he shoots back, glancing back up at the mirror. "Done. Wow."

"I mean during."

Immediately, like flipping a switch, his ears flame pink. "Not really."

"No? Never?"

He looks at you pointedly. He knows what you're doing. You're not subtle, so that's fine.

"We should find out," you say, grinning.

It's a challenge, now.

Your gorgeous, gorgeous boy hates how he looks. That's common knowledge for anyone who's tried to get him to take a photo together, or shop for clothes, or compliment him on a new haircut. Most of your mutual friends just ignore it. But sometimes you just can't stand it.

He would never be the type to want to see himself in the mirror in the throes of passion, uninhibited. Which is exactly why he needs to give it a try.

"How easy do you think I am?" he accuses, correctly.

"I dunno." Instead of bothering him more, you flop down onto the bed yourself, feet still on the floor, staring up at your reflection. "You tell me."

The bait is laid, and like always, his insatiable ass can't help it. You two haven't had proper alone time in what feels like forever. He nudges between your knees, standing over you as you lay there on your back. You already like the look of the scene in the mirror, the way that his reflected form looms, the way it makes you look small.

"You know," Chan says, "We could put this place to its intended use."

You grin at your own words recycled. Great minds and all that.

"What an idea."

"Just an idea," he assures you.

He drops onto his knees, nudging you up the mattress to make room for himself.

You almost lose track of your own plan, once he kisses you. Hands roam, clothes are lost, the ease and comfort of something you've done so many times. For a while, it's just an encounter like all the others. His hands that know you, his warmth and presence and attention.

And then you remember, suddenly, once you're nude and he is too, and he's asking you how you want it.

"You on your back," you say, trying not to smile at your own ingeniousness and reveal the plan.

"You got it, baby."

He flips over, and he's settled fully into the pillows with you halfway onto his lap before he looks up. He looks up at the ceiling, and he realizes.

"Wait-"

"Gotcha," you smirk, settling fully on top of him.

He could very easily just knock you over and change things up, or he could ask you to stop, and of course, you would. But he doesn't. He just flushes, red again down his ears, his neck, and he covers his face with his hands.

"That's not gonna work," you say, peeling his fingers away from his eyes.

"I can't believe you tricked me," he says pitifully.

"I did no such thing," you reply. "But now that we're here, why don't we play a game?"

"Something tells me I won't like this game."

"Here's the rules," you say.

You pause long enough to rise onto your knees, to seek out his length - desperately hard, revealing that you haven't freaked him out too badly - and line him up.

"I'm gonna make us feel good. And you...have to look."

Chan pouts, putting his full lips to good use. "I'd rather look at you. Don't you want me to look at you?"

He punctuates it by running his hands up your back, hips to shoulder blades, soothing attention from gentle fingertips.

"I think you should look at yourself," you tell him.

"But-"

"Actually, no. I think you have to look at yourself," you decide.

He peeks upward. His flush deepens.

You're not sure why he doesn't like what he sees. From where you are, it's stunning. His slim body lines, the sharp cut of his face and his dark eyes against the bleached-white hotel sheets. Distractibly, biteably pink and embarrassed.

"If you don't look at yourself," you add, dropping your hips just enough so that he can feel you, "I'll stop."

He looks overdramatically betrayed, like a dog when you take their toy away to throw it. It's cute enough that you reach down to squeeze his face in your hand.

"That's the game," you say.

"Fine."

His voice is an embarrassed squeak, but that's consent, baby. You trust him enough to know that although he hates losing, he's not going to yes you to death if things are actually feeling uncool.

Permission granted, and his eyes dutifully trained on the ceiling, you ease yourself down onto his waiting length.

Curiously, once you're seated and he's swearing through his teeth, you tilt your head up to look at yourself, too. The angle isn't as good to see you, but you've got the gist of it. Your spread thighs, your arched back, the little bit of motion as you grind on top of him.

Nice.

"Don't we look good?" you ask, sweet as can be.

He nods against the pillow. "You look-"

"Not me," you tut. "You're not supposed to be looking at me."

Chan swears. You wait.

"I...I look..."

After a second, he swallows, and squeezes his eyes shut.

Pity.

You pull back up onto your knees. His wet cock slips free.

"I told you the rules. Keep looking at you."

[pixeldolly]

The Survivors, part 2

☢️Leo Zimmermann (by @frauhupfner )

Leo is a huge nerd and a geek who knows everything about zombies - fictional ones, anyway. He's read every comic, watched just about every movie, and played every Resident Evil game, so he considers himself quite the expert on the subject.

He'll happily talk about it for hours with anybody who listens, but he's quite terrified of running into an actual zombie.

☢️Fred Whitmore (Sim & bio by @moocha-muses )

Fred had a family, once. Well, his real family was too busy yachting and schmoozing at the country club to pay him much attention, but he also had a REAL family: his team. When the world went crazy, the highschool quarterback and football captain didn't hesitate to round up his team to face the zombies head on. But tragedy struck while the team was in the midst of a raid (at the Academy Sports for new cleats, running shorts, etc.). The zombies descended upon them, and while every Hail Mary Fred threw cleanly tore a zombie's head right off; the Academy Sports only had so many brand new footballs. Fred and his buddy, Jace, were the only survivors, but Jace left soon after to join some kind of cult upstate. Which is whatever. Fred was barely even invested in their increasingly homoerotic subplot. There's a sadness in his eyes now, but Fred still carries hope that one day a new generation will have all the opportunities he's lost. Like the chance to pledge Phi Betta Kappa and throw a truly raging kegger.

4/8/9/6/5, Popularity, Gay (but closeted about it).

Strengths: Great upper body, all the charisma of a formal high school football captain

Weaknesses: Will join literally any team no matter how many visible knives they're carrying, daddy issues

☢️Jaclyn Clove (Sim & bio by @moocha-muses )

You know who you REALLY want on your apocalypse team? A former eagle scout. Jackie earned every badge you CAN earn and then some. She can start fires. She can tie knots. She can gut a fish. She can identify useful herbs and edible mushrooms, sew up torn cloths, do basic and intermediate first aid, AND she won the archery contest three years running.

She also has a degree in History, if that means anything to you. (It doesn't.) Given the current job market, the apocalypse might actually have been a blessing.

7/6/7/4/9, Knowledge, Bi

Strengths: pretty much every outdoor skill, good stamina, citizenship, knows a lot about the ancient Greeks and the Roman Empire

Weaknesses: way too helpful for her own good. once caught a zombie in a rope trap and felt so bad for it she nearly let it out.

☢️Lemon Rodriguez (Sim & bio by @moocha-muses )

Lemon spent the thirty years before the apocalpyse running a junkyard. Unsurprisingly, they can repair basically anything, and, more importantly, they don't need things like manufacturer approved parts to do it. Lemon's used to their own company, and if they were twenty years younger they'd probably try to ride the apocalypse out by themselves, but it'd be nice to have some kids around to do the actual fighting and scouting, Their knees just aren't what they used to be.

2/1/6/8/3, Fortune, Ace/Aro

Strengths: an excellent mechanic with unparalled improvisational skills, a huge horror fan (double-edged sword)

Weaknesses: mediocre knees, a smoker (trying to quit)

[kinopio-writes]

Hello! I really like the way you write ;) can I see the OCD reader's girlfriend? (she is very paranoid, constantly checking everything, checking the house for hidden cameras, checking things and sometimes throwing tantrums because she thinks she is being watched) characters: Lucifer, Adam

A/N: Thank you. I did a bit of research about OCD, so hopefully I’m not appearing ignorant or anything. I know everyone’s experiences are different, but do tell me if I’m inaccurate.

Also, I know you only specified paranoia, but I added a couple of other things, too. I hope that’s okay. This can all be read platonically.

Warnings: Adam being Adam (he’ll be quite insensitive here and possibly triggering)

———

Lucifer, and Adam w/ a Reader who has OCD

Lucifer Morningstar

• I don’t think Lucifer would even know that the word mental health exists

• wait, no, scratch that—he explicitly said he has depression

• actually, y’know what, maybe he heard the term depression through Lilith or something

• because there is just no way he knows what mental health is

• he’s been a hermit ever since the beginning of humanity (after he got banished)—how would he know?

• but, uh, anyway, back to the headcanons—

• he doesn’t know you specifically have OCD

• he just thinks what you’re doing is pretty normal since he’s also neurodivergent himself, so he relates to some of the things you think or do

• he’s very supportive

• he healthily alleviates your worries

• he never pushes them away or make it seem like you’re overreacting

• but, uh, constantly reassuring you would very much drain him

• Lucifer is also a man who requires many reassurance

• one of many habits you picked up is constantly checking up on the guy since you know he also has issues himself

• it gets worse if Lucifer’s depression takes a massive decline

• you’re constantly knocking at his office door, calling out his name to make sure he didn’t…

• uh, Lucifer usually doesn’t have the energy to respond during those times, so your worry doubles further

• this is unfortunately not an uncommon occurrence

• moving on, you two often try to get the other to come back to bed (you both struggle with sleeping)

• be it because of your compulsive behaviors or him hyper-fixating on finishing his rubber duck projects that you both lose track of time

• so what happens if it happens to the both of you at the same time?

• uh, it’s just not good

• you two will regret it the next morning

• you two are basically barely functioning together, but are trying to be better for each other

• and for Charlie, too

———

Adam

• I don’t think Adam would notice anything at first

• but if you two see each other quite often (maybe living together), he would pick up on some of your quirks

• he would hate how particular you are about many things

• like, what do you mean it needs to be like this? What do you mean this needs to be exactly like that? And what do you mean that has to be like this? Why can’t it just be the way it already is?

• your anxiousness also irks him

• like, why are you like this? You live in Heaven, for fuck’s sake! Why are you so worried?

• he, uh, “reassures” your paranoia not very healthily

• “Oh, that? Pshh, you’re fineee.” “Don’t worry ’bout it.” “Stop being so paranoid.” “Jeez, you’re overreacting.”

• it’s even worse if you’re bothered with things such as messes since Adam definitely does not have cleanliness as a trait

• his home is usually cluttered unless he uses his powers or gets someone to do it for him

• if you have trouble with time management, don’t worry about accidentally waking Adam up late at night ’cause he has a shitty sleep schedule

• you also don’t have to worry about that since he’s probably a heavy sleeper

• actually, he probably either sleeps in until the afternoon or takes afternoon naps after a sleepless night

• those times when he’s awake at ungodly hours are when he notices your habits

• if you don’t want any of the behavior I’ve mentioned, please educate him because he will most definitely not do it himself

• don’t be afraid to speak your mind because he obviously can’t read it

• but he won’t exactly make things easier for you

• unless it’s convenient for him

• he’ll just tone himself down a bit (his words, I mean)

• but he’ll slip up from time to time because he’s just very used to not being mindful of the things he says

• overall, just know that he’ll get annoyed and frustrated with you at times

• ...uh, yeah

• maybe you just shouldn’t be around a guy like him

[daryltwdixon]

The Promise of Us: Chapter 21

You

The two of you move through the woods, your boots crunching over fallen leaves as Daryl keeps a steady pace ahead. His eyes are focused on the ground, tracking, but you can tell by the stiffness in his shoulders that his mind is elsewhere. You keep your distance, the silence between you heavy and tense.

Your own thoughts are a tangled mess of anger and betrayal, each step making the frustration inside you grow. You’d been waiting for this moment, waiting for the chance to say something—to make him understand the depth of your hurt. But the words stick in your throat, caught somewhere between fury and pain.

After a few minutes, you can’t hold it back any longer. “So, you were just never gonna tell me, huh?” you snap, your voice sharp enough to cut through the silence.

Daryl’s head jerks up, but he doesn’t turn to listen to you, and after a moment, he continues on walking, “What ya talkin’ about?” he says under his breath.

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “You know damn well what I’m talkin’ about, Daryl,”

His expression shifts from confusion to annoyance as he stops abruptly to turn to you, “Y/N, I ain’t a mind reader so if ya got somethin’ to say–”

You step closer, your tone clipped. “The Governor wants me, Daryl. I was the damn bargaining chip. And you—you just let me walk around clueless while you and Rick decided to change your minds and offer Michonne instead, you know how fucked that all sounds?” His eyes widen, and there’s a flicker of something close to panic before he forces it down. His jaw clenches. “We ain’t tradin’ nobody,” he says defensively, voice rising. “Rick changed his mind, woulda never been you anyway,”

“That’s not the point,” you snap, voice cracking with anger. “You didn’t even have the guts to tell me! I had to hear it from Merle!”

He looks away, his shoulders hunched. “I was just tryin’ to keep you safe,” he mutters, but there’s a rough edge to his voice, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you. His hands tighten, knuckles going white as he holds his crossbow down.

Your hands shake with the force of your anger, and you step even closer, voice low and furious. “And what about what I wanted, Daryl? You didn’t think I deserved to know?”

His head jerks back up, his eyes burning with guilt and frustration. “What good woulda come from tellin’ you? You’d just be more scared, more pissed off—and for what?”

“Maybe I had a right to be pissed off!” you shout, your voice raw. “But I didn’t even get the chance, did I?”

His face darkens, and he takes a step toward you, his voice low and rough. “You never told me what happened Y/N. You never said a damn word about what went down between you and the Governor. I’m tryin’ to protect you, but I don’t even know what from!”

You freeze, the rawness of his words cutting through the rage. The memories flood back uninvited, and the shame twists deep in your chest. He softens, his own frustration melting into something closer to desperation, “You don’t gotta tell me or nobody else what really happened. But I can’t protect you if I don’t know what he’s after. Rick said he wants you as some kinda pet or some shit,” his lip curls at the last words, fury blazing across his features.

You open your mouth to respond, but then you see movement ahead. It’s Michonne, slicing cleanly through a walker’s head with her katana. You and Daryl both tense, the argument shoved aside by the immediate need to confront her.

Daryl raises his voice, “Hey!” he growls, filled with urgency and anger as he approaches her through the tall grass in the clearing, “Where’s my brother?”

Michonne looks up, eyes hard and focused. She doesn’t say anything as she takes in the two of you, and your heart pounds in your chest as you look around the open field, dead walkers scattered. He slows as he approaches her though, and you’re right on his heels, watching for any sign of Merle or worse around you.

Daryl slows as he gets closer, his earlier fury replaced by something colder, more fearful. You stay on his heels, your senses on high alert, every rustle of the wind making your skin prickle. “You kill ‘em?” he asks, his voice quieter now, but still carrying the weight of everything ahead.

You steal a glance at Michonne, trying to read her expression, but her face is stone—unreadable, as if she’s gauging Daryl as much as he is her. Then, slowly, she shakes her head, her eyes never leaving his.

Your breath catches sharply. So, he’s alive. Did he go back to the prison? Did he keep going? Where the hell is he headed? 

Oh–the trade. He was at the farm.

“He let me go,” Michonne finally says, her voice low, almost gentle.

Daryl’s face hardens at her words, but there’s a flicker of relief in his eyes. He takes that as a cue to keep moving, his steps purposeful but frantic. As he passes her, he mutters, “Don’t let anyone come after me,” and then he breaks into a run, pushing past her and continuing along the path he believes Merle took.

You don’t hesitate. You jog to catch up, your gun raised and ready, but you pause briefly in front of Michonne. Your eyes lock, both of you sharing an unspoken understanding—a mixture of pain, regret, and resolve. There’s a flicker of something else in her gaze, a silent apology, maybe even guilt.

You feel a tightness in your chest as the weight of what Daryl is about to face—what you’re both about to face—settles over you. You force yourself to look away, swallowing back the rising lump in your throat, and sprint forward after him.

❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥

As you approach the deserted barn for the second time that day, a chill snakes down your spine. Something feels terribly wrong. Your eyes narrow at the sight of a black car, abandoned in the dry grass. Bodies litter the ground—both walkers and people, their limbs twisted unnaturally in death. Instinct kicks in, the hairs on the back of your neck prickling. You lock eyes with Daryl, your gut already coiled tight with dread. You signal left for the field and point for him to circle right behind the barn. He nods, but his eyes linger on you, filled with a silent urgency, almost like he’s trying to say something he can’t put into words. You tear your gaze away, rifle raised high and ready, and press forward.

As you continue on, you can hear the unmistakable growl of a walker up ahead, and see it crouched down over a body. It’s gnawing on the flesh of someone you don’t recognize– the wet, sickening squelches of torn muscle and skin filling the air. The walker’s eyes suddenly snap up when it hears your footsteps, meeting your gaze.

The sight knocks the wind out of you. A strangled sound escapes your throat as you take in the familiar features—the skin close buzz cut, the piercing blue eyes now bloodshot and hungry. 

You want to scream, to rage, but all you can do is stand there as Merle Dixon gets on his feet, nearly tripping over the bloodied body that was his meal to come for you. His steps are unbalanced, shuffling, but persistent as he comes at you. Fresh blood and bits of flesh hang from his mouth, but when you look lower to his chest you can see the dark, crusted, old blood that was his death blow. 

“Merle,” you choke out finally, voice breaking as he comes in front of you, arms stretched out to you. Tears blur your vision as you step back, letting the rifle fall and swing back as your hands slip from it to push him away. You shove, hard, and he snarls, fingers still trying to reach for you. Sobs come hard and fast out of you as you gasp for your breath, looking at the man who was bitter, crude, violent, but fiercely loyal and always by your side.

“You damn idiot!” you scream, throwing your hands on him again and shoving with all your might. He stumbles back like he’s drunk, but his hungry eyes still meet yours, as if he’s still there underneath it all. It’s a twisted, horrifying reflection of the man who’d been like a brother to you. He’s the closest person you’ve ever lost to this fate. Sophia was a gut punch, but this? This feels like your heart is being ripped out. Your face is hot and wet with tears as strands of loose hair cling to it, your expression twisted in anger and grief. Merle keeps coming at you, and after you push him one more time, your knees buckle underneath you. You collapse, sobbing uncontrollably, the grief overwhelming. He falls fro the impact of the push. It takes him a moment to gather his limbs again to come back up. 

“Daryl!” you scream, your throat raw, voice tearing from the depths of your soul. It’s a desperate, terrified call for the man who knew Merle better than anyone. Footsteps pound the ground behind you, and you glance up to see Daryl rushing forward, knife raised—but he stops short. Your sobs feel like they’re breaking your ribs as you watch Merle from the ground. You're shaking so badly it’s almost like the earth underneath you is moving, quaking with your grief as well. 

Merle is back on his feet, his eyes piercing at you with a new frustrated snarl curling his lip as his rattling breaths come closer. Daryl is suddenly in front of you, and he pushes him back. It’s not as hard as you had shoved, and as Merle comes back for him, Daryl is backing up, almost cowering as the cries come from his mouth. 

The sight of Merle, now a walker, seems to shatter something inside him. He falters, his steps becoming hesitant, the knife lowering as he takes in the horrifying reality. You watch, paralyzed by your own grief, as Daryl’s face crumples, the tears streaming down his cheeks unchecked.

Merle snarls, lunging forward again, and Daryl backs up, choking on sobs that rip through the air. He’s not fighting anymore—he’s collapsing under the weight of everything Merle was, everything he lost. His cries mix with yours, a cacophony of pain that fills the empty field. 

“Daryl,” you manage to choke out through your own sobs, your voice barely a whisper, “we need to—” 

But before you can finish, Daryl surges forward, a guttural roar escaping him as he tackles Merle to the ground. His knife plunges into Merle’s skull with brutal force, once, twice, over and over again. The impact is fueled by years of rage, of lost moments and broken promises, of love that never found the words. It’s raw, violent, the blows landing harder each time until Merle’s face is unrecognizable—reduced to the mangled remains of a man who once fought tooth and nail for his brother.

You clamber up to Daryl as he pushes the knife in one more time, your hands gripping his shoulders. He falls back easily, his cries louder as he collapses back onto you, onto the ground. You hold him back against your chest, arms wrapping around his shoulders and chest, pulling him close. His back presses against you, his body shaking with raw, uncontrollable sobs. You hold him tight, your own tears wetting his neck, your face buried in the crook of his shoulder.

The two of you remain there, tangled in each other’s grief, as the full weight of the loss settles over you. Merle, who had sacrificed himself to save you, to save Michonne, is gone. And in this moment, all you have is each other—the one thing neither of you can bear to lose.

[aihoshiino]

chapter 152 thoughts

Chapters Since The 143 Kiss Happened And Went Entirely Unacknowledged And Unaddressed Count: 9

Aqua Hoshigan Status: White??!???!?!?

WELL DAMN. OKAY. LET'S FUCKING GO I GUESS.

With the End Of The Play… miniarc? interlude? wrapping up, Oshi no Ko officially confirms we're in endgame territory and slams down on the gas to barrel full speed towards its conclusion. This chapter was definitely a mixed bag, but I didn't dislike it and I SURE CAN'T SAY IT WAS BORING AT LEAST………….. It reframes a lot of things that lead up to it - I suppose that makes 'recontextualization' the keywork for this chapter, then.

The return to the volume 1 interviews in this chapter were kind of a surprise LOL. Given that the anime trimmed all but Ai's, I kind of took that as an implicit confirmaton that they weren't really that important so it's a bit of a jumpscare to see Gotanda (& Aqua's) revisited here. That said, revisiting them here is more about clueing the viewer that we're caught up chronologically with those flashforwards and thus that everything from this point on is officially uncharted territory, so I still do think cutting them from episode 1 was the right call to make. I don't think it causes any plotholes or incongruities since these interviews are really kind of incidental in the grand scheme of things… also let's be real I don't think any of us are expecting the anime to get that far into the story, even if I would give my left leg to see the anime team work their magic on chapter 137………………………….

That said, it's pretty fucking rich for Gotanda to try and talk big about the movie not being fictional when we heard from the horse's mouth that Abiko and Yoriko just fucking made up the dynamics of one of the most central and pivotal relationships in it out of thin air lol. Not only that, but like…

15 Year Lie is a movie with a pretty clear narrative. This by itself is natrual and expected. Narrative is the shape in which the human brain most readily accepts information but to create a narrative about something is to fictionalise it. Even when it's a narrative about real events - because narratives are, themselves, fiction. They have cleanly defined beginnings and ends, arcs and the promise of neatly packaged payoff and catharsis that is impossible to achieve in reality. To create a narrative about Ai's life in any form, let alone in a movie made for mass general audience consumption, unavoidably necessitates reducing her to a fictional character to observe rather than a fellow human to understand.

Which is… you know, horrifying! Fucked up and ghoulish! It's exploition of Ai in death just as she was exploited in life and I really wish the Movie Arc had actually focused on that uncomfortable undercurrent. This was, after all, supposed to be a movie about Ai.

BUT ANYWAY, CAST SCREENING OF THE MOVIE… we get some detail about reactions to the content but even as characters are literally talking about the movie and Ruby's extremely important role in it they just conveniently avoid discussing the content of it. But surely with all those important scenes that were set up and with the public release of the movie and Kamiki's side of the story to tell, we'll get some more details, right??? [audible copium huff]

Akane's tearful reaction is interesting, though. They're specifically singled out as not being to do with the content of the movie and her expression is a bit ambiguous - you could read is as resigned or relieved just as easily. I think she has clearly recognized something about Aqua's revenge in the movie which prompts that reaction but who even knows what's going on with akane at this point lol. sure not akasaka.

The girls all ragging on Ruby's acting was also kind of… like, yeah, remember when Ruby not being a good enough actress to carry a whole movie was kind of a huge issue??? The fact that this is resolved by everyone saying "yeah it was bad but idk aqua made it good somehow" was kind of silly lol.

I do really like Melt stepping in to stick up for Ruby, though - because yeah, of course hearing that would probably bring up some bad memories for Melt…! I also like that he doesn't try to shallowly flatter her or butter her up - he's frank about where she still needs to improve but hones in on the part that really matters. He really is a good kid.

That said, him sticking up for Ruby and her glomming onto him and calling him 'Master' (ししょ/師匠, shishou, as in the master of a craft addressed by their disciple, in Japanese) does kind of highlight that the MLRB mentorship that got set up in 144… went nowhere??? We can assume by Ruby's response to him here that it happened offscreen but it really does feel like a total waste of time to have spent what was effectively an entire chapter on setting up a new character dynamic that just didn't happen. Like… really, in hindsight, what was even the point of that chapter other than to establish that Melt… was also here??? I guess we still have the final arc for that to resolve into something but.

It just kind of sucks because I think a MLRB friendship could be really fun! I think they have the potential for a good dynamic and there's some really interesting parallels between them both that are ripe for farming. At this point, it's probably way too late for us to expect anything to come of it, so I can only daydream……..

tho it is really funny to me that at this point, since 143, ruby has had more meaningful on panel interactions with melt than she has aqua. What Did They Mean By This.

Gotanda and Kaburagi's talk that followed also left me with pretty mixed feelings. As expansion on/closure for Kaburagi (and Gotanda to an extent), I think this was fine… there's just a few little details that bother me, I guess.

On the one hand, I really like Gotanda's frank admission that there's no way to know whether the movie really captured the 'real' Ai. This is another thing I've talked about over and over during the Movie Arc but nobody making this movie is really in a position to be making that call - the only person who really could is Ai and… well, she's not here anymore to advocate for herself. Seeing Gotanda acknowledge that does scratch some of what was left unitched by this thread but…

Eugh. I don't know. Something about this movie, which is about Ai's life, Ai's tragedy, Ai's final push to be shown to the world as she was and to potentially be accepted being made to be about Gotanda's regrets just feels kind of icky to me. Maybe it just feels especially bad because it feels like 15 Year Lie has become more about every other character involved than her. I'm sure people are sick of me complaining about it, but it really does feel like Ai as a figure of emotional importance to this story is getting increasingly downplayed and dismissed and…… just feels bad, I guess!!!!

Kaburagi's side of this conversation is a lot more engaging, at least. This does tragically represent the end of my Secret Villain Kaburagi Theory and I feel decidedly mixed on the story choosing to frame him so sympathetically… but on the other hand, I do like how this implication of guilt and sense of responsibility reframes basically all his prior actions in the manga. It seems to confirm that he clocked Aqua (and thus by extension, Ruby) as being Ai's child right from the start and explains why he was willing to go so far in pushing their careers along at little benefit to himself - it was out of atonement to Ai.

that panel of young kaburagi and baby ai having lunch together. fuck, man. the fact that she took the burger out of the wrapper like she does in viewpoint b………….. babygirl i loev u so muuuuchchchchchchhchchchchsjsjsskasklsndkdkd

and……………………….. now it's time for aqua's interview. Jesus Christ.

I like the recontextualization of Aqua's interview here and the way we see This Mysterious Interviewer gradually pick apart his responses. I especially got SUCH a thrill out of his 'I won't love anyone' schtick being called out as the bullshit it is - one of my first really meaty OnK metas was of Aqua's interview segment specifically and I zeroed in on this sentiment specifically as being a lie that Aqua was trying to project and seeing the text back that up makes me a very happy Claire

But more importantly though… what Aqua has to say after that makes me particularly excited.

First of all, let's get it out of the way: KAMIKI JUMPSCARE!!!!!!!!! It seems implicit that he was the one doing all the interviews which is very fucking funny considering his presence in the movie itself, but I'm not entirely sure it changes or adds much other than giving Aqua the opportunity to death note speech his ass.

What is fascinating to me about this talk is what it implies about Aqua. Every time we've seen his revenge play come up before this, the very strong implication is that Aqua intends to die at the end of it, either by Kamiki's hand or his own. But here, face to face with the man he's dedicated his entire life to ruining, Aqua doesn't just state his intent to get revenge but his intention to reclaim his future by doing so. We've gotten some pushes towards this since 150 but this is the clearest declaration of his intent to finally seize hold of this second chance and fucking live it that we've gotten out of Aqua… honestly, ever!

And accordingly, we see Aqua return to his white hoshigans here. I don't necessarily know if I want to call this slam dunk confirmed but this WAS really exciting to see given how it falls in line with my interpretation of "white hoshigan = hope = future" and "black hoshigan = despair = futurelessness". Everybody has been spending the last few chapters basically begging Aqua not to throw away his future and hurt the people he loves just to chase his revenge and it does seem like they're starting to get through to him.

Is this development kind of rushed? Honestly, yeah! I would've loved to see this explored more from properly inside Aqua's POV and it feels especially abrupt given how hard he got ignored all during the post-123 section of the Movie Arc. But at this point, it just feels so fucking good to see Aqua say out loud that he wants to have a future, that he wants to finally move forward and live that I can't bring myself to care. I just want him to finally be happy!!!

that said how fucking funny is it that the closest thing aqua has gotten to therapy in years is from his estranged father, a serial killer

break next week…!

[cryptidghostgirl]

Dating Wednesday Addams

- Everything is a competition but in like, a fun, cute, teasing way

- Waking up next to her and saying ‘good morning love’ just to watch her cheeks turn bright red

- She is def really easily embarrassed when it comes to someone she actually cares about

- She will teach you how to do the things that she enjoys if you do not know how to do them

- Laying on the bed in her and Enid’s dorm, reading a book while listening to Italian opera and the sounds of Wednesday working on her book

- You get to read her drafts and things!!

- Writing each other detailed letters full of poetry ripped out of books and pressed flowers when they’re apart because Wednesday doesn’t have a phone (when Xavier gives her one at the end of season one, the first thing she does is make you put your phone number in. You tease her like crazy about it cause blushing Wednesday is quite possibly the cutest Wednesday.)

- You guys literally will face time while doing your own things for hours and hours just so it can feel more like you’re existing in the same place after everyone gets sent home.

- Letting! Her! Braid! Your! Hair!

- If you play an instrument, she would definitely want to do duets with her cello (especially if its piano that you play)

- Maybe the reader just sings along to the songs Wednesday plays so Wednesday just starts learning more songs that have words and that she knows you know the words to just so she can hear your voice

- Wednesday would definitely do something like compose a song for you on the cello as a birthday present and it is definitely the most lovely thing you’ve ever heard and probably makes you cry

- Sometimes your feelings make her really uncomfy because she’s not great at processing or understanding stuff but you guys work together and figure it out even when that means giving one another some space.

- Getting really old, rare books from her

- Changing the ink ribbons in her type writer for her so her hands don’t get stained (you know how much she values being cleanly and you don’t really mind anyways)

- Getting to dance with her at the Rave’n (and requesting the DJ to play her favorite waltz as a surprise. You guys are literally the only ones left dancing when it comes on because no one else is very interested in it, but you have the best time and she can’t help but smile)

- It’s so rare to see Wednesday smile that its become a game for you so you’re just constantly doing things for her and she doesn’t understand why until one day you get really excited after giving her something and she asks why and you’re just like “You smiled. I love your smile.”

- She definitely has some cute nicknames for you like pretty girl and sunshine but refuses to use them in public (you’ve never seen her more embarrassed then when she accidentally used one when Enid was in the room)

- Holding the flashlight for her when she’s grave digging

I could keep going.

masterlist

[colourstreakgryffin]

Nifty x applejack!reader headcanons

Hahaha! Lol! The contrast here is hilarious. You gotta hyper delicate clean-freak lady than rowdy southern gal that doesn’t care about being dirty! I like it! Hmmm… which means what is remaining is Angel and Twilight. A interesting contrast but maybe it works? I don’t know! But anyway, let’s try this out!

Niffty- Cinnamon Spice

Niffty… well. She is an entirely different creature and honestly, you are too. Which is why you two ended up befriending one another but that doesn’t mean your dynamic isn’t full of just a bit of drama and rules…

You’re a tough rootin-tootin’ fun cowgirl that doesn’t mind getting dirty and Niffty absolutely despises disorder and mess so she is regularly brushing you and dusting you and mopping you of your filth whilst asking if you can simmer it down

Niffty is basically like your Rarity. She gets soooo fussy over your cleanliness level and she does openly clean you off and she doesn’t mind expressing just how much she dislikes how disgusting you are but you always brush it off since it’s just you

Otherwise, you two actually do bond well. Surprisingly, you take care of her like a big sister and you’re a protective strong figure so you won’t let anybody talk shit to the already ‘no-nonsense’ maid and cook of the Hotel

Niffty, you can’t really tell how she feels about anything but she does tell you her thoughts and/or opinions, whilst she is either cleaning you or cooking with the food supplies you carried over so effortlessly in a heavy big crate. She tells you about the ‘bad boys’ she likes and appreciates how you listen to her then give her advice back

Niffty is all about the rules so you can’t really interact with her much but the times you do. She is quite skittering and heads to you and talks to you. She’s getting better with her socialising skills and you merely listen to her

You’re the big sister of the Hotel, honest and hard-working and fearless and caring so you do mesh well with this tiny cyclopian woman who doesn’t really express herself much, helping her whilst she helps you, even if subtly

Niffty does like to ask you to help with her duties and since you’re so selfless yet so determined, you take up as much tasks for her as you can to help around, whilst you’re not a employee… yet of the Hotel, Charlie does consider you like a volunteer, for how much you help despite the fact you don’t get paid for it

Even if Niffty can annoy you with how much she nags and insists you take baths after such a long day of harvesting apples and caring for your family at your home barn, you do consider her a close friend and you don’t want anything happening to her so you definitely join Angel and Cherri’s night drinking to watch Niffty

Niffty kinda likes this southern cowgirl style you got, she thinks it’s cool and she makes a silly little dare where you two trade styles for a day at times. You… you feel weird in a pretty frilly maid dress whilst Niffty struts her stuff as a cowgirl and plays with the precious hat you let her have. It’s cute

Niffty has grown use to baking apple pies since apples is your favourite food and you do enjoy apple pies. She knows the exact recipe you like and sometimes, she’ll just bake one for the fun of it. She knows you won’t say no, she knows how much you love apples. It’s your thing

Niffty just found a odd but pretty orangish-red apple-shaped gemstone in the mess of the Hotel when sweeping one day and she decided to give it to you since nobody else could need it… and she is flattered when she sees how you’ve turned it into a part of your snazzy cowgirl aesthetic

Niffty does consider you a good friend. Yeah, you don’t or can’t talk to her a lot but when you do. She does open up to you, you’re a good ear and you’re quite loyal so you don’t even judge her. She is glad she can show off her knife collection to somebody else than her father figure, Alastor

She sometimes wonder if you even have emotions. Everybody else will be openly upset over a tragedy and you’re just silent… she doesn’t know that you’re crying on the inside

“Ah. Dirty. Dirty. Hey. You need to stop rolling around in mud. You’re ruining my carpet! Ah! Stop! Stop! I’ll get you a apple pie, just go outside and wash off”

[a-bit-too-silly]

Would you maybe do a drabble about regressed Logan being fussy about having to take a bath, maybe with CG Wade?

of course! I decided to have a bit of an inconsistent narrator cus Wade talks right to the reader sometimes. Hope this is alright! :]

🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧

If there's one thing Logan *isn't* known for, it's his cleanliness. He takes care of himself most of the time. He's half good at that don't get this twisted, dear reader. But.. well, he's not particularly neat. We'll put it that way.

When he's big he's always getting covered in sweat, grime, blood, ash, he's really the type to roll around in mud like a dog if he thinks it'll make him feel better. 'Feral' is a good word to describe him, even when he's not gone into one of his berserker rages. But when he's little, it's.. yeah, it's the same story. Maybe a bit less blood and no ash since I wouldn't- ehh... *nobody* would let that little guy smoke anything. Not even his beloved cigars. Thankfully he's found some other ways to satiate that oral fixation of his, even if it does mean the occasional bite on the arm every now and then.

Regardless of what he decides to sink those little chompers into, he still manages to get himself coated in just about everything he comes across.

Mud? Oh-ho, definitely. No use in putting him in his raincoat and boots since he'd prefer to stomp around in every puddle barefoot anyway.

Food? You know it. You could be feeding him as neatly as possible only to turn your back for a moment and find some mashed avocado in his eyebrow.

Dust from the floor? Yep. Paint? Sure. Crayons? Somehow, yeah. Blue fur from Kurt? Mhm. Don't get me started on the jam incident. That sweet honey badger found his way into the cabinets.. the evidence of that massacre still stains those poor porous countertops.

I'll hand it to him, he's talented.

Unfortunately... bath time is his worst enemy. Maybe it has something to do with the experimentation, that'd make the most sense. Maybe it's his tendency to sink. Maybe he just prefers to be a stinky little gremlin. It's not exactly my place to ask. He's often too little or too tired to stay standing long enough for a shower, and sponge baths aren't really an option.

With background info out of the way, let's get back to the problem at hand.

-

"Cmon peanut, I made sure to put in the bubbles you like! They're yellow!" Wade says with a small gesture towards the tub. "Al! Tell him they're yellow!"

"You really think I'd be more convincing than you?" She calls from the other room almost incredulously. - oh, right. *Blind* Al.. yeah.. maybe not the best at identifying colors. - Wade looks out the door of the bathroom in the general direction of where Al is seated, minding her business.

"See? Al likes how yellow they are." He says in spite of everything, "Do you want to get in the tub now, munchkin?"

"no. No bat-time." Logan, as little as he is right now, scowls. It doesn't have the intended effect, but Wade lets out a dramatic groan anyway. Toddlers.. can't be reasoned with.

"Unfortunately not how this works, kiddo." Wade says, crouching down next to the tub where Logan has firmly planted himself against the tile. He's no longer wearing his top, seeing as it was an unfortunate bystander to some sticky pancakes and cubed meats. All chopped up nice and small so Logan wouldn't choke but big enough that he could chew on em a decent bit.

"Don' need ta." The adamantium boned toddler huffs in response, "'m not dirty."

"no, but you are sticky, kiddo. And you were playing outside with Storm earlier so I bet you got a bit icky there too." This only makes Logan's scowl firmer. The once little pout growing in such a way that makes Wade's heart ache. If it weren't for the fact that Al would definitely nag him about Logan's sticky fingers, face, chest, shoulders... Logan's general *stickiness*, he doubts he'd ever manage to get the rascal to ever bathe.

"Papa get in first." He said firmly, pointing to the tub like he's the one calling the shots. Which he is. Wade is a weak weak man for his grumpy little guy. "'n no dunking."

'Dunking' in this case stands for dipping the little guy's head under water. Wade would never, but it gets mentioned at least once per bath time. Upon hearing the statement, Wade throws up his hand in a solemn oath.

"Scouts honor." Now, Wade has never been a boy scout, but he's also never been one for hurting kids so the promise still stands. With that, he slips out of his slippers and rolls his sweatpants up to his knees so he hopefully won't get too soaked, and he sits down on the edge of the tub. The water in the tub isn't too deep, only reaching up to around the middle of Wade's calf, with another few inches on top of thick yellowy foam from the bath bomb Logan relished in watching dissolve.

Still reluctant, Logan watches as Wade sits on the edge of the tub for a while. And Wade lets him. It's a slow process, always is, but after a few minutes of pouty glaring Logan tugs off the last of his clothes then clambers up into the tub with a bit of help from Wade. Just to ensure he doesn't slip. The water is still nicely warm despite the slow process, maintained by frequent touchups of hot water and lifting up the plug to let out the cold.

"Good job, peanut." Wade says softly as he grabs an old cup, bright red in color and decorated with a variety of stickers, and starts to ladle water over Logan's shoulders. He's learned the hard way that Logan has the 'if my head gets wet in a dry room I will shake until it's dry' reflex, so hair washing stays until the end.

Logan is quiet and stiff, letting out the occasional whine despite himself. Seems he's on the silent treatment side of the spectrum rather than the 'giving a cat a bath' side. It's almost worse, but Wade knows he'll perk back up once things are done.

So he starts to gently scrub the sticky syrup and dirt from Logan's hands, meeting his eye as best he can. His little one is sulking, lip still pouted out, eyes downcast and sad.

"Bath time is no fun, I know, my sour faced friend." Wade sighs, "anything that could make it better, bubbie?"

Logan stays quiet for a while, only moving when Wade needs to reach somewhere to clean. "No."

"mmm." Wade mumbles, taking the removable showerhead off of its holder so he can quickly rinse off Logan, getting his hair and rinsing off the soap. "Just a moment.."

"done?"

"Yep. All done, honeybun." He says as he stands up to grab a towel from the shelf, that earns him some grabby hands and a desperate search for 'uppies'. Which he gladly satisfies after bundling him up in a towel. Yeah, I can pick him up. Adamantium skeletoned 300+ pound toddler? No biggie. "Let's get you in some jammies and maybe you can convince Nana Al to let you put on a movie. That sound good, bubsicle?"

Logan nestles his head into the crook of Wade's neck and nods a little, his limbs clinging to Wade like a koala clings to a tree. He's really not used to being picked up, regardless of how much he asks for it.

"And then Papa pool is gonna make some chicken nuggets and fries and we're gonna forget all about that icky horrible bath." Wade continues as he carries Logan to the bedroom, patting his back occasionally.

"Dino shapes?" Logan asks quietly.

"Oh, definitely. That makes em more nutritious." Wade scoffs, pulling out a pair of comfortable flannel pants and a T-shirt that still manages to be baggy even on Logan's broad frame. The faded pattern still clearly reads 'Bambi' with the titular character looking up at a butterfly while sitting in a bed of flowers. It's a favorite of his, and maybe Wade has been messing with continuity to make sure it never wears out. Maybe. Come on, every one needs their recognizable outfits!

Logan dresses himself with only a touch of help with the socks. Then he does that silly toddler walk, the one where its more stomps than normal footfalls, off towards Al with Wade following close behind.

[fefifofoggy]

The Marauders as The Soldier, Poet, King Meta

So, I don't know if anyone's ever thought about this song with the Marauders specifically. But as a sidenote I like listening to music on my way to classes and I ran across one of those 'and you were a fairy' playlists with the first song being The Soldier, Poet, King by The Oh Hellos.

Anyways it made me think of MWPP and which lyrics would represent who.

The King

I don't think that this comes as a surprise to anyone, but I feel James has this spot claimed. The ruler is the most important, he is the king. Everything he says or does can have either a negative or positive impact on the people and his subjects. It was a positive impact for his friends. They remember him in a good light, he can essentially do no wrong and if he does then it can always be explained away for this or that reason. He was the shining sun and the warmth that all the Marauders felt cocooned in. Prongs was their King.

“No, I think you’re like James,” said Lupin, “who would have regarded it as the height of dishonor to mistrust his friends.”

James was protective and loved deeply those that were his. He was honorable, he had a very black and white view of the world from what we know of. The king who found nothing more dishonorable than not trusting his closest friends--the ones he became illegal animagi with, the ones he created a secret map with and the same ones that he went gallivanting through the woods under a full moon with.

There will come a ruler Whose brow is laid in thorn Smeared with oil like David's boy

(Yes, this is a reference to Christianity, to Jesus and his brow laid in thorns while put on the cross to die.)

But, I also like to think of it and how this would apply to James. There will come a ruler -- he and Lily are a part of a Prophecy; those who have thrice defied Voldemort, with a summer born child. A Prophecy that they go into hiding for, a Prophecy that could kill them. Yet, it wasn't the Prophecy that killed them, but a betrayal of trust.

The Poet

Sirius Black, the poet.

I feel that this might be contested--maybe a lot of people would think this is the role that Remus would slide into, since he already fits into dark academic aesthetic and fandom portrays him as a voracious reader. (Not to mention the way he talks and how he will weaponize his words)

But I think the Poet is Sirius Black.

There will come a poet Whose weapon is His word He will slay you with His tongue

Born and raised a pureblood to the House of Black, likely slotted to become the next head of his house after his father or grandfather. We see from Walburga's portrait during OoTP that she had a virulent tongue, a trait that Sirius inherited from her. We see it in the train car during their first meeting.

“Where’re you hoping to go, seeing as you’re neither?” interjected Sirius.

Between MWPP, Sirius has always been the one to use his words to cut people the most.

“There’s enough filth on my robes without you touching them,” said Black.

Picking at people's hygiene, cleanliness, looks, abilities, or intellect--nothing is/was too far for Sirius.

“Before Wormtail wets himself from excitement.”

That's how he talks to a friend once he's gotten annoyed? What about his enemies? Or those he considers beneath him? (Which are typically those he doesn't find to be intellectually stimulating to him, as we've seen and a few other people on here have pointed out.)

More than half the time, Sirius' chosen weapon is his words. He is the type of character to point out flaws, weaknesses, things that he knows will hurt the most because he wants to make you bleed.

(And to think, these quotes aren't even some of the worst things he's said, I just couldn't find the quotes that I wanted and didn't want to leaf through my bookshelf.)

The Soldier

I know this will most definitely be an unpopular opinion, but I couldn't decide between Peter or Remus as the soldier. So, I put them both in this section, but I am more partial to Peter.

Remus as the soldier because of his status as a werewolf.

There will come a soldier Who carries a mighty sword

His lycanthropy is his sword, and he is one of Dumbledore's soldiers because of his ability to enter werewolf rings as a spy. It's a heavy burden but one that (as Lupin says) only he can bear.

But that is two of three lines, and he doesn't quite fit the soldier role to me.

Peter does, however.

Sure, he's not a brave soldier, the one that movies are made about--and he doesn't have a strong sense of wanting to fight for the little guy.

But he is still a soldier. The soldier who joined because his friends signed up for a war and he didn't want to be alone. The soldier who thought that maybe, just maybe, he could cruise on throughout the war because he's not particularly useful or strong or politically important in any way. He's just another foot soldier.

Until he is important, and he realizes that he doesn't want to die. He's fresh out of school, he followed his friends into a war because maybe they convinced him (or he convinced himself) that this would be a summer thing or a couple years at most and it'll make for a decent story for his future kids or grandkids when he can say, "Yeah, I fought in the war--on the winning side."

But then he is faced with a choice: living as a turncoat or dying.

Nobody wants to die. Certainly not Peter who is barely in his twenties at this point. He hasn't lived. Didn't have a girlfriend, wasn't married like James was. Did he even want to get married? What if he wanted to travel the world?

We don't know.

So, spying? On his friends, on his comrades, on people who look him in the eye and think they can trust him. And it turns out that Peter is kind of good at it. He's remained undetected for a while. Hell, Sirius thinks its Remus and Remus thinks its Sirius. Nobody ever suspects Peter.

After all, why would they? It's not like he's ever been anything more than a coward, right? James and Sirius' tagalong. Peter couldn't hurt a fly, not when he was the fly.

There will come a soldier Who carries a mighty sword He will tear your city down

First his sword was his secret as a spy.

Then he becomes a Secret Keeper. The Secret Keeper.

A Fidelius Charm was advanced magic. Voldemort could make out with the Potter's living room window and still not know they were on the other side, unless--

Unless someone with the key to the city let him in.

Tearing a city down had never been easier.

[allwormdiet]

Insinuation 2.7

Finally, some good fucking interpersonal developments

They cheer when she joins the team? That's outrageously cute, stop that right now

Also yeah Taylor you're faking companionship for personal gain of course you feel bad, that's been like 10% of the torment you specifically have been subjected to (I'm not supposed to know about Julia's shit yet but whatever)

Again, very clever ideas made less clever by the ensuing practicalities of the situation. The thing with the spider silk all over again, but now the stakes are higher, and that's probably gonna be a recurring thing

God but it kills me how low Taylor's self-esteem is, poor girl. Emma and the others have done such heinous fucking damage. Someone rizz this girl up or something (am I using "rizz" right), let her feel like she can be attractive

Jesus how touch-starved is Taylor at this point in her life

How often does anyone just go for casual physical closeness with her

Does her dad even hug her that much anymore? Does she let him, or does she bristle at the vulnerability and push him away?

...I wonder if Lisa knows this and is taking it into account.

God, finally, a normal view of the Docks. I cannot begin to describe my relief at the fact that the narration here was like, fine, actually. Thank you for lightening up on them Taylor, please let this last

The Undersiders' hangout sounds about like what I'd expect, although the whole "abandoned factory beneath the loft" part I think escaped me before. Very Lost Boys of them

...I have to imagine it smells at least a little rank in there. Two teenage boys, plus dog smell, and I can't imagine Rachel is super observant of her hygiene, and I don't know enough about Tattletale to say whether she's bad about cleanliness but even if she was that's one against, I dunno, six if you count the dogs. Maybe they invest part of the team budget into Febreze or something

This is... sweet, actually. From both sides. They're making accommodations for Taylor, and Taylor is accepting those accommodations to do them all a favor

Insane that a Ward like, is actively trying to murder someone. What kind of beef does Sophi Shadow Stalker even have with Brian?

I feel some kind of sadness at how young Brian is and how much he acts like an adult. There's almost never a happy story behind kids or teenagers who act that way. It'd be nice if he got more opportunities to relax and act his age, buuuut I don't think this is that kind of story

What a cool power though, honestly. I know the migraines are a motherfucker and I'd probably be a huge baby about that if I had to deal with it, but just shortcutting so much guesswork about like, everything with people and things

Also it's great to see Taylor realize how bad she might have fucked up in trying to infiltrate this team

Heh, yeah, exactly

I wonder what Lisa's reading off of all this. She must have remarkable self-discipline to not be cackling evilly rn

Ruh roh Raggy

Current Thoughts

I love these kiiiiiiiids

It pains me to know they've all had a shit enough time in their lives to all trigger as parahumans, especially being spoiled on Alec's deal as a spawn of Heartbreaker and Lisa's borderline prison sentence under Coil and Brian's struggle with his family. Idk if we ever get more insight into Rachel's path, I'd like to hear it even though I don't think she'd be quick to talk about herself, but I'm gonna guess it's about as sad as the others

I want them all to be happy, and keep being friends without the pressure from Coil to all do crime shit

I know I don't get what I want

so I'll just enjoy the time spent with them best I can

...Anyway I wonder if Taylor's gonna get a mild fear of dogs after this or what