#the walking dead doctor au

[deansapplepie]

Dr. Dixon Masterlist

Summary: You just moved to a new city, with a job in Alexandria Hospital on the Pediatric team. You were happy and anxious to work with friends and finally meet your mentor’s former pupil who he talked fondly about. You just didn’t expect he was going to be your last night’s one nightstand and that he was nothing like your mentor had described.

Pairing: Doctor! Daryl Dixon x Doctor! Reader

Warnings: smut, sexual themes, mentions of diseases (probably), love and hate, Daryl can be an ass at times, I’ll add more with time. 18 + MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

A/N: Oops,I did it again. Yeah, another series because I couldn’t just control my creative mind and my writing.

Chapter 1 - Dr. Dixon

mdni banner and dividers by @cafekitsune

[yourfavouritefighter]

third time is the charm, after repeatedly trying to post this i’m hoping this works lmao

anyways au art inspired by a scene yippee

i really should name this au, i’m thinking dead man walking au but that’s a bit emo so idk

drop some suggestions i guess

[rp-partnerfinder]

Hello👋 I'm looking for rp partners over at least 21, I'm 30 myself so I'd prefer over 25. I've been away from rp for a year or so, but I rped for about 10 years before that. I prefer the old school tumblr way of writing rp. Fandom wise, I'm interested in Harry Potter marauder au, Marvel - MCU to be more precise. DC, Doctor Who. I don't mind the idea of dabbling in the Walking dead, same with Star wars. I also have some fandomless oc's. If you like this, i will come say hello :)

.

[dsafenthusiast]

what if i... *magic anon* Dave and Jack are now girls for 2 asks (this reminds me of the older days help) - 🖤

Daisy (Dave genderbend): "wtf-"

Jack: "Pfft- you look adorable in that dress."

Daisy: "HOW TF DID YOU NOT CHANGE-"

Jack: "It's because you can't turn someone into a girl if they're ALREADY one."

Daisy: "Wait wha-"

[bumblebwii]

Louder Than Bombs

BTS x The Walking Dead

(Part one)

Yoonkook - Jungkook Centric - morally grey Jungkook (the apocalypse is difficult, okay?)

<3K words >4K words

The smell of gunpowder and wet mud clung in Jungkook’s nose, it was far from pleasant but had served to be a much nicer aroma than that of the dead. Flesh - rotting and raw - had to be one of the most disgusting smells on planet earth. Jungkook was sure that if times were different and he could be picky he’d revert to a strict vegetarian diet. 

He would visit the store freely, loudly, explicitly and he’d grab one of the trollies with a now-dead joy, even if it had squeaky wheels that barely rolled in a straight line, and fill it with fresh fruits and vegetables, puddings - lots of puddings - he’d buy shower gels that smelled like heaven in a bottle, laundry detergent that made him feel safe and warm and he’d pay at the till with the largest grin on his face; thank the cashier, wish them well and be sincere about it. If times were different, he’d rush the food home so it didn’t go bad, wrestle his bike out of the little shed he had in his garden and head to the gym, spend an hour or so there before he’d head back home and message around to see if any of his friends were busy because he’d finally got a day off. 

If things were different, Jungkook wouldn’t take the little things for granted. But things were not different, everything had reached its terminus, an end to those little segments of euphoria; an end to mankind as he once knew it. He probably wouldn’t last much longer, it was morbid but he’d grown to accept it, everyone in an apocalypse is just simply waiting to die; procrastinating the inevitable because humans could never really process abruptness. 

Jungkook knew he’d die soon. If the living-dead didn’t get him, and the living-living left him be, then the hunger would take him out. He was surprised that it hadn’t already, he often ate not nearly enough or things that were so past its sell-by date that in the world before he’d have thrown it away in fear of food poisoning. Let it rot and mould over in some rubbish heap far away, wasteful but out of sight and out of mind. 

The greens and browns of the forest were bright and refreshing, it was more life than Jungkook had seen in a year. A year. Jungkook could hardly believe the time that’d passed him by. A whole year since he’d lost everything he held dear to him, a year since the dead no longer stayed dead. A year since humanity died. A year since he watched the world darken like paper held tauntingly at the breadth of a flame. 

The forested mountain range around him provided shelter; hid him from any potential threats but also hid the nightmares that lurked in the dark corners, the threats that he needed to see. Jungkook learned that the hard way over the past year; the bullet wound in his thigh was proving to be a scarlet revision card of the dangers that came with roaming the forest at the end of the world. Jungkook had travelled the country to get here, here to Busan. He’d be damned if he’d be taken out just as he arrived. The gun in his hand was heavy as he raised it to shoot.

He had lived sneaking around Korea alone for the past ten months, but originally started the first two months of this whole apocalypse malarkey with his boyfriend and brother. Jungkook had no sense of survival back then; could hardly hold his own weight, never mind a gun, he hadn’t been a threat to anyone but he pretended to be so he could become something of a rock for their terrified trio. A leader. Bluffing your way through an apocalypse was not wise. It was dangerous and risky because it was curtains if someone called your bluff. Granted, bluffing helped so much more than Jungkook gave it credit and he eventually could stop pretending. Although, by that point, he was alone and his heart had been consumed by the fall of humanity. 

Jungkook remembers the day he was separated from the two most important people in his life. There were strangers trying to grow their group because safety was in numbers, mercilessness and strength, they’d offered to band together, said they liked the strength and stubbornness, but Jungkook didn’t trust them - he may have hated zombie movies but he knew well enough that stranger danger was intensified in an apocalypse. Jungkook couldn’t forget the narrowed eyes of whom he’d placed as their leader or the way his cheeks dimpled when he spoke and made a very contrasting attribute for a man of such intimidation, the stranger had power and planning, whoever he was, he definitely did not have to bluff like Jungkook did. 

They’d all been milling around, too afraid to turn their backs on each other, it was no surprise when the hoard showed up, growling and groaning, a haunting noise that echos in his ears every time he tries to sleep. They let themselves be stupidly unaware for just a fraction of time and then they were surrounded. 

He remembers catching one of the strangers huddling beside his brother, weaponless and terrified; Jungkook remembers the tears in the man’s eyes and the shaking in his hands. Jungkook trusted them at that moment, the group of strangers, that is, he realised that they were equals just trying to procrastinate the painfully slow process that was death. He thought it would be alright from there, there was safety in these people, they could survive together, they could trust each other. They were human, not yet the walking dead. 

It was a small hoard to begin with, one they could tackle easily but there was a second wave stumbling not too far behind, lured in by the sounds of them all fighting. They fought together, bathing each other in clotted, rotting blood, the thick and sticky half liquid-half solid matter clung to everything like dead weight - literally - but at that moment, Jungkook hadn’t cared, he was too focused on getting Yoongi and Jimin and the lost looking stranger into safety. 

Jungkook needed to be that one person he knew he’d shout at if he were to watch the scene play out on the television, because this was his reality now and he understood those foolish people on the screen. He needed to make some kind of escape for these people, otherwise they’d get too tired and all this fighting would be for nothing because they would be eaten anyway. 

Jungkook remembers calling for everyone to head up the fire exit right beside them, remembers holding back a cry as he ran past it, hitting the top of a dumpster and began yelling, “keep going! Keep climbing! I’ll keep them distracted!” Jungkook’s heart hammered away in his chest like the drums of a heroic death. He needed to keep the dead’s attention on him so they would not grab at them as they climbed the ladders, but he was not going to die today, not a chance.

The hoard - about thirty of the dead - were quick, hissing as they stretched out their decomposing hands in close attempts of grabbing him, Jungkook was getting tired; struggling to keep his stamina in check. Jungkook realised he was stuck pretty quickly and groaned outwardly, this is why he hates these characters, this is why bluffing his way through the apocalypse was not a good idea. 

Once he had lured them into the corner, he pushed the dumpster around to trap as many as he could before swinging his bat at whatever was left, but it was not enough and he fell, buried beneath gnashing teeth and rotten flesh. They were heavy and Jungkook cried out in a whirlwind of emotions but managed to use the kitchen knife in his hand to stab at the two above him before using the last string of strength to push them off and cursed the government for having the strict gun laws he had once admired.

He ran to the fire exit, unscathed and shaken, but stopped when the ladder was gone and the others were looking over the edge of the building. Jungkook cursed and ran to the next one, climbing quickly to reach the top. He had not expected to be met with a gun barrel, that had probably been stolen from the military sites, poised hauntingly at his glabellar once he had clambered to safety. “I don’t think so. We saw you go down. You've been bitten.” 

The memories from there fade a little, between getting shot in the side - the angle of the shot skewed by his brother’s intervention and Jungkook waking up, covered in dust and blood beneath the rubble of the shop he had been standing above. At that time, he was sure he’d been reanimated - he sure felt like he had, the pain was unbearable -  but once he came to, he knew he was alive, breathing, oxygenated, full of coherent senses and he had called out to anything, anyone above him, supposing it’d been no more than a few minutes and they’d be there to get him anytime soon. He had waited patiently, painfully using whatever he could to keep the slice along his hip clean, and the bullet wound uninfected but as minutes turned into a day and a day turned into a week, he knew they were not coming. They had abandoned him after he had risked his life to keep them alive. 

For Jungkook, God - though he had never really been religious - had died and so had the only people in his life that he had left to love. Jungkook was alone and if he wanted to survive, he needed to move. So he left, forced his healing body to heal quicker, scavenged, learned how to survive alone, began to understand weaponry and bittered his heart for survival of the fall of humanity over the course of ten months.  

Jungkook, who bluffed his way through absolutely anything and everything was dead too, he was still wasting away on that deserted shop floor, hoping that his long lost love would return to him. This Jungkook, the one calculating his next move, this Jungkook was a killer. Cold blooded, maniacal almost. He had become the walking dead. Sly, malicious, tactical in everything he did. This Jungkook had a rebirth, he was no longer the feeble caterpillar writhing around on the nearest leaf, he was a moth stuck in a person’s ear canal, dirty and irritating, awaiting the next host he could feed off of whilst simultaneously eating away the flesh around him. 

Yoongi and Jimin were dead to Jungkook, it was what kept him moving, they were no longer there to weigh Jungkook down and pull him into tough situations like the last one they were in. Jungkook was free now, he could be selfish and survive peacefully, he let himself forget their faces, their voices, their habits, he forced away the memories of the gentle way Yoongi used to dance his fingers over Jungkook’s back and lull him into sleep. Jungkook forced his brain to discard all memories of Jimin sticking to the protective hyung role in all ages of their life and the way Jimin would come home with black eyes and busted knuckles for fighting the kids who dared to bully his nerdy little Jungkookie. They were gone and Jungkook forced himself to make sure they were completely gone, not even existing as one of the unfathomable walking dead.

The apocalypse was something weird to Jungkook, he wasn’t sure how it worked, even if some fancy scientist had explained it to him once, before he blew himself to smithereens, it still didn’t make sense, it wasn’t possible; how could it be possible? Bodies rot and, judging by the rate of decay in which the hoards he’d fought off were at, they rot faster when they’re reanimated, Jungkook couldn’t understand how they moved and saw and smelled their prey. There was no logic in the dead being able to hear and pinpoint the smallest of pindrops, how their rotting, sticky, foul smelling hands grabbed as harshly as they did or how they still had the need to eat. Jungkook had never understood it, all those comics and shows he could never really get into about the days of the dead had always made him want to roll his eyes; he preferred the slices of life, the plot lines that made sense and gripped your heart, the angsty stories and movies that have you sobbing into your blanket at three am. 

It was ironic now, those slices of life were no longer slices of life, they were the fantasy, a fiction, a daydream some teenager would mope about wanting to happen, they would mope about being born into the wrong era, they would pout and hum long forgotten songs as they washed away the clotted blood and rotting organs from their clothes. That calm wave of life had gone, that normalcy that had been taken away from them, was a utopia craved by those within this dystopia that was created by the global governments royally fucking everything. A combination of population control, greed, medicine and poor communication skills. They let their dysfunction eat away at good, innocent people, it destroyed the world like everyone said it would but never stopped because no one can benefit from an equal world. Apparently.

The smell of gunpowder returned to his nose and reeled back his thoughts, away from what was to what is and what is, is fighting the living. The throbbing in his thigh needed to be pushed away, swallowed down to be digested for adrenaline. This was not how Jeon Jungkook died. Not yet, it was too abrupt and nowhere near as dramatic enough. 

A group, three or so - Jungkook didn’t really get a good look at them - had not even given the lone survivor a chance before opening fire, they started this but that was okay because Jungkook would finish it. He’d survive this and win, even if it meant turning the beautiful forest into a cemetery. He wasn’t sure why they were shooting at him but he suspected stranger danger and desperateness for supplies, not that Jungkook had many of those - unless they were cannibals, he supposed; Jungkook had been there, tried that, it had been keeping him alive when stale food was unavailable. He’d already shot one of them, he heard the commotion of it, the loud thud of their body and someone’s gentle cry for them to stay awake.

Taking a deep breath, Jungkook pushed himself up on his uninjured leg and pulled up the small pistol he had stolen from one of the few untouched military bases at the edge of Busan, and he aimed right for where he saw an arm poking out from behind a tree and he pulled the trigger, hating the ache that the kickback sent jeering up his arms but cheering in a silent pride that he’d got another one of them, their cries of pain cutting over the gunfire echo that rained over them. He moved his gun again, aiming for the head that poked gently out from behind another tree to look at the one Jungkook had just shot, He pulled the trigger, taking a step forward as he did so, a mistake, he missed them by a couple of inches, hitting the tree instead, “bastard.”

Jungkook stumbled forward again, gun clenched tightly in his fist and he was on full alert, turning to shoot as he saw someone step out from behind a tree on his back left. They moved too fast for Jungkook to react to and he was tackled to the floor, the thud of it had been echoed by a desperate, pained, drowsy, “Yoongi!” 

The dead would be there soon, Jungkook needed to get this over with and move on, he shoved the person off harshly and did not think twice about pulling the trigger. His unstable balance and tug of his heart at the name threw his aim further off and he hit the stranger in the side and there was another pained, drowsy, barely hanging on, “Yoongi!” 

It made Jungkook’s fist clench tighter around the handle of the pistol in his hand, turning to the source of the shout. Gun aimed and hands shaking as he refused to let that voice, that familiar voice and the man trying to wrestle him to a stop with such a familiar name be the cause of his defeat. The voice was something soft and soaked in pain, something familiar, as their body could be heard crawling across the forest floor, held back and weak from where Jungkook had shot him. He knew that voice, knew that face, that cry, it reminded him of days running through the fields of the farm he grew up on, it reminded him of sick days in bed spent watching movies, it reminded him of light and happiness and the only family member to ever really enjoy Jungkook’s presence once he hit his teen years. It reminded him of everything he forced himself to forget.

He must have faltered for a second because he was soon met with a body, heavy and well built, overpowering him entirely tackling him to the floor. He relented with a grunt, his arm caught and twisted beneath the knee of whoever had pounced on him and his gun thrown off to the side.

“Don’t move or you’ll lose your head.” Jungkook huffed at the threat but remained still as the sting of a blade made its way across his throat. There was a ringing in his ears, probably from the come down of adrenaline, and the bullet wound in his thigh began throbbing in a way that brought Jungkook to breathlessness. He kept his eyes closed, doing his best not to writhe in pain but the person on top of him was heavy and sitting on the many wounds and their hand was pressed painfully into his chest as they kept themselves somewhat balanced; if they weren’t holding a blade to his neck, he’d have flipped them over easily. “I said don’t fucking move.” Their voice was deep and gravely, it sent chills down the back of Jungkook’s neck.

“It’s hard not to when you’re sitting on my gunshot wound and pushing your hand into my fucking sternum.” Jungkook groaned, opening one of his eyes to scowl at whoever was above him. He couldn’t see them clearly, however, because the sun was far too blinding to keep a focused eye.

“Jimin,” the man above Jungkook said tenderly, sadly, Jungkook couldn’t really see what was happening though and the blade at his neck seemed to dig in harder so he didn’t dare crane his head around. “How bad is it, Joon? Is he alive?” There was fear in the man’s voice, that deep gravel had long since cleared up, he sounded smooth and melodic, a love song Jungkook once played on repeat.

“Yoongi move, move so I can fucking kill him myself.” The leader scowled, his own pistol pointed at Jungkook’s face, his hand was shaking and there were tears clouding his eyes. The wounded shoulder he was spotting looked awfully painful and it brought Jungkook’s attention to his own wound once again and to the man atop of him.

Jungkook felt his heart plummet to his stomach, fear and excitement bubbling through him. “Park Jimin?” Jungkook frowned, his brother was alive and Jungkook had just shot him, apparently. There was something buzzing around his head and it made him light headed, there his brother lay, turned onto his back by the tall stranger and he was agonisingly still because Jungkook had shot him. The man Jungkook had once loved more than life itself was pinning Jungkook down in fear and hate, a boiling anger that could be felt in the reflection of light from the blade at Jungkook’s throat. It was an odd realisation, like a horde of the dead had fallen on him. 

It was a pin drop moment, when the man above him leaned closer, a frown pulled together on his face and realisation flooding his brain, “Jungkook?” The relief in the man’s eyes had washed out instantly, replaced with a layer of white-hot anger. Jungkook didn’t understand why Yoongi would be angry, he was the one that left, he took everything they had for survival and they had taken Jungkook’s plan of returning to the farm in Busan and left him to become one of the rotters as if they were never in love, as if Jungkook was the stranger. 

Min Yoongi was Jungkook’s first love and last string to the peace of the living world. Yoongi and Jungkook had been together for a majority of their lives, they dreamed of getting married one day but the laws were never passed and times changed and life - what was left of it - moved on. Still, they had worked to the bone to get a cosy little house and a garden, good jobs that they’d plunged themselves into student debts for, they worked hard for each other and their love and gave each other something that their outside world couldn’t. It was cheesy as cheesy could be but Jungkook loved that and would not have changed it for the world. They had been soulmates through and through and accepting that Yoongi had left him all those months ago - left him to die and turn - to do nothing but stumble around this grim abyss alone had been impossible. Now here they lay, Jungkook seeming to be the villainous dragon that Yoongi the noble, valiant knight would be protecting his people from if he chopped off its head with this big shiny sword. 

Jungkook fell placid, all tension that had built up inside of him disappeared, as a menacing, taunting laugh broke past Jungkook’s chapped lips, a sound so unstable and crafted by months and months of poisoning his own humanity and smashing his once perfect moral compass into a million fragments and the name of his lover rolled off of his tongue like a poisoned arrow, “Min Yoongi. We meet again.”

[biteyourcrush]

And while I’m on the subject of human realm, monster realm, and Dr. Mom: a post for the various AUs of her now that I’m thinking about it.

1- The Dr. Francesca Schmidt we’re all familiar with by now. Mother of Victoria Schmidt, ex-wife of Charles Schmidt, escapee to the monster realm after her combination of government-funded mad science and a little bit of necromancy brought her kid back from the dead, before realizing her husband was a warmongering jackass who didn’t even care about them and just wanted to create the perfect weapon with the Schmidt family genius brain and best super-soldier tech they could make. Paranoid shut-in for the most part, until recently. Former adventuring super-scientist. Not easily phased by weird shit anymore.

        -Sub AU of this with @archival-wight‘s Victor and Dr. Schmidt: By pure fucking coincidence, Francesca gets assigned the other Dr. Schmidt as effectively an orientation partner to the monster realm. They both find the situation that two completely unrelated Schmidts- who BOTH have performed Frankenstein-esque experiments and raised the dead- being put together *absolutely* hilarious. Very ironically call each other darling, sweetums, and the like in spite of there being no romantic involvement between the two whatsoever.

2- Grace AU. Pretty similar to the base universe. Francesca cottoned on to Charles’s bullshit pretty early on, divorced and raised Vicky herself for years. Unfortunately, Vicky was in an accident- and Francesca refused to accept that. Cobbled together a MUCH rougher process of revivification practically out of a box of scraps in her garage, but Vicky’s soul was much more at peace and thusly out of her reach- but lo and behold, one Grace Griffin had *also* very recently kicked the bucket, and had enough trauma to keep her soul from moving on easily. Got yoinked from the river styx, shoved inside Vicky’s body, and came clean to Francesca after about five minutes of being alive again- and while Dr. Schmidt was obviously pretty upset, she wasn’t going to just abandon this teenager. Moved to the Monster Realm with Grace’s knowledge of the place, has been working as a teacher at Spooky High.

3- Teacher AU. Dr. Francesca Schmidt, no husband, no kid, just a mad scientist who’s ended up in the Monster Realm and taken up teaching at Spooky High. Free rein for interactions with Other Vickys as the local “Cool teacher who may or may not be something of a pseudo-parental figure like the tropes would have” type person.

[dawnled]

tag post #5 ( au verses #2 ) !

[catknives]

soulmate-esque au where steve is born with a psychic power where the first time he touches someone who will be important to him, he gets flashes of future moments between the two of them.

the first time he touches nancy he sees flashes of the two of them happy together, then an argument. the flashes clearly jump ahead a few years, as if they maybe stopped talking for a while, but they still look happy in that future. he thinks that maybe they get in a big fight, but clearly they’re still in each others lives for a long, long time.

when he ruffles dustin’s hair looking for dart, he gets flashes of laughter and jokes and a long life of brotherhood. he sees secret handshakes and little plastic dice and being invited to thanksgiving.

they’re not always positive. the first time he brushes past billy in the locker room, he’s filled with flashes of anger and dread and pain, and none of what he sees makes sense in the moment.

on his first day at scoops, he shakes robin’s hands and gets his biggest vision yet. there’s so much love and happiness and joy there, including a montage in which they seem to work a frankly absurd variety of jobs. but he gets stuck on an image of himself in a tux, robin in a wedding dress, and thinks this must be my future wife.

it isn’t until much later, on a dirty bathroom floor, that he realizes he was standing behind robin in that vision of her in a wedding dress, and, oh, he’s her best man.

almost a year later, when eddie pushes him against a wall with a broken bottle to his neck, steve is almost convinced he’s passed out because of the sheer number of visions running through his head. some of the flashes are innocent happy moments—sharing a joint, laughing at a movie, making dinner—but there’s also flashes of pleasure and adoration and devotion on a level that steve’s never felt before.

he sees flashes of waking up next to eddie in bed, walking a dog around a lake hand in hand, watching eddie perform on stage, a soft kiss to a bare shoulder.

and suddenly steve yearns, thinks he’s never fully known the meaning of that word until now. he tries to play it cool, doesn’t want to freak eddie out, but he’s seen so many visions of them holding hands that his fingers itch with the need to interlace with eddie’s.

when eddie is attacked by demobats, everyone tries to get steve and dustin to leave eddie’s body behind, because clearly eddie is dead. and steve can’t explain to them why he knows that can’t be true, he just stubbornly insists and drags eddie to a hospital as he promises again and again to dustin that eddie is going to make it.

everyone but steve is shocked when the doctors find the barest hint of a pulse.

it’s touch and go at first, but they put eddie in a medically induced coma and he starts to improve. steve is there the whole time. he tells the unconscious eddie about all of the things they still have to do together, about how he knows eddie will live a long, happy life because he’s seen eddie with gray in his hair, laugh lines etched into his face, as they welcome their first grandchild to the world.

and eddie makes it, and when he was up eddie tells steve he heard everything. steve steels himself for denial or disbelief, but eddie tells him that it’s the first thing he’s heard in the past month that actually makes sense.

they share their first kiss right there in the hospital room, and even though steve has seen this moment before, it still takes his breath away.

as he grows older, steve notices more and more of the moments he’s seen in visions as they happen. he happily discovers that there’s so much the visions don’t show, and there’s still so much to see.

because yes, just like he saw all those years ago, he stands behind robin at her wedding, and it’s as moving and special as it always looked. but he also gives max away at her and lucas’s wedding, and he helps dustin propose to suzie, and he helps erica pick out her wedding dress. and, of course, robin stands behind steve at his own wedding.

steve lives a long happy life, with so many memories—seen and unseen—to look forward to.

[shotmrmiller]

soulmate au part 1

john price x f!reader

wc: 1.2k

unedited, forgive my mistakes.

since you were born, your world has been grey. you never thought anything of it, until at school, they started teaching you colours. the only ones in the room that could see more than just different shades of grey, apart from the teacher, were identical twins.

weird.

you went home and asked your parents.

"we are born missing half of ourselves. we have a fated one, and when you meet them, your world will look the way it was meant to."

oh. but... "in class, there were twins that could see colour. what about them?"

they look surprised for a second until your dad softly explains. "in rare instances, the soulmate bond will be platonic. which makes sense in this case, because twins grow up with a connection regular people like us will never understand."

you nod and lower your gaze to look at your shoes. you wonder if the person meant for you is interested in junie b. jones books like you are.

-

in high school, you crush on this pretty girl— a cheerleader. her hair is long and beautiful, her face is small and round, and she's so kind. just your type.

but no colour stains your vision, so you burrow your emotions deep and mourn the loss of what could've been.

-

in college, one of your friends ask you if you've met your soulmate yet.

"no, not yet," you lament. what she says after freezes the blood in your veins.

"my mom knew someone whose soulmate was already dead before they had even been born," she comments while stabbing a grape tomato with her fork. "it was really tragic, because she'll never know what it's like to know a love that has no equal."

your heart is in your throat, and you find it hard to swallow the food in your mouth.

what if your soulmate is already dead? oh, god. you might just throw up. your friend doesn't seem to notice the change in your demeanor and continues to babble carelessly about how she knew someone that knew someone who's soulmate had turned out to be a murderer.

oh my fucking god.

you quickly run to the bathroom and throw up your lunch.

how cruel is the universe? to have no control over who is meant to be for you.

you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and lean against the stall of the bathroom. you should've known that this soulmate business was too good to be true.

cupping your hands, you rinse the taste of bile out of your mouth before walking back to your friend who stayed in her seat.

"jesus, you look terrible, you alright?" she asks.

running your fingers through your hair, you huff. "i've certainly been better. just got a bit nauseous, nothing serious. maybe it's a stomach bug."

"oooh, you better not be pregnant! what of your dreams of working in the medical field?"

you giggle at her response. "that'd be impossible unless i'm the virgin mary."

she gapes comically then leans in and whispers, "you're lying! don't tell me you haven't dated anyone just because they weren't your soulmate."

you shrug, and keep your eyes fixed on your half-eaten plate of food. "i don't really wanna talk about it, if that's alright with you. besides, you've got bigger things to worry about, like the upcoming exam for mr. richardson."

slapping a hand to her forehead, she exclaims, "oh, shit! i totally forgot! shit!"

you watch her inhale the rest of her salad and toss her trash before waving goodbye and sprinting toward the library.

with a sigh, you look down at your food. grey. lifeless. shaking your head, you pick up your plate and toss it in the bin.

you decide to focus solely on your studies. you have dreams of being a doctor and pining after someone you haven't even met yet would only serve as a distraction.

--

your white coat grazes your calves as you walk toward your new patient. standing outside the room, you pick up the clipboard.

Price, John. 34, Active Military.

he's the head of the task force! god, you've only heard stories of them from the other medics on base who have met them, so to finally come face to face with the man, the myth, the legend? you wipe your clammy hands on the fabric of your scrubs and clear your throat.

be professional, be professional. he's just another patient, it's no big deal.

rapping your knuckles on the door, you wait a second before twisting the knob with a shaky hand. you nervously keep your eyes on the clipboard as you walk in.

"good morning, captain price."

"mornin', doc," he rumbles.

oh, his deep voice just might be the end of you.

"you don't sound all that happy to be here, captain," you tease while flipping through his medical history papers.

he lets out a low chuckle, and you squeeze your thighs together at the sound. delicious.

"nothin' personal, doc. just don't like bein' here, you understand."

lightly laughing at his joke, you finally steel your nerves and look up at him.

only to have your vision bleed in something you don't understand. is that colour? is this what colour looks like?

the clipboard drops, clattering to the floor. john— being the courteous gentleman that he is— quickly kneels to grab it and lifts his head as he hands it to you.

he freezes in place, the clipboard slipping from his hands as he stares at you.

you thickly swallow, and dumbly question, "do you...has your....colour? can you see colour?"

unblinking, john's eyes are fixated on you as he remains silent.

your eyes dart around to take in his features. his brightly-coloured eyes are framed by lines that hint at his age, his strong jaw adorned by a mutton-chop beard. his nose is specked with a beauty mark.

"what colour are your eyes, captain?" you softly ask.

he closes his mouth and takes in a sharp breath. "i've been told they're blue."

"blue," you smile. the eyes of your soulmate are blue.

but then, your delighted smile melts off your face, in horror.

there's a shiny band on his finger. he's married.

john price, your soulmate, is fucking married.

your vision distorts with the tears that threaten to spill and bite your bottom lip to stop it from trembling. it feels like there are shards of glass in your lungs, cutting you open with each quivering breath you take. your pain is red-hot, searing under your skin, flowing through your veins like molten lead.

john knows exactly what you're looking at.

"love—" he starts but you cut him off swiftly.

"don't. you don't owe me anything, captain. uhm, but uh... maybe it's best that we switch your doctors, yeah? conflict of interest, and all that."

you all but run away, away from that room, from him.

how terribly unlucky.

you head towards your office, which is down the hall, and slam the door closed. only then, do you cry, and mourn what should've been.

[ew-selfish-art]

Dp x Dc AU: Jazz Fenton, after years of fixing her brother’s injuries, becomes a Doctor with an inclination towards behavioral health and psychology- In order to make the difference she wants to see in the world she joins Dr. Leslie Thompkin’s practice. 

Jazz Fenton, M.D. has spent years of her life doing research, doing the hard work and the emotional labor, and finally, finally, she’s joining a practice she can feel 100% confident in. She’s goddamn good doctor and she wants to make the biggest impact that she can. 

Dr. Thompkins (who insists that she call her Leslie as they’re colleagues now), is a kind woman, sharp as a tack and keeps her practice open at odd hours to help the most unfortunate. It took some time for them to bond and trust to be built, but now Jazz is being allotted a few night shifts here and there. 

It’s incredible. Jazz gets to spend time with the kids who come in and really talk to them (in addition to getting them antibiotics, heating pads and pokemon themed bandaids) to help equip them with a few coping skills. Her passion for psychology never disappeared after all, but the expansive knowledge of how to heal the human body has made her find a sense of fulfillment like no other.

Having proven herself and worn Leslie down, Jazz now takes up about 1/3 of all the night shifts in the month. She’s hoping to get to 50/50 by the end of the year but she’s content with what she has. Danny keeps odd hours anyway so calling him after work on her walk home can happen any time of day and he will always answer enthusiastically. 

It’s a particularly busy night before he comes in. The Red Hood. 

He was known for being an ally to Leslie, despite being on contentious terms with the Bats, but Jazz had never asked directly. Never one to turn away a patient with bullet hole wounds, she hops into action to get his wounds cleaned, sewed up and gauze wrapped. She’s handing him a sheet (an Infographic! Dani made it with her! Graphic design is her passion!) on how to care for his wounds when he first seems to recognize that she’s not Leslie. 

“No, Of course not. I’m Dr. Fenton. I can’t blame you for not remembering but I did introduce myself as you bled in the entry way. You’re Red Hood, right?” 

“Hm. Didn’t realize the practice was expanding. Where can I find-” He grumbles before pushing her hand aside from where she had still been supporting his shoulder.

“Hold on there, mister. You’re going home, you’re following this infographic and you’re going to get some sleep.” 

“Lady you don’t know-” His voice modulated ton came across antagonistically. As if he was trying to intimidate her. Ha, Jazz rolls her eyes at the inclination.

“Who I’m talking to? Who I’m dealing with? You’re hilarious. I can eat you vigilante’s hero complexes for breakfast. Tell me who I’m calling to pick you up and then you can say thank you.” Jazz snaps at him. It really had been a long night but his whole dialogue thus far is making her a bit batty. 

“Oh really Doc? You know Leslie’s tough shit, and from what I can tell you’ve got nothing on her-” 

“Trying to make me feel insufficient when I just saved your life? That’s cute. I’m sure a lifetime of abandonment by both of your parental figures gave you that. I’m also sure that you inherited this desire to prove you’re not going to be dependent on anyone who wants to help from whoever got you dressing up in tights to fight crime in the first place. Again, I’d love to talk at length about how predictable you-” 

“Bwah- wait- I’m Predictable? You’re probably some nepobaby who had parents who told her she could have the world-” But Jazz cuts him off with hysterical laughter- he couldn’t be further from the truth. Her parents loved her, but nepotism? With what, the ghosts? If anything she got that from Danny, but he doesn’t need to know about her ghostly titles. 

“You’re just some guy who came back from the dead and made his trauma everyone else’s issue. So shut it. And tell me how I’m getting you home from this clinic.” She seethes though her voice stays devastatingly level with each word. 

Speechless for a moment, he eventually relents to Jazz that he’s already called for help on the comms but it will be hours before they can come for a pick up. The sun had already come up and the night had been over for most of them before Hood had walked into trouble. She groans and the realizes the time for herself and the empty clinic around them.

“Fine. My shift just ended anyway. I’ll get you home in one piece and I swear to all the ancients that you’d better follow the directions on the infographic.” 

And that’s how Jazz ended up calling her brother while supporting the weight of a grown ass man (who no longer wanted to talk to her) on her walk home. 

The next time Red Hood appears in her clinic, he’s brought a dozen roses in addition to the cut on his neck that definitely needs to be pressurized like ASAP. Did he stop for the flowers on his way to the clinic? He’s going to pass out from blood loss! She doesn’t even like roses!

[deansapplepie]

Dr. Dixon | Chapter 1

Summary: You just moved to a new city, with a job in Alexandria Hospital on the Pediatric team. You were happy and anxious to work with friends and finally meet your mentor’s former pupil who he talked fondly about. You just didn’t expect he was going to be your last night’s one nightstand and that he was nothing like your mentor had described.

Pairing: Doctor! Daryl Dixon x Doctor! Reader

Warnings: smut, sex, casual sex, protected sex, p-in-v, bathroom sex, alcoholic beverages, Daryl. 18 + MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

A/N: Not really sure if it all went the way I wanted, but I quite proud of this first chapter. I hope you enjoy it. 🩷 Not proof read.

Chapter 2

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Chapter 1 - Doctor Dixon

You entered the bar not really knowing what you were looking there. Maybe an escape, a way to not be so anxious about the upcoming day or maybe you just wanted to feel less bad for being at your friends’ house till you find a place for yourself. You hated disturbing people, even if they said you weren’t.

Going out alone wasn’t really your thing, but from time to time it was a good thing to do. The bar wasn’t exactly full, but it wasn’t empty either. You went for a stool near to the counter, where it seemed to have less strange people.

“A piña colada, please.” You asked the bartender.

“Yer not expecting to get boozed by this, are ya?” A stranger sitting by your side said.

You looked at him and couldn’t feel annoyed or anything, you also felt his comment wasn’t mean at any rate. He was a handsome especimen, shoulder length brown wavy hair, bright blue eyes, a smirk on his lips and his tall and well buit frame made an impression.

“I don’t need a booze, I just want a drink.” You said while analyzing him, at his hand he had a glass of what you presumed was Whysky. “Can’t say the same about you, apparently you go for the strong things.”

“Hmm…” he hummed, didn’t say anything.

“Not my business, but Did you have a rough day?” The bartender brought your drink and you started sipping from it.

“Kinda.” He clearly didn’t want to talk about it , but you didn’t want to listen too. It was just something that made you want to talk to him.

“Hmm” This time you were the one that hummed.

“Ya ain’t from here, are ya?” He asked, nit that the city was small, it was a big city. Impossible to know everyone. But just by looking at you, he knew you were new.

“No, but you aren’t from here too.” You could see it all over him, his body language, his accent and the way he spoke.

“Nah, but I’ve probably been here longer than ya.” He answered.

“Indeed.” You said and went back to your drink.

By some strange reason that you couldn’t pin point why, you felt like you needed to continue talking to him. Not just because he was attractive, but mainly because he was having a simple, casual conversation with you without being a jerk or trying to hit on you. And because of all this a sentence that you never expected coming out of your mouth was released before you could even stop your thoughts. “Wanna release the stress?”

His eyes that were studying his glass so attentively went back to your figure and he tried to read in you if you were implying what he thought you were implying. You looked back at him and tried to not avert your eyes from his, the words had already left your mouth. Now you needed to be bold.

“I’m giving you 2 minutes, if you don’t come I’ll leave, pretend this never happened and never come back to this bar.” You took a last portion of your drink and left the stool going in the bathrooms direction.

Once inside the bathroom you leaned against the cold wall right beside the entrance door while reality hit you of what you had just done. Did you really make that offer to a complete stranger that you didn’t even knew the name? Yes, you did and despite feeling this was a little bit crazy, you couldn’t feel anything else besides of the adreline, of your moment of boldness, running through your vains.

For a moment Daryl thought that should be a joke, he meant… you were beautiful, cute and probably younger than him. You looked as if you were on your 30s, maybe even on your later 20s. He couldn’t know for sure. You were so direct and casual about it, also he felt comfortable throughout all of your little chit chat. He decided he would go after you, he would accept your proposal. What could possibly go wrong? He’d never see you again.

Had 2 minutea already passed? You thought so. You didn’t had a Watch and you weren’t really looking at your phone for the ours. It was time to live, you thought. You turnes around to live and was face to face with the man, or better face to chest since you look up if you wanted to see his face.

“Thought… you weren’t coming.” You said, your cheeks ligerally blushed at being caught about to leave.

“I thought I wasn’t coming…” he honestly answered. “D’ya really want this?”

“Yea.” That was the only word that left your mouth before you pressed your chest against his and crashed your lips.

He tasted o whisky, peppermint and tobacco, and strangely you liked it. You yanked him by his shirt and without breaking the heated kiss your feet guided you to the farthest toilet inside the bathroom and he charged himself with the duty of closing the door to give both of you as much privacy as you could get.

You were so sweet and smelled so well that he was sure he had never had someone like you before. He held your left thigh and brought it up his was waist pressing his crotch against yours. You broke the kiss seeking for air and he took the opportunity to descend his mouth from your jaw to your neckbone. Eliciting little sighs and moans from you. Was he really having something like you?

Your hand grasped his hair pressing his face more against you, while your hips rubbed against his. His hand came to the cleavage of your dress and pulled it down exposing your breast, you gasped surprised with the sudden act. He brought your other leg up, making your legs embrace his waist.

You went for his mouth again, your bodies impossibly pressed against each other and the wall. His hand now hovered your clothed pussy and she pulsed for him, he pressed his hand against you exercing some presure where you needed. Your hands descended to his pants undoing his belt and opening it to touch him.

His mouth softly but also harshly mouthed your breasts each at a time giving the attention that such beautiful pieces like yours deserved. You took his cock out of his boxers pumping it, caressing it… in your mind you thouched him frantically, despaired and firmly. On his skin he felt it, oh, so tender and delicately like nobody had ever touched him and at the same time it felt like you were sending him to heaven.

One of your hands started going up from his groin to his stomach and that was when his hand held yours before you could go any further and touch what you weren’t supposed to, see what you shouldn’t. Before you could notice anything he took both your hands up your head and held them against the wall using only one of his hands and suffering with the loss of contact from your hand on his length.

He reached his backpocket for a condom while you aimlessly trusted your hips against him. He teared the package with his teeth before putting the protection. You could have complained about him restraining your hands from touch him, but you would be lying if you said you didn’t like the way he was being imposing at the moment.

He put your panties aside and rubbed the tip of his cock on your heat and that was enough to make your eyes roll and a moan scape your lips. You trusted your hips against him in hopes of sinking down on his cock and he understood the message, too damn well. Going deep inside of you in one swift movement. He groaned and you gasped, you had never felt so full like this. What was this man!? He gave you some seconds before he started to move, trusting steady and hard in you. Each trust a groan and moan escaping both of your lips, the possibility of other people entering the bathroom long gone from your worries. There was only pleasure and the chasing for the bliss that would fog your minds for the rest of the night or at least you hoped for it.

Your lips battling each other while you vigorously bucked your hips against one another, that so familiar and delicious turmoil building at your lower stomach. Your walls contracting around him threatening to send him to the edge. But he couldn’t let it go without you, no not you that offered this moment to him. You deserved it, you owned it, he refused to let the beautiful stranger he met on the bar down. His free hand went down encountering your clit and stimulating, caressing and working it while he trusted inside of you right at that spot making you see stars when you convulsed in pleasure against and around him. His own pleasure coming afterwards. Your moans, whimpers and groans muffled by your attached lips.

The other day you woke up early, you had to show up at the Hospital at 8am. You got yourself ready and went downstairs for breakfast. You were staying at your friends’ house while you looked for a nice place to rent. Michonne and Rick Grimes were being too gentle to you and you didn’t want to take too much advantage from their hospitality. You started preparing breakfast when Mich came to the kitchen.

“Good morning! What time did you get home yesterday? I didn’t hear you arriving.” She asked opening the fridge to take more ingredients to prepare the food the children liked.

“Good, that was the intention, arrive and don’t disturb anyone.” You answered while you added some salt to the scrambled eggs you were preparing. “It was around 2.”

“Two???” Michonne inquired and looked at you with a raised eyebrow. “What were you doing missy?”

“I met a guy.” You answered. Simply.

“So you did get laid!” She teased you. It wasn’t that you didn’t get laid often… well you didn’t, but that was your kore reserved nature.

“Who got laid?” Rick asked entering the kitchen and Michonne said your name.

“Thank you Mich, now I’m really embarrassed. That’s the price for the rent in this house?” Your cheeks were red. One thing was talking about sex with you bestie from university, the other was involving her husband in the talk.

“I’m taking as it was good, since you arrived that late.” She ignored you.

“Aren’t you afraid the children will listen?” You questioned.

“Jude and RJ are knocked out at this time, they’ll only wake up with their babysitter.” Rick said casually, the couple had 3 children, Judith and RJ the youngest ones, and Carl, the oldest, that was at college. “So I guess we can tease you the whole breakfast.”

“I hate you. Both of you.” You told them.

“Nah, you don’t.” Michonne told you and nudged you with the side of her hips.

You felt like a kid going to a new school at the first time, and Rick and Michonne were your parents. You arrived all together at the Hospital and they took you to Hershel Greene’s office, the Medical Chief of the Hospital. You had already talked before, for the interview, it was online and you had to use an app for that.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you in person Dr. Greene.” You shook his hand.

“The pleasure is mine! Dr. Dixon is coming in a bit, I already beeped him. I believe you already know him, his mentor in specialization was the same as yours.” He said. Oh, Daryl Dixon… your mentor had talked so much and fondly about him that sometimes you were even jealous. “He’s the Chief of the Pediatric Department.”

“Oh, I heard about him. Dr. Foster talked a lot about him, but unfortunately we didn’t have the chance to meet each other.” You replied.

“Well, I see that you are already good friends with Dr. Greene, so I’m going to let you in his hands. I have to see a patient before a surgery.” Michonne said before turning to leave the office and encounter with no other person than Dr. Dixon himself. “Look, here he is!”

You turned yourself to greet and introduce yourself to your new boss and was shocked to say the least, you almost choked on your spit. Dr. Dixon gave a small jump with the sight of you, which could go unnoticed for anyone, but it wasn’t for Michonne. Also, she saw how your eyes popped when you saw him. The man from the bar. The kind stranger that fucked you so good against a wall that you thought no one else would do it so good like him.

You breathed deeply before speaking. You said your name and last name and hold your hand to him. “It’s pleasure to meet you, Dr. Foster talked a lot about you.” You offered a shy small smile to the very serious man.

He looked at your hand and completely ignored it, then he looked at your eyes and it seemed as his blue orbs would make a hole on your soul. “Didn’t know now he was taking mediocre people as his apprentices. Maybe, ‘cause you were there to entertain him instead of learning.”

That was painful, it stabbed like a knife. You didn’t know why he was being like this. Before you could say anything, Hershel intervened. He knew how Daryl could be, but he was just being too much. “That’s not how you welcome a new co-worker, Dr. Dixon.” And then the old man turned to you. “Don’t care too much about it, he’s just in a bad mood today.”

He shouldn’t. He had no reason to be on a bad mood. You mean, you woke up as if the world was light, sweet and sunny. The only reason for him to be acting like this is that he was probably afraid of you telling every. Which you wouldn’t.

“Dr. Dixon, you’re responsible for our new doctor today. Show her around the hospital, the offices of the clinic and of course the room of the team where you’re working together.” Hershel commanded the younger man. “Please, try to behave.”

Daryl grunted and left the room, you took a quick look at the others and noticed Hershel wanted you to follow the other Doctor and Michonne had that look of “we’ll talk later about this.”.

You walked behind him trying to accompany his fast and long steps. You passed in front of places and he just shouted the names of it, without looking at you or explaining things correctly.

“Can you stop?!” You fastened your pace and stopped in front of him.

“Nah, I can’t. Now, move!” He tried putting you aside but you planted your feet strongly on the ground.

“Why are you acting like this? Are you afraid I’m telling someone? I won’t, ok?” You tried to mend things with him. “Now can you stop being an asshole?”

“Can ya stop trying to get yerself fired?” He threw it back at you, not that he really had the power to get you fired. Maybe just from his department.

“I’m not going to jump on your dick.” You said it low enough for only the two of you to hear. “Can you just be professional like any other normal human being?”

Wanna be added to my tag list? Let me know. (Please tell me if you want to be tagged on everything or just specific series) Everything Taglist: @lilyevanstan1325 @hayley1998 @shadowcitrine

DIvider and mdni banner by @cafekitsune

[yourfavouritefighter]

designs from my dead man walking au

(i’ve nearly hammered out the plot!!!!!)

[dumbseee]

i’ll protect you.

f1 au/fic: in which y/n is a driver for ferrari, her and lando have been friends since childhood and started together in formula one. their closeness sometimes confused their friends. ask them if they were more than friends, they will laugh and say that they were just friends. but one day during a race, y/n got involved in a major crash. which made lando realise how scared he was to loose her.

lando norris x driver!reader

(fc: maggie lindemann)

warnings: mention of crash, carlos is still a mclaren driver with lando, mention of injuries.

note: english isn’t my first language so this may contains some mistakes xx (idk what to think about this one tbh)

liked by charles_leclerc, landonorris, lewishamilton and 3 799 087 others.

y/n: ready for tonight’s race! your girl is going to get that damn podium, mark my words xx

_

landonorris: in your dreams kiddo

y/n: @.landonorris you’re three months older than me.

lewishamilton: good luck y/n!

liked by y/n.

fan1: WE ALL BELIEVE IN YOU Y/N

fan2: GO Y/N

fan3: with that car i’ll be praying for your safety first bestie

fan4: praying for your first podium!

lilymhe: i’m rooting for you!

alex_albon: @.lilymhe i’m literally right HERE

liked by y/n.

"dude, you should sit down." carlos’s voice echoed in lando’s head which almost made him jump. he didn’t even realise that he was walking around the hospital’s hallways like a maniac. the driver sighed and sat down next to his teammate, carlos squeezed lando’s shoulder to show him that he was there too.

a few drivers were at the hospital, waiting to know if you were okay. daniel, carlos, charles, alex and of course lando were there. to be fair, all the drivers wanted to come but crowding the hospital wasn’t the right thing to do so only your closest friends came while the others went back home but waited for news too.

"are you y/n l/n’s friends ?" finally a doctor came, lando immediately stood up and almost ran to the older man. "she’s out of surgery, she’s very lucky that the firefighters were quick to get her out of the car because she has some burns on her arms and legs but nothing major." the doctor felt kinda uncomfortable to have that many men surrounding him, but he added, "she has a broken arm and a sprained ankle. it could’ve been worse so whoever prayed for her tonight, it worked. she’s awake, so you can see her, but be gentle."

"you should go first." charles told lando, who still looked out of it. "i think she’d prefer to see you first than daniel or alex." he adds with a smile. "uh, first of all this is rude." daniel answer while pointing his finger at charles, which lighten up the mood. "we ALL know i’m her favorite."

lando smiled and thanked his friends before slowly entering your room. he almost choked on his own saliva when he saw you laying on your bed, looking lifeless. this wasn’t you, you were far from being lifeless, you were literally the life of the party. always smiling, cracking jokes, making fun of alex or george will the others would laugh. but there you are, breathing through tubes and covered in bandages. your eyes were closed, lando took a look at your face and swallowed back tears.

he hated it, he hated seeing you being hurt, he couldn’t close his eyes because he’d see the crash again and again. the sound of your car smashing against the barriers, the smell of burnt, gasoline, the sound of the ambulance, the audience’s screams and cries, the commentators struggling to find their words. for a second everyone thought you were dead, everyone including lando. for a second, he thought about a world where you weren’t there anymore, and the only thing he could see was the dark. a world without you meant a world where the sun wouldn’t go up anymore, where happiness was gone forever.

lando let himself fall on the chair behind him and completely broke down. the tears wouldn’t stop from running down his cheeks, he didn’t know that he was capable of crying that much tears. he couldn’t stop sobbing either.

"l-lando?" the driver jumped and immediately stood up when he saw that you were waking up. "y/n? fuck, y/n can you hear me?" he didn’t know if he could touch you, too afraid to hurt you even more. "yes i can so please lower your voice." you furrowed your eyebrows and opened your eyes. the sight before you broke your heart, a sobbing lando, with a worried expression.

"what happened?" you asked, while trying to get up but a sharp pain stopped you. lando gently pushed you back against the bed. "i almost lost you, that’s what happened." he softly pushed a strand of black hair away from your face and sat down, taking your hand in his. "fuck… everything is coming back to me now." you mumbles and bite your lip. you take a look at your body and notice a huge cast on your left leg and a second one on your right arm. you also had a few bruises on your face and left arm caused by the fire.

"how are you feeling?" he asked you, while caressing your hand softly. "could’ve been better, so not only did i not make it to the podium, but i also almost died, what a performance." you laughed and expected lando to laugh with you but he just dropped your hand and looked at you with a hurt expression. "wha-…"

"how can you say it like that? how can you joke about death when you almost lost your life for real? y/n i don’t think you understand how worried sick i was to fucking lose you! i saw everything! the whole crash happened in front of me! i saw the firefighters pull you out of your car, i saw you being literally lit on fire! i couldn’t even move from my car, i felt helpless and useless. i even wondered if the crash happened because of me." he snapped, he wasn’t yelling but his tone was loud enough for you to understand that he was really pissed at your joke.

you felt bad, you didn’t know that lando witnessed everything and now you felt terrible. how traumatic that must’ve been for him. you didn’t know how you would’ve reacted if lando had crashed in from of you. "lando, i didn’t know i’m-…" he cut you off again, he ran a hand though his hair. "let me finish, please." you bite your bottom lip and nodded.

"the thought of loosing you made me fucking sick. i threw up when i got out of the car, i wanted to see you so bad but the way your team stopped me from seeing you made me think it was over. and do you know what a world without you looks like to me? nothing, that shit cannot exist, because a world without you means a world without me. if you fucking die, y/n, best believe that i’m going with you." his words made you cry, silent tears kept streaming down your face. when he saw it, he closed his eyes and kissed your forehead.

"i didn’t want to make you cry, i’m so sorry." he continues to kiss your forehead and then kissed your cheek. "no, i’m sorry for making you so worried about me." you answer while grabbing his hand. he smiles at you and start to kiss every little bruise on your arm. his gentle gesture made you cry even more. "i swear to take care of you now." he adds while connecting his forehead to yours. you both close your eyes and enjoy the peaceful moment until you both heard noises coming from behind the door of your room.

"ouch! you fucking stepped on my foot, càbron!" carlos’s voice could be heard which made you smile. "move your ass leclerc, i can’t hear shit." now it was daniel’s. "all of you shut up they’re going to hear us!" alex added. "aie! carlos what the fuck! that was my foot!" charles almost yelled to his friend. "see how it hurts?" added the spaniard, with a devilish laugh.

lando and you both started laughing at your friends shenanigans, knowing damn well they were behind the door trying to listen to your conversation.

liked by landonorris, danielricciardo, alex_albon and 1 690 097 others.

y/n: thank you for being my guardian angel <3

_

landonorris: always and forever my love

danielricciardo: i can’t believe you have no words for me when i had to sleep with carlos and he pushed me off the bed with his fat ass

carlossainz55: @.danielricciardo LIAR

alex_albon: @.danielricciardo i slept on a CHAIR

charles_leclerc: @.danielricciardo i slept on the GROUND.

fan1: im so glad she’s okay

fan2: OMG LANDO AND Y/N???

maxverstappen1: glad you’re okay y/n! can’t wait to see you on track again!

liked by y/n.

fan3: MY DREAM CAME TRUE

[liloinkoink]

last night i asked if people would be interested in me posting a backstory piece for Martyn from the hero/villain / yellow rose au i’ve posted a single oneshot for despite the fact the backstory piece doesn’t seem to outwardly relate to the posted oneshot. no one outright shot me down so. here you go

for some context, the powers in this world of yellow rose come from a catastrophic event that took place almost 20 years prior to the start of the story, which wiped out a lot of the world’s cities/towns and gave many of the survivors powers or mutations

backstory takes place when Martyn is 0-10 years old (he was born shortly before the aforementioned catastrophic event) and focuses on an OC parent character / martyn’s relationship to said parent

anyway. yellow rose is an au made w @cherrifire. time for you all to meet robot dad

It’s hot on the day the world ends. This is not the only thing it remembers, but it’s one that still stands out, even years down the line.

It’d been dealing with a patient with symptoms of heatstroke, the third it had seen in an hour. Heatstroke is an easy enough ailment to give to a nurse bot to treat, so it gets the job. It had stepped out of its patient’s room and run into a doctor, who had asked it to fetch something from the basement storage.

This is why it had survived, it thinks, looking back. It had been in the basement, and by some stroke of luck, the building had not collapsed so completely as to destroy it alongside the rest of the building.

It had not had a concept of luck before that moment, before the shaking had stopped and the dust had cleared, leaving it mostly in tact. Once it had forced its way up the stairs, it found it was not sure whether surviving the collapse was good or bad luck.

When the nurse bot tried to ring its network for help, it found the line inside its head had gone dead. When it looked to the surrounding street, it found hundreds of buildings similarly smoldering. When it called out, it found only its own voice returning to it.

The nurse bot had tried to comb through the wreckage of its practice, looking for survivors. It found nothing, heard nothing, but it still attempted to sift through the rubble, to search for the people it had been built to assist.

A nurse bot’s arms are not meant to move stone and iron, however. It was not used to the strange things that happened in its processing when it thought about what might be under the wreckage, and did not know how to handle them. It made a mistake, lifting things it could not, and when the wreckage in its grasp had buckled…

Well. It had thought itself lucky, distantly, that unlike humans, robots are not generally “handed” in one way or the other. Statistically, it would have preferred its right hand, and it would have been much worse off when the debris crushed its arm, taking its limb from the elbow down.

Ah, and pain, of course. It would have been quite bad if it had been able to feel pain, or bleed. It probably would have died, had this fallen on it, or had it lost a flesh and blood arm.

It… does not look in the wreckage any longer.

The nurse bot did not know what to do, with the practice it had spent its whole existence in destroyed. It had never been outside before—at least, not while activated. It had never left the walls of the hospital it was built for. It had not been intended to function without direction.

It knew its purpose, though, direction or not. The nurse bot had been built to heal. It knew, direction or not, how to do this, and that it must do this. And certainly, if it looks, it would fine someone out there who needed it.

When it comes to matters of health, time is of the essence. With its direction decided, the nurse bot begins to walk.

It finds people, rarely, stumbling and unharmed, or nursing small bruises or minor sprains. It helps these when it can, and gives advice when it cannot. It finds bodies, often, and it looks away, as it has never seen a funeral, and it does not know to help the dead except to assist the living.

It finds a woman soon to be a body, despite its best efforts to help her. It lacks supplies to stop the flow of blood from her wounds, and the woman lacks any hope without stitches or bandages.

It offers her sympathies, and it holds in its one hand both of hers. There is little it can say to her, but it tries, quiet promises of I am here and I will not leave you and you will be at peace soon.

She holds its hand with all the strength in her body, knuckles white as paper, a stark contrast against the dark blood staining the rest of her body. It feels as the strength fades. It watches as the light in her eyes fades with it. She lets it go, and it closes her eyes.

The nurse bot keeps walking, keeps looking, until it hears crying. The sound is loud, a desperate sob of a young child, and it seems to stem from a building sagging in three places, roof and door and floor all ready to give in.

If it were human, the nurse bot may have thought the place too risky to enter. But it is not, and so in it goes, pushing the door open with one hand.

It finds the boy lying in his crib, a round-faced infant wrapped in a patterned onesie and kicking away a thin blanket. He cannot be more than a year old—the nurse boy would guess him to be maybe six months. The fact the boy and his crib have survived the destruction of the city is a miracle, one not offered to the rest of the home.

It reaches down into the crib, brushing its hand over the boy’s face. His sobs stumble, a bit curious, but the baby ultimately doesn’t stop crying.

The nurse bot hadn’t worked with a pediatrician, but it knows about children, as any nurse bot would.

“Are you hungry?” it asks. He doesn’t answer except to cry more, which is understandable—this is what babies do, it knows, and besides, this has been the chosen course of action for most of the people it saw today.

It could not help those people, but it can help with this.

The nurse bot steps away from the crib to examine the boy’s room, though the boy cries louder when its face disappears from his view.

“I will return shortly,” it tells him. This assurance does not calm him down.

It finds what it can in the rest of the home—food for the baby, a warmer blanket, a box of diapers. It finds the living room, where living is not what his parents are doing, and gingerly shuts the door. It finds a photo album and flips through, searching for the information it needs: delicate handwriting next to an image of the boy, held in the arms of the woman on the floor a room over.

April 7th, 20XX: Welcome to the world, Martyn!

His name is Martyn. His birthday is April 7th. The nurse bot usually keeps these things on file about its patients, and so it files them away.

When it returns to the crib, the baby inside is no longer crying, having worn himself out. It reaches down again, face blank.

“Hello, Martyn,” it says, “I am going to be your caretaker for now. I hope we will get along well.”

— — —

They don’t stay in the house. It finds a baby carrier in a closet and a duffle bag in the bedroom, and it packs what Martyn will need and carries him out of the collapsing home.

Martyn laughs a lot. Once he’s been fed and changed and has slept, the nurse bot finds he laughs all the time.

He doesn’t know, it thinks. He must miss his parents, probably, but he doesn’t know. He isn’t old enough to understand any of this. He watches the broken and bloodied street with awe—has he ever been this far from home before? This is all a big adventure to him.

It doesn’t tell him.

— — —

It stops three times a day to change and feed him, and to let him crawl around in the cleanest and sturdiest places it can find.

“Movement is good for development,” it tells him, watching him play with a piece of rubble.

It doesn’t stop to rest at night—it doesn’t need to, and the rocking motion of his continued steps helps Martyn sleep. When that isn’t enough, it tries to replicate the songs it has heard playing in the clinic’s waiting room, or seen mothers and fathers sing in the clinic to calm their children. Martyn seems to like that.

He likes the nurse bot’s hair, too. He tugs on it all the time as the nurse bot walks, held close to its chest, close enough to its head to access it. It lets him—it doesn’t hurt, and besides, it has few other ways to entertain him.

— — —

Martyn grows. He starts to babble, and to toddle. He becomes too big for the bot to carry him, but by then it has become adept at finding places to hunker down for a while.

“Your name is Martyn,” the bot tells him, pointing to his nose.

“Ma,” he tries.

“Very close,” it says. He grabs its hand, tugging, and continues to babble.

“Da,” he says, and it knows that he doesn’t have a concept of fathers or parents or the English language, and he is only making sounds.

“That is me,” it says anyway, and Martyn continues to babble.

— — —

“Dad,” Martyn tugs on its arm, barely tall enough to reach its fingers. “Daaaad.”

“Hello, Martyn,” it says, “What is it?”

“I’m bored,” Martyn says, “And I’m hungry.”

“We still have some food left for you, though I should start a fire soon,” it says, “We will need to move soon. Children your age need a variety of foods to—”

“Grow up healthy, I know,” Martyn whines, “That’s boring. I’m bored.”

“What would you like to do?” it asks, and he lets go of its hand, running off. It stands to follow, but then he’s back, holding a battered old book—some kind of short novel, something with a torn cover that used to have a dragon on it. The title is gone, as is the dragon’s head.

“Read this,” he says. Martyn is learning to read, but he hasn’t quite got the grasp to read a real book on his own yet.

This hasn’t stopped Martyn from searching for them, though, nor from presenting them to his father to read. It had started reading one aloud to Martyn to entertain him when Martyn had come down with a fever last year, and he hasn’t stopped asking to hear them since.

“After you eat,” it says, and Martyn cheers.

—

There is a group of survivors picking their way through town. The bot sees them before they see it, watching the street from a window. It does not know their intentions, and it doesn’t plan to find out.

It crouches down in front of Martyn, putting its hand on his shoulder.

“Hello,” it says, “We’re going to play a game, okay?”

“Okay,” Martyn says, and it nods, once.

“It is called hide and seek,” it says, “There are some people who are looking around town, trying to play, and we are going to hide from them. We will win if we are not found.”

“That’s a dumb game. Why don’t we play something else?” Martyn asks.

“It is their favorite game. We are going to play because that is what they like to do. But we are going to be very good at it and hide very well,” it says, “You can hide with me, okay? If we win, there will be a special prize.”

That’s all it takes to convince Martyn, who smiles and nods and follows it as it ducks away into the closet. Its legs creak as it sits down, and then it opens its arm, letting him sit in its lap. It can’t be comfortable, all cold metal, but Martyn wraps his arms around its torso and settles right in, content with the hand on his back.

“Now we must be very quiet,” it tells him, “I will tell you when we can talk again.”

Martyn nods, and it puts its hand on the back of his head, and it waits.

When the strangers leave, it asks him what he would like for his prize.

“Hug me again!” He says, and it obliges for as long as he wants.

— — —

Halfway through its sentence, the bot’s voice cuts out.

That has not happened before. Martyn seems unfazed, especially when it begins to talk again, but it takes note of the error.

— — —

It happens more. Its voice cuts out, stutters, corrupts. Martyn really only complains when they’re reading, but it starts to fear the worst.

It sits Martyn down, crouching down to meet his eyes.

“Martyn, I have something very important to tell- to tell- to tell you,” it says, and if it could, it would wince.

“Yeah?” Martyn asks, “Are we moving again?”

“Soon,” it says, “But that is not what I want to tell you.”

“Oh,” Martyn says.

“I am… sick. Do you remember what being sick is?” it asks. Martyn nods, reaching up to put his hand on its forehead, the way it had for him when he had been feverish.

“You feel warm,” Martyn confirms, “It’s okay. I’ll read to you until you’re better.”

“Thank you, Martyn. You are very kind,” it says, “But that is not the kind of sick I am. There are many kinds of sick.”

“Oh,” Martyn says, “Then what kind of sick are you?”

“I am… robot sick. I am- I am- I am- I am- getting old,” it says, “And my voice is starting to… not work properly.”

“I know that,” Martyn says, “You talk funny now and you keep messing up reading.”

“Yes, that’s right. You’re very smart,” it confirms, “But it might get worse. I might not be able to talk anymore soon.”

“But you’ll get better, right? I got better,” Martyn says. It shakes its head.

“I might, but I might not. Robot sick is different,” it says, though it knows it is lying. “I just wanted you to know. If you talk to me and I do not respond, I am not ignoring you. I am still listening. I am just sick, and my voice- my voice- my voice- my voice—”

It shakes its head, the way humans sometimes do, to clear the sentence. When it looks at Martyn again, he seems thoughtful.

“Will you still read to me?” he asks.

“As long as I am able,” it promises. And, for good measure, “I love you, Martyn. Do not forget.”

“I won’t,” Martyn says, “I love you, too.”

— — —

It makes a point to show him how to read. He had already been learning it, but it doubles down when its voice begins to waver.

It picks up novels and reads them to him with Martyn in its lap. It holds its arm around Martyn’s waist, and Martyn holds the book for it to see, and it reads the words Martyn points to, so Martyn knows what they are.

It doesn’t want him to lose this. It doesn’t want him to lose his fun, his creativity, his imagination, just because it cannot read to him anymore.

— — —

It loses its voice for good while it is reading to Martyn.

— — —

Its voice is the first thing it loses, but it is not the last.

Control of its fingers becomes… tricky. Martyn has to help it, doing things that require finer movements.

“Is your hand sick?” he asks, and he sounds afraid. It nods, because it knows it shouldn’t lie to him, even if it wants to.

It loses what little control it had over its face next. Then its neck becomes stuck. It doesn’t seem able to walk as fast, though that might just be due to Martyn getting faster—he grows older still, full of energy, constantly wanting to run and jump and play on his longer legs. It tries its best, but it cannot keep pace like it used to. It used to sing and walk all night, and now it cannot do either.

Martyn is as patient as a six year old can be, which is not very. He gets frustrated and bored, and he complains often. It does not blame him for this. He is doing his best, too, and that is all it can ask.

— — —

There are people. It tries to hide—pulls Martyn into a closet, tucks him close to its chest, pets his hair with his hand—but Martyn doesn’t like to play hide and seek, and he doesn’t know he has to be quiet.

“My name is Martyn!” he tells them, once the closet door opens, “This is Dad. He’s sick.”

They’re nice enough, a woman and her teenage son. It—he, now?—releases Martyn to talk to them, and climbs out of the closet. He hovers at Martyn’s side when they climb out, a hand on his son’s head.

“Why were you two in the closet?” the mother asks.

“We were playing hide and seek. That’s what Dad said other people like to do, but I don’t like it very much,” Martyn explains. She nods.

“Most people do like to play that game,” she says, because, as a parent, she must understand his fear. “But we don’t, either. Do you want to travel together for a little while, Martyn?”

“I want to!” Martyn says, and he looks up at his father, and his father would sigh if he could.

He nods, because what else is he meant to do?

— — —

The teenager entertains Martyn, reading to him the book his father never did get to finish. The mother cooks, and she takes a look at his hands.

“I used to be an engineer,” she says, “You’re a bit above my pay grade, but I could take a look, if you want.”

He doesn’t let her crack him open or anything, but she inspects the pieces of his wiring she can see. He’s reminded of his old clinic, though he can’t tell her how ironic this is.

Her prognosis is… grim.

“You probably only have a few years left in you,” she admits, “Your model was supposed to go for regular updates, replacing parts and…”

He doesn’t listen as she explains the old process, his focus instead on Martyn.

Only a few years? What will happen to Martyn? Who will take care of him?

Humans need care until they are eighteen.

Martyn is six.

“I could try and make some minor repairs for some of the obvious damage, but I don’t have tools for anything more. I can also try and tell you some things you can do to try and stretch that time out,” she says. He nods, understanding, grateful, as she does what she can.

He had been in her place, once, years ago, and so he understands, too, when she offers sympathies, when she holds his hand.

— — —

They split off from each other eventually. The other two are traveling to a place they claim never fell. He does not believe in such a place, and so he does not go with them.

Martyn cries. The mother hugs him, as does her son, and they are gone.

As they walk away, he holds Martyn’s hand, and he does not let go.

— — —

He teaches Martyn how to do… anything he can. He is too young to understand how to hunt or set a trap or clean an animal or cook or treat a fever or start a fire or boil water, and it is very difficult to teach when he cannot speak. He’d wanted to wait until Martyn is older, he does not have the luxury of time anymore.

Martyn is clever, is bright. He takes to the skills as well as a six, eight, ten year old can, and it is only partly due to the fact he has no choice.

— — —

He knows he is dying.

Martyn does not.

He picks up a stick, waving Martyn over. There is a patch of dirt that is mostly clear, and he crouches in front of it.

I AM SICK he writes, and Martyn reads it, and he frowns.

“I know that,” Martyn says, and he shakes his head. The dirt is soft, and so he clears it, trying again.

I AM VERY SICK he writes. Martyn reads it, and he frowns deeper.

“What does that mean?” Martyn asks.

I WILL SLEEP SOON he writes. He wants to be delicate, but he can’t—the patch of dirt isn’t very big.

“Oh, well, that’s okay. I sleep all the time,” Martyn says, “That’s how you get healthy again. It makes you feel better. You told me that.”

He wants to nod, but he can’t. This is the bit he was dreading the most.

I WILL NOT WAKE UP he writes.

For a long moment, Martyn doesn’t say anything.

“What if we get you medicine?” Martyn asks, “When— when I was sick, you found medicine. It made me better. It would make you better.”

NOT FOR ROBOTS

“That… that isn’t fair, though,” Martyn says, “Are you sure? We could get some and try it!”

I AM SURE he writes, and then he erases it, I LOVE YOU

Again, Martyn says nothing. He isn’t sure what Martyn is thinking, and then Martyn charges him, hugging him around the stomach.

He has more he wants to say to Martyn—he wants to teach him so much, to tell him to be careful, to tell him he’ll be okay.

He drops the stick, wrapping his arm around Martyn as tight as his failing joints will let him.

— — —

His goal is to find somewhere safe. An old house, maybe, somewhere where Martyn will be able to survive on his own for a while.

He looks, and he does not find it. He’s been looking for ten years, after all—of course he wouldn’t find one now, just because he is dying.

Other than that, his life does not much change. He holds Martyn’s hand as they walk, and Martyn talks to him about birds and books and whatever else he can think of. Martyn has become very good at filling the air for them both. Neither of them let go of the other’s hand.

He doesn’t actually know when it is going to happen, just that it will be soon.

When the moment finally comes, he does not realize.

They stop to rest for a night. Martyn is tired, as he is a child, and his legs can only carry him so far. He is tired, too, but he does not have it in him to think about why, or how strange that is.

It’s nowhere special, where they stop. A random house that has kept its roof, somewhere safe from rain and sun. Martyn finds a place to roll out his sleeping bag, and when he lies down, his father lies with him.

He does not let go of Martyn’s hand.

[wisteriasymphony]

I want to hear about the mlb asylum au sooo bad

SPRING 1993

"Sweetheart," Nathalie frowned. "You have your whole life ahead of you. …Let's forget for a moment who I am. I'm not saying this as M. Agreste's secretary, I'm saying it as a fellow woman."

The Girl found it disgusting that Mme. Sancoeur would switch between the two: treating her like a child and calling her a woman. She kept the blue hood of her jacket over her head, hiding that short mess of curls on her head in its shadow.

"We're doing this because we want to help you."

The Girl knew completely well that M. Agreste would shoot her dead if he could get away with it. That didn't seem like it would help her at all.

"…I appreicate the sentiment, Mme. Sancoeur," The Girl responded. "But I want to go home."

Nathalie's gaze lost its facade of warmth.

SPRING 1995

In a place where Saint-Lupien once stood, a convent had turned into an asylum. Pyschiatric ward, asylum, looney bin—The difference didn't entirely matter, not to the Hospital Sainte-Marie-de-Dieu. The second you walked through those doors, you were crazy, and everyone was much more focused on proving that than they ever were on anything else.

By all accounts, Adrien Agreste was the shining example of this.

Marinette first got herself acquianted with Adrien not by learning his name, or seeing his face… but by hearing a loud, repeated thudding noise from maybe a few hallways down. Three seconds of silence, thud. Three more seconds of silence, thud.

"The Agreste kid is trying to break his door down again," the doctor watching her had said, with the exact same tone she'd use to describe the weather outside. "Don't worry about it. Better than him lighting shit on fire for once."

Marinette was starting to get anxious—She checked her pulse twice with her two fingers, added and divided by two. Floating pulse: Feng excess. She had that feeling in her gut that her yang energy was deficient, too. She needed to drink some hot water.

"…Can I have some tea, Dr. Martin?" "Not right now, Marianne." If she had to spend another day in this shithole, Marinette would start setting shit on fire, too. And to think Adrien Agreste had been here for two years...

@sillysiluriforme look omg I wrote stuff <3