#we think he got stuck in a fence by the time we found him rigor mortis had set in

[avephelis]

if anyone's got good pick-me-ups lmk i could really use them

[andrea-lyn]

For Malex, an au where they go on road trips to save aliens... whether or not they figured their shit out between them before or during is up to you

(like I mentioned, I went stray here, so they are saving aliens! through the rigorous process of record collection)

**

Colorado

Near Colorado Springs, they break into a facility near the Air Force base and discover what looks like an escape pod. It has some of the familiar components that Alex recognizes from Michael’s sketches and drawings. It’s a ship of its own and it clicks for him probably a few seconds after it does for Michael.

“Is this what you’ve been trying to rebuild?” Alex wonders out loud.

Numbly, Michael nods, like he can’t believe that he has a schematic to mimic. Alex doesn’t want to think about Michael leaving the planet, but faced with an actual escape pod, it’s hard not to. They take the escape pod out of the facility and load it up into their truck without any more conversation about what they’re going to do with it when they get back.

It’s their third stop on a grand tour of suspected sites they’re checking out. By all rights, these are abandoned sites now that Jesse’s support of Project Shepherd has dried up, but after Caulfield, they both know it’s better safe than sorry to make that assumption.

It’s why Alex has a gun and they have a rule.

If something looks like it’s a bad idea, then they both need to get the hell out of there before they end up blowing yet another building sky-high because they were impetuous and short-sighted and emotional. It’s bad enough they did that to their relationship the first time around. So far, they’ve stuck to that rule and it’s been serving them well. It’s also allowed them to survive the road trip, so far.

This trip is meant to serve a few purposes, namely three that Alex can specifically name. The first is checking to see that all the sites are closed down. The second is to see if anyone is still out there furthering Jesse’s cause.

The last and most terrifying point of this trip?

“Nothing like some good old-fashioned therapy,” Michael calls it, sitting in the truck after they load up the escape pod. “You and me stuck in a truck for hours on end is bound to fix at least one or two things.”

“There’s always the tape deck,” Alex says, reaching for the glove compartment where Michael used to keep his tapes, only to find that the ribbon of every single one of them has been yanked out – on purpose. He gives Michael a glare, because he has a sneaking suspicion how that happened. “…Guerin.”

“I got tired of listening to Garth Brooks, so sue me,” Michael replies, whistling innocently as he keeps his eyes forward. The escape pod is in the bed of the truck next to the other artifacts they’ve picked up (nothing as sensational as the escape pod, but the box of files from Santa Fe and the schematics for a new facility from Pueblo are still better in their hands than in someone else’s).

They’re onto their next stop when suddenly Michael pulls off the highway in a frantic rush.

“What the fuck?” Alex snaps. “Guerin! Is someone trailing us? Did I miss someone?”

Michael says nothing, he just puts his foot down on the gas and keeps driving. Alex’s paranoia begins to increase and he wonders if he’d missed someone when they’d left the Colorado Springs facility until Michael parks in a mostly empty lot and Alex sees what the fuss is about.

Alex stares through the windshield, leaning all the way forward so he can see it all.

“Guerin,” Alex says flatly. “Did you just risk our lives merging through five lanes of traffic so you could see a bug?”

Michael’s out of the car in a flash, smirking at Alex as he heads for the placard in front of the gigantic looming thing. Sighing, Alex abandons the ruined tapes and decides that whatever weird obsession this is, he might as well entertain it. Heading out of the truck, he’s careful on his prosthetic as he follows Michael and comes to a stop near a sign that deems the bug ‘Herkimer’.

“It’s a bug.”

“Nah,” Michael says, “it’s not just a bug, it’s the world’s largest beetle. Have some respect, Alex.”

He shakes his head, not sure why he should be respecting anything. They have to keep driving North so they can hit Wyoming, but the moment he tries to open his mouth and say so, he stops when he sees the look of longing on Michael’s face as he stares at a bug.

He seriously can’t have that many complex emotions about the thing, can he?

“Max and Isobel, they always took road trips when they were kids. Max used to bring back postcards from all the roadside stops. I asked my foster father at the time if we could take a road trip that summer from Roswell up to Colorado. It wasn’t much, I figured. I even offered to pay for the gas. The drunk asshole actually promised it to me, too.”

Alex has a bad feeling he knows how this story ends, because Michael never came to school boasting about what he’d seen on his summer vacation.

“What happened?”

“Oh, you know,” Michael says dismissively, turning away from the beetle. “He wrecked his truck and told me it just wasn’t going to work out, because I was asking too much. I learned to stop doing that pretty quickly.” He’s already on his way back to the truck before Alex can react, not fond of the emotional whiplash, but also knowing that Michael’s done it on purpose to protect himself from appearing vulnerable.

Alex gives the beetle one last look, and he digs out his phone to take a selfie with it, figuring that maybe later, he can send it to Michael. It’s not like they’re going to have show and tell when they get back to Roswell, but at the same time, what’s the harm in a few road trip souvenirs that they can both share in?

*

Wyoming

In Wyoming, they raid a small office building in the early hours of the morning and find employment records dating back to the second world war. There are more names here than Alex feels comfortable with, but he takes pictures of every page as backup before he slides them back into their folders. That box of files earns a home beside the escape pod and nestled with the schematics, as chilling as anything else they’ve found.

“I need a drink,” Alex insists, even though he knows for a fact that Michael is trying his hardest to avoid alcohol and acetone. He feels guilty as soon as he’s said it, thinking that he can wait until he’s back in Roswell to go over the records with a glass of neat whiskey. He doesn’t need to shove that in Michael’s face.

Michael doesn’t seem too angry with Alex’s slip. “I think I’ve got something better.”

That’s how they wind up in Jackson in another beat-down parking lot without a soul in it, except for them. This time, Alex finds himself staring up at a very confusing World’s Largest, and he digs out his phone to look something up. “You know the internet says that there’s a bigger one in Texas,” Alex says, glancing up at the roadside attraction.

Who the hell would want to build the World’s Largest Ball of Barbed Wire?

“I guess everything’s gotta be bigger in Texas, even their torture devices.” It’s a bad joke, but Michael doesn’t look happy to crack it, scowling up at it even though he’s the one who decided they should come here.

Alex wonders if Michael is thinking about the torture devices that the Manes and Valenti dynasties used on his family, and if he’s not yet, he’s sure it’s only a matter of time. Action is required. He digs out his phone and gestures for Michael. “Come here,” he says.

Michael gives Alex and his phone a wary look, but ambles closer to him, leaning back against the small fence that stands between them and the barbed wire. “Don’t tell me Isobel got you into Instagram,” he pleads.

“Who says I’m not already huge there?” Alex deadpans, even though he knows better than to put that much information in a public domain and absolutely wouldn’t even think about putting the details of his and Michael’s journey anywhere online. His location has been off since Roswell and while it’s not a burner phone, he does intend to destroy the sim card when this is all said and done. “Come here,” he says again, and gestures for Michael get close to him.

Michael drifts in close enough that Alex can smell the faint hint of his bodywash. For one brief moment, he closes his eyes and inhales, lets that smell of safety, security, and home wash over him. Then, he opens his eyes and gets the front-facing camera ready, pressed shoulder to shoulder with the barbed wire sticking out in the background. Michael’s smiling, even if he looks like he doesn’t believe that they’re doing this, and Alex looks smugly proud.

It’s a great picture.

“Come on, I think I saw a diner back a few exits,” Michael says, his gaze lingering over Alex before he finally steps away. “You can get a beer, I’ll get a milkshake.”

“Is it Wyoming’s biggest?”

Michael licks his lips, and he climbs on the truck’s step, leaning over it as he looks at Alex. “Doubt it, but I bet you that if you’re there with me, it’ll definitely be Wyoming’s best.”

He ducks into the truck, which is good because it means he misses the flush Alex gets in his cheeks. Staring down at the picture in front of the barbed wire, Alex sees the way Michael’s turned his head a little for the photo and how he’s staring reverently at Alex, a half-lidded look in his eye, like he’s suddenly remembered Alex is there, like he thinks he might want to kiss him.

Alex remembers all those looks enough to feel like the expert when it comes to Michael Guerin when he wants to kiss him. Maybe at the end of all this, when they’ve worked through the question of whether they can even do this together, he’ll get that back.

For now, he’ll stick with giant barbed wire and milkshakes.

*

New Mexico

They loop back around and take the long way home, finally hitting Alamogordo in the early hours of the morning. Alex had fallen asleep to the sound of Michael humming, not the greatest substitute for the broken tapes, but really not so bad.

(If he stops lying, he’d admit that it’s the best sound in the world)

“Hey,” Alex says, after checking his phone to make sure that he’s got the information right. The search had been a bust. Whatever had once been in the jail is long gone, which is both good news and bad – it means that no one’s committing any heinous crimes, but their information is out of date, so who knows what else might be wrong.

They’ve just finished dinner and they’re in the middle of the drive back. Alex had woken up from his nap to see a roadside sign passing and it had been almost perfect timing.

“Take the next exit,” he insists.

Michael gives Alex a wary look, but the amount of unspoken trust he has in Alex is clear when he takes the exit without a single other question about why he’s doing it. Alex smiles proudly when Michael doesn’t ask for directions, clearly understanding what they’ve turned off to see.

He parks them as close as they can get to what a sign proclaims the World’s Largest Pistachio and the grin on Michael’s face is worth everything in the world. He’s out of the car and he’s the one who calls Alex over so they can take a picture.

This time, Alex makes sure that when he clicks the button, he’s the one staring at Michael like he’s the incredible roadside attraction instead of the weird pistachio behind them. It’s such a stupid thing, and it means nothing, and at the same time, being here to look at this tourist trap means everything to him because of how isolated and abandoned it is.

It’s like it’s a monument built for them alone and they’d better appreciate it, because no one else will.

“Thanks, Alex,” Michael says. “I’m nuts about it.”

He’s smirking and clearly proud of his stupid pun. The shame of it is that so’s Alex, because he’s grinning at him and thinking that maybe this trip is something they both needed. They’ve been sharing motel rooms, but sleeping in separate beds. They sit on the same side of the booth at diners and pick off one another’s plates, but they haven’t kissed or touched or fucked.

Yet, this trip has felt like one of the most intimate things he’s ever done.

The rest of the drive home is filled with light conversation as they swap stories about the days in Roswell before Michael turned up. Alex tells him stories about Max and Isobel in elementary school, like how Isobel had managed to make herself a little cult that had to wear glitter on Thursdays or how Max had constantly submitted awful romantic poems to the literary digest (and since no one else did, they were all his).

Michael tells Alex about high school and the things Alex hadn’t noticed, like how he’d used his powers to fuck with Kyle – including the time Kyle had tripped on the bleachers and wound up with a melon-sized bruise on his ass for a week. He’s laughing so hard that his stomach hurts and though Kyle’s his friend now, he’s so grateful to find out that there’d been some vindication back then, even if they’d all had to treat them as accidents.

They reach Roswell in the early evening.

Michael drives Alex to his cabin so they can drop off all the rescued pieces in the basement where they’ll be protected by Alex’s new state-of-the-art security system. Once they’ve unloaded everything, Alex feels himself searching desperately for any excuse for Michael not to leave. “You know,” he says. “I bet you Roswell’s got something.”

Michael glances up from where he’s been hanging around by the door, checking on the escape pod for the tenth time (which is why Alex feels pretty confident that he doesn’t want to go either).

All that time together and it’s shown them that they don’t actually want to be apart. The pieces want to be together. It just turns out that maybe they’re a pair of stubborn asshole pieces who can’t admit to it, not until they go on a three-week road trip around the Southwest to look for alien artifacts and proof that Project Shepherd is dust.

“Roswell’s got plenty of shit. You might have to get more specific than that,” Michael replies, not following.

“I mean, of the biggest,” Alex says, seeing as Michael had started that pattern. “Or are you telling me that you can die happy now that you’ve seen the world’s biggest beetle,” he deadpans.

Michael considers that for a moment, prying his cowboy hat off his head as he moseys Alex’s way, slow and steady, an amused smirk on his lips. It’s the smile of a man who has something clever he wants to say, but he’s the only one thinking it’s any kind of clever at all.

“Well,” he begins, considerately, “there is always the city’s biggest dick that you could take a look at,” he drawls, with an inclination of his gaze down towards his belt buckle.

Two can play that game.

“Oh?” Alex replies easily. “Is Kyle back in town?”

He’s lucky that Michael laughs instead of the scowl he’d half been expecting, but what Alex hadn’t anticipated is the way that Michael slides his fingers around Alex’s neck for a kiss that he’s been waiting for since they first set out on the road trip. He’s so proud of them for being mature and talking, making things work while acknowledging that they don’t have to get physical, but god, has Alex missed being kissed by Michael.

He tangles his fingers in Michael’s curls, grabs hold and squeezes the soft curls in his hands as he kisses Michael back, fully aware that he’s being shut up for making bad jokes, but definitely not mad with this punishment. Maybe they can’t compete for some of the world’s biggest anythings that they’ve seen, but Alex is counting the world’s longest kiss one of these days, and if he can’t manage that, then maybe he’ll go for the world record when it comes to kissing the man you love.

Not that he wants anyone stopping to take pictures of that, so maybe that’s one of those feats that’s best kept to themselves.

[tastesoftamriel]

Brynjolf

Morndas, 2nd of Sun’s Dusk, 4E 208. Brynjolf, my Bryn, the love of my life, fellow Nightingale, husband, and partner in crime. Where do I begin? Should I even be writing about the secret life of a criminal overlord? He lies sleeping soundly next to me in our soft wide bed at the Tiber Septim Hotel in the Imperial City, the thick white scars across his shoulders and chest rising and falling as he breathes. He mumbles something in his sleep, and rolls over to face the nightstand. Diary, I think I’m safe to confess the story of the life of this amazing man. I shall start from the beginning.

Brynjolf was born in Ivarstead, to two poor parents who made their living bringing supplies from other parts of Skyrim to the Vilemyr Inn or all the way up the Seven Thousand Steps to High Hrothgar for the Greybeards. As such, Brynjolf was mostly raised by his retired grandmother, and from the time he could walk was always up to mischief in town. One of his earliest memories is of a practical joke, sneaking behind a patrolling guard and undoing his belt so that his greaves dropped to the ground, right in the middle of town. He quickly squirreled his way up a drainpipe and over a roof, and never got caught. Already, sneaking was in his blood.

By the age of six, Brynjolf was helping his father carry food to High Hrothgar, and his mother with the inn supplies. He was known as the master prankster of Ivarstead, and things always seemed to go missing whenever he was around. Still, he helped his parents with their honest hard work, until the day they set off with their horse and carriage and were never seen again. A couple of weeks later, a courier ran panting into town, passing a letter to his grandmother. She sobbed and broke the news to Brynjolf. Bandits had intercepted their carriage loaded with supplies on the way back from Riverwood, and had killed them both before making away with their coin and loot. The Riverwood guard had managed to track the bandits down and kill them, but it was too late. Their bodies were brought back to Ivarstead under a bloodied white sheet soon after the courier’s visit, and they were buried in the local graveyard. Through the entire course of events, Brynjolf never shed a tear, as an overwhelming numbness and anger had taken over him.

Working hard on the menial jobs he could around town to support himself and his impoverished grandmother, he scrubbed floors, cleaned chimneys, and served customers at the inn. At night, he would sneak out of the house to secretly practice fighting with a town guard who had taken pity on him. They practiced archery and swordfighting, as well as a rigorous exercise regime that left Brynjolf sore in the morning. But his anger fueled his concentration, and soon he was a fit and capable fighter at a tender age. Soon he was spending his days risking his life at the nearby caves and ruins, slaying whatever enemies he faced with ease and making his way out with as many coins, jewels, and other treasures he could find within. Of course, he always got a caning when he finally got home, but now there was always a guarantee of three square meals on the table and wood for the fireplace.

At the age of nine, Brynjolf’s grandmother passed away in her sleep. The rest of the town was either too busy or too poor to look after him, or had heard of his increasingly bad reputation as a problem child. He was far too young to live on his own, so a town meeting was called and it was decided that Brynjolf would be sent to Honourhall Orphanage in Riften. He left without protest, and a few days later was dropped at the doorstep of Grelod the Kind. Within a day he discovered that the woman was anything but kind, frequently beating and berating the children. Considered to be one of the older, less adoptable children, Brynjolf knew that he would most likely be stuck there until the age of 16, which he absolutely would not do. One night, he pickpocketed Grelod’s key to the front door, and made his first foray into Riften.

He stole some goods from the market under the cover of darkness and pawned them off the next day in exchange for a tankard and a woolen blanket. With the orphanage being too close to the marketplace and worried about getting caught and brought back, he made himself a corner on the planks along Beggar’s Row and wandered through town trying to find jobs. Of course, nobody wanted a ten year old, and with despair, Brynjolf was left with no choice but to either beg or thieve. He worked at night, picking the pockets of guards and whoever happened to be around, breaking into houses and shops, and keeping whatever he could find just for a hot meal at the end of every day. He grew bolder, and started working during the day when people were at work and too busy to notice the sneaking shadow of a child behind them.

One day, as he was making his way past the Jarl’s Palace, he noticed a Breton man in interesting armour walking around the corner. Brynjolf’s eyes were fixed on the blade he carried at his waist, polished and glinting in the sunlight. He followed him inconspicuously, until the man stopped by the door to the Ratways, opposite from the path where Brynjolf had made his home. As the man was busy trying to find the key to unlock the door, he found his chance and snatched the blade, quickly leaping into the filthy canal and swimming away before the man could do anything. Unfortunately for him, he suddenly felt his entire body freeze and was lifted straight into the air and onto the planks, as the man had cast a spell of some sort on him. Unable to move and fearing he would be killed right then and there, Brynjolf was surprised when the man commented on his audacity and skill, that was good but could use some polishing. He introduced himself as Mercer Frey, and told him to bring back two jewelled flagons within 24 hours. He would be waiting at the other end of the Ratways.

Unsure of what to do but sensing some sort of opportunity with the mysterious Mercer, he decided to take him up on the challenge. Taking advantage of the empty houses while everyone was working for the day, Brynjolf easily found the two jewelled flagons within a matter of hours and made his way towards the Ratways. Unfortunately for him, not being a Riften native, he had no idea what to find in there. Upon sneaking in, he bumped into a trio of bandits, whom he cut down with pleasure (his hatred for bandits since the death of his parents continued to haunt him for the rest of his life). Skirting his way around traps, skeevers, and crumbling walkways, he finally made it to the end of the gauntlet and found Mercer at the end, talking with a girl named Vex, a young man in his 20s named Delvin, and a teenage boy called Molgrom. They all sat down at a dingy table in The Ragged Flagon, talking about the murder of former Guildmaster Gallus Desidenius by the traitor Karliah, and how to restore the Guild to its former glory. Brynjolf was officially the youngest member of the Thieves Guild in the 4th Era, and was invaluable for his ability to crawl into tight spaces and his innocuous, childish appearance.

This was the beginning of the Riften branch of the Thieves Guild as we know it today. In time, Mercer Frey left Brynjolf in charge of recruiting, and they wanted only the best and brightest thieves for the Guild in order to maintain their crumbling dominance across Skyrim. Maven Black-Briar was the Guild’s number one client, and as their loyalest patron, was extended the Guild’s protection, though it meant less and less by the year. Over the next few years, Brynjolf learned the art of stealth, picking locks, honing his fighting skills, and finding sensitive information he could use against the Guild’s marks. Despite constantly being scoffed at by Mercer, rumours that the Guild had made a pact with the Daedric Prince, Nocturnal, swirled through the cisterns, but were brushed off whenever it was mentioned. Delvin was convinced they were somehow cursed because of it. Brynjolf was sent across Skyrim to work on jobs that were doled out, yet somehow, the Guild began to slip further into irrelevance. Its formidable grip across Skyrim began to weaken, and slowly their private alchemist, blacksmith, traders, and even trusted fences and members left.

Mercer claimed he did everything he could to keep the golden age under Gallus together, but the fall to obscurity came hard and abruptly. Brynjolf was intrigued by the story of when the three leaders set out on a secretive heist mission, while the rest of the Guild were instructed to remain where they were for fear of endangerment. Weeks later, Mercer came back, dishevelled. The heist had gone horribly wrong and Karliah had turned her back on the Guild and assassinated Gallus. She disappeared, and was never brought to justice. Mercer was now the sole leader of the Guild, and when Brynjolf turned 22, he was named second in command.

This leads us to the story you know. Two years later, desperately trying to recruit new members in Riften and bring back the Guild’s luck, Brynjolf spotted me in my rags at the Bee and Barb. The rest, as they say, is history.

[kwa-mii]

Mistakes / Aftermath

So this is my first ladybug fic?? inspired by @miraculous-weeks. The prompt for this one was Mistakes / Aftermath and I tried to squeeze both ideas in a little bit because why not. This is also one of my first times writing angst (it’s not my forté) but I tried really hard and I think I like it! Hopefully I’ll be able to write some more pieces for other prompts throughout the week ~

Mistakes / Aftermath a ML angst fic with hints of LadyNoir (1193 words)

Warnings: blood and bodily harm

Adrien was a man in demand.

The schedule Nathalie had set up for him by his father's instruction was often gruelling. Up at six, cardio, off to school, fencing, an hour for homework, video conference for a client, more homework, recreational slot, music, more physical training, meal, bed.

Sometimes, a modelling campaign would supercede this rigorous schedule. Sometimes it was his duty as Chat Noir. The pressure of being a celebrity, twofold, engulfed most of what remained of his energy. Some weeks, when things got really hectic, he would find his that his increasing dependence on naps would cut out entire erratic chunks of time from his day.

Occasionally, these interruptions came into conflict with one another. Maybe Chat Noir would have to bring a shoot to a close; his Paris, and his lady, were far more important than an upcoming atelier. It was rarer that his duty as a model interfered with his duty as a hero. But it happened.

Lipstick and powder rubbing off on the edges of his catsuit: embarrassing, but not an issue. His suited silhouette blurring against a billboard of his other self; dangerous to his identity, but to no one else. His schedule: a mistake.

Cooped up in a studio, it could be hard to tell when danger coiled in the Parisian boulevards. The make up artists and agents and interns, who hung on the peripherals on their phones, may just as likely be whispering observations into the director's ear as warnings of an external threat. The unflappable artist would very rarely give anything away, and Adrien could not even show concern without ruining a shot and being chastised for it.

Ladybug would often chastise him as well, when he turned up late and she batted away his (not so) idle flirtation. Being late was, on the whole, okay. His partner was more than capable - she was amazing, miraculous! - and she forgave him; "I don't know what your civilian life is like," she told him once, cutting into his apology, realising before he did that his ring was beeping and time was too short for his regrets, "But if being late to a fight means that you're protecting your secret as well as the people around you, I think that's more than okay. It's good to have you here but I understand if you can't always make it. Evil never rests but us good guys definitely have to!"

The words were a relief, but what Ladybug didn't understand was that at the top of the list of people he wanted to protect was her.  And Adrien, of all people, could not rest; a cat always sleeps with its eyes half open.

So when he was stuck in a basement, shooting a campaign for a new range of boots, and it became clear to him that something was going on outside - a frenzy that creative fever could not explain - he became restless.

"Monsieur director, may I quickly go to the bathroom?"

"No, stay, we're producing some very good shots here," - code for: we think you'll be unsafe if you leave this room and we can't lose an asset/risk the scandal.

"Monsieur, please, I'm feeling very unwell," - code for: my version of unsafe is different to yours, and you'll be damned if I can't handle myself.

"You look fine on camera. It must just be the lighting that's making you feel dizzy. Someone fetch him some water."

So Adrien sipped his water, glowering at the camera. Maybe his instincts were wrong, and he had nothing to fear. Maybe he genuinely was on good form today. Maybe he just hadn't slept enough - this, after all, was not unusual.

But he couldn't convince himself of this, and feigning nausea again, used the next cup of water to douse himself and, barking out apologies and promising to clean himself off, hurried from the room. Ignoring the swears that followed him, he ducked into an alcove and transformed, ready now to come to his lady's aid.

He found her at l'Arc de Triomphe, crouched atop the great arch as she bid the small white butterfly goodbye. He berated himself for his lateness. He was proud of her, awed as he always distantly was, for managing alone. With such grace, such a taste for the picturesque, as she...

No, she wasn't crouched, she was sprawled. Her legs were hunched beneath her awkwardly. She did not go to reassure the recently de-akumatised citizen.

Adrien rushed over, vaulted himself onto the arch, ready to apologise and help her recover, to make up for his lateness. The face under her mask was flushed with exertion - it must really have been a difficult fight.

But he was mistaken. The face under her mask was flushed with blood.

Adrien dropped his baton, mouth slack, "Oh my god... Ladybug..."

She looked up, squinting through the blood that dropped into her lashes, "Oh, Chat. You're late to the party."

How... how could she think this was the time to make jokes? He saw past her confidence in a flash. She was hurt. This was the first time she had faced a whole battle alone and she was hurt and it was his fault for not being there. He crept closer, hands trembling, wiping the place where her mask was beginning to brown, "Ladybug... I... how... what happened?"

"I'll be fine," she said, but winced when he touched her, sucked in air through her teeth as he tried to shift the weight from her crumpled leg, "The akuma was a wrestler so, I mean, it was good practice for my self defense."

"I'm sorry I wasn't there. I failed you - I let you down - I..."

"You did what you could. You tried to make it."

"It wasn't enough."

Was it ever enough? What was the use in trying when so often the villains would use him, render him useless. He was weak and he knew he was nothing without her, his power was nothing without hers to lay these ghosts to rest. All his hands had the power to do was to hurt... and yet he'd never imagined Ladybug would be the one who'd end up hurting.

Her fractured leg was immovable, which made no sense since her Lucky Charm should surely have fixed it, and the blood... so much blood, too much for her suit to disguise. He felt sick. His mind buzzed, and so did his eyes. Tears lapped at the edges of his vision.

What could he now do without destroying something else? How could he atone for his negligence, his pivotal mistake?

In front of him, a ladybug with its wings torn off, unable to fly.

Her miraculous beeped. Then, silence.

"I-I don't know if I can get down," she admitted, voice breaking and betraying.

What could he do now? He had to heed her plea, but he didn't know where to go from there. He scooped her up and pressed her close to the heart that shattered as she yelped in pain, and brought her down the side of the arch, staggering into an alleyway, desperately trying to find a way to protect both her injuries and her identity. Was there any?

What could he do?

He groped along the alley, eyes shut lest the transformation was sudden, stumbling over his feet and hearing her sharp intake of breath with each mistep. This pain was his fault. He should have been a better partner, a better friend, more reliable. Now look at her. Look at /him/, the monster still stalking the streets.

Yes, Adrien was a man damned.

[zell-dincht]

It's High-namura Noon

Chapter 4 Rating: M, just a brief jerkin’ it scene Summary: It’s extremely difficult for Hanzo to deny his attraction to McCree Notes: Soooorrryy sorry I’ve been behind on all my fic and this was the garbage I decided to crank out! Idk why I was just feelin these guys. (Also on AO3!!)

———

Riding with Jesse McCree turned out to be not quite as awful as anticipated.  Hanzo didn’t care to talk, but the cowboy seemed to talk a little too much.  As they drove down Route 66, Jesse offered an abundance of knowledge about the area.  He’d spent most of his life around the highway, so he was able to point out every tourist trap to avoid and highlighted the more gritty, authentic sights to see.

Of course, Hanzo reminded him several times that this wasn’t a vacation.  He had to find his brother as quickly as possible, which allowed no spare time for sightseeing.  Still, there was a part of him that enjoyed listening to Jesse speak.  The cadence of a thick Southern accent could be difficult to follow sometimes, but it had its own unique charm.  The cowboy seemed proud and excited to share his homeland, which Hanzo found endearing, though he would never admit that.  He understood taking pride in home, and almost wished he could show Jesse a bit of Japan.

Almost.  Hesitant as he was to allow Jesse in the car, there was no way Hanzo planned to invite this foreigner to Hanamura.  It wasn’t likely they’d keep in contact after they reached Padre Island, anyway, so he simply focused on the journey and listened to whatever topic the cowboy felt like discussing at the moment.

Just as everything seemed to have taken a turn for the better, the old junker of a car decided to sputter and slow down to a stop in a middle-of-nowhere desert road.

“What’s wrong?  What have you done?”  Hanzo frowned and shot the cowboy an accusatory glare.

“What I’ve done?” Jesse scoffed.  “Believe me, I don’t want to be stuck here any more than you do.”

“The car was just fine when I was driving it.”

“And that’s a damn near miracle in itself,” the cowboy replied as he began to unfasten his seatbelt and pulled a lever to pop the hood.  “I mean, look at this thing.  Ain’t you Asians supposed to be into like, really tricked out cars and stuff?”

“Well, are all Americans this ignorant, or is it just you?” Hanzo snapped back.

Jesse responded to the insult with laughter.  Not at Hanzo, but it was more of a self-deprecating laugh.  “Ya got me there.”

Hanzo knew he wouldn’t contribute much to fixing whatever broke down, so he simply waited in the car while the other man looked over the engine.  However, the heat quickly grew too unbearable to remain in the stuffy car for very long, so Hanzo stepped out of the car and leaned against an old wooden fence running along the side of the road.

By now, Jesse had removed his sarape, rolled up his sleeves, and undone a couple buttons from the top of his shirt as he poked around under the hood.  There were dark smudges of grease spotted over his clothes and arms, and even a couple spots on his face where he attempted to wipe off beads of sweat as they rolled down his tanned skin.  As much as Hanzo tried not to stare, there was an odd rugged appeal to this cowboy covered in sweat and engine grease and a hint of hair poking out where his shirt exposed his chest.

“Yep,” Jesse announced decidedly, bringing Hanzo out of his daze.  The cowboy hooked his thumbs at his belt buckle and continued, “I got no clue what I’m lookin’ at.”

Hanzo knit his eyebrows together, quickly remembering that he should be annoyed by this man, instead of admiring his physique.  “So call a mechanic.”

“Love to.  Got a number to call?”

Of course he didn’t, and his burner phone didn’t have any internet connection to look one up, so Hanzo simply fell silent.

“C’mon.  It’s about 20 miles to the next town.  Better hoof it if we wanna get there before dark.”

“You cannot be serious,” Hanzo frowned.

“Got any better ideas?” Jesse gave a shrug and draped his sarape over a shoulder as he started walking down the road.

There really didn’t seem to be much of a choice, so Hanzo followed along.  With any luck, perhaps another car would come down the road and give them help.  Though, thinking back to the way he heartlessly ditched Jesse on the side of the road, Hanzo didn’t have much faith in being rescued by a kind stranger.

After several minutes of walking in the scorching Texas heat, the wooden fence along the road ended, and in its place, a steel barbed wire fence continued on to the horizon.  These fences must have indicated someone owned property out here, but wherever it was, there were no houses visible from the road.  Hanzo might have suggested seeking out whoever had put up these fences, but the last thing he needed was to lose his way on some stranger’s property.  Especially after tales he heard of how much Americans love guns - and after he experienced it at the hands of Jesse’s Deadlock Gang - Hanzo would have very much preferred to avoid a rancher who would shoot first and ask questions later.

“Hey, Han,” the cowboy spoke up and nodded to the field, “check it out.”

Hanzo followed his line of sight to spot a team of horses idly grazing in the field.  He glanced back to Jesse, slowly piecing together what the cowboy meant to do.

“McCree…” Hanzo spoke warningly, but was answered with a wide grin and a mischievous gleam in Jesse’s eye.

“You didn’t wanna walk, right?”  The cowboy slung his sarape over the barbed wire to keep his clothes from snagging as he seemed to effortlessly hop over the fence.

Hanzo felt it was safe to assume Jesse had done this before, but that didn’t mean he was comfortable with it.  “I will not take part in your horse thievery,” he announced and continued down the road.

“Suit yourself,” Jesse replied.  He didn’t seem too bothered as he grabbed his sarape and made his way towards the herd.

As Hanzo continued alone down the road, he stewed in anger towards himself that he actually believed Jesse could be anything more than a common thief.  Here he was, alone and stranded again, all thanks to the cowboy’s selfishness.  He didn’t need Jesse anyway, Hanzo told himself.  All he had to do was follow this road to the next town, where he could find someone to fix the car, and then he’d be on his way.

Though, the longer he walked, the more unbearable the heat began to feel.  Hanzo was thirsty and exhausted, but he had rigorous discipline training since he was a child.  He pushed forward, feeling that he had already come a long way, and it wouldn’t be much further to the next town.

When he came across the next sign, however, Hanzo almost sank to his knees in despair as he saw there were still fifteen miles to go.  It felt as though he had been walking for ages, but he had only gone five miles.  He leaned against the sign, pausing to catch his breath as he mentally cursed this ridiculously large State with all this open, unused land.

A moment later, he heard a steady clacking noise approaching from the rear.  He looked up, not proud of the relieved feeling that came over him as he saw Jesse McCree trotting up to him on horseback.

The cowboy stopped the horse as he approached Hanzo and gave a low whistle as he looked over the other man.  “So how’s walking turned out for ya?  Lookin’ pretty rough.”

“I’ll manage,” Hanzo replied with a huff.

“Or you can come on up and ride on with me,” Jesse offered, extending a hand.

“That is a stolen animal.  I already told you I refuse to be an accomplice in your crime.”  To emphasize his point, Hanzo turned away and continued walking.

“Have it your way,” the cowboy answered, but continued slowly, keeping pace with Hanzo.  “But I’ll keep right here with you, and when the heat exhaustion gets you, I’m haulin’ your pretty little heinie up here whether you like it or not.”

Hanzo’s face heated up, which he convinced himself was from the sun.  There was no way he’d fall for such cheap flattery.  Besides, he was sure it was just a manner of speech.  It was unlikely the cowboy would call any part of Hanzo pretty, let alone his backside.

Still, the exhaustion really was getting to him, and seeing that Jesse still wouldn’t leave him alone, Hanzo decided to swallow his pride.  “Very well,” he sighed and turned to face the other man.  “Help me up.”

Jesse gladly reached out a hand and helped pull him up onto the horse.  As Hanzo situated himself behind the other man, he tried to not push into the cowboy’s personal space any more than he had to, but once the horse began to move, Hanzo found it was extremely difficult to hold himself up with no saddle or stirrups.

“Hold tight, darlin’,” Jesse warned before kicking the horse to a trot.

Hanzo had no choice but to wrap his arms around the other man’s waist, chest pressed close to the cowboy’s back.  He caught his heart pounding faster at the pet name, but quickly reminded himself that Jesse also called the car “darling.”  It was absolutely ridiculous that he would react to the cowboy like this.  Yes, the man was handsome, but he was also a loud, obnoxious, petty thief.  He was beneath a man of Hanzo’s standing.

And yet… Jesse smelled fantastic.  It made no sense, after he spent the day in the sun, digging around under the hood of the car.  On top of that, Hanzo could feel the other man’s muscles through his shirt, and despite a bit of a soft layer over his stomach, Jesse had some fairly solid abs.  Hanzo also couldn’t help but notice how the leather of Jesse’s chaps spread over thick, muscular thighs as he tightly gripped the horse with his legs.  He found himself grateful for the uncomfortable ride, because being pressed this close to the other man, there may have been a problem without the rough bouncing of the horse’s gait.

Those fifteen miles seemed to pass by much faster, now that the journey was more pleasant.  Hanzo’s legs cramped and ached, but it was all worth it to be this close to Jesse.  It wasn’t right to feel this way.  Hanzo was more than aware of this, and he constantly ran a list of the cowboy’s faults over and over in his mind.  Unfortunately for him, logic just could not overcome that basic, instinctive hunger that had begun to grow.

There was some level of attraction here.  This was a fact Hanzo reluctantly accepted, but it was purely superficial.  Just because he felt a certain way didn’t mean he had to act on any of this.  It was only a matter of time before they finally reached Padre Island, and then Hanzo could return home with Genji and put this foolishness behind him.  All he had to do was continue acting as though nothing was wrong.

As they reached the edge of town, the sun had already begun to set.  Jesse stopped the horse outside of a run-down motel with an actual hitching post outside.  Hanzo was stunned that any place would still have such a thing, but considering this was a small town in the middle of nowhere, he supposed there were plenty of country folk who still enjoyed riding their horses around.

The two men hopped off their mount, and Hanzo could feel a fire shooting through his legs.  Jesse seemed mostly fine as he grabbed a rope to tie around the horse’s neck.  His walk seemed a bit bow-legged, but Hanzo, on the other hand, needed a moment to stretch and rub the ache in his thighs.

Once Jesse finished tying up the horse, he turned to the other man and noticed his discomfort.  “Feelin’ sore?”  He walked past Hanzo, but paused to give him a firm smack on the bottom.  “Bath might help.”

Hanzo jumped in surprise, hands shooting to protect his backside, but Jesse had already moved on towards the door of the motel.  “How dare you–!”

The cowboy chuckled, amused by his companion’s anger.  “Wait right there.  I’ll get us a room.”

Trusting Jesse wouldn’t mess up such a simple thing, Hanzo waited outside with their stolen horse, worrying over how they would get it back to the proper owner without being caught.  He didn’t have much time to think on it, though, because Jesse quickly returned with the key to their room.

The cowboy led the way and opened the door, but as Hanzo entered the room, he stopped dead in his tracks, frowning deeply at the single king-sized bed in the middle of the room.  “This isn’t right.  They’ve given us the wrong room.”

“Sorry, darlin’, but this ain’t the Hilton,” Jesse replied as he flopped down on the mattress.  “Single-bed rooms are all they’ve got to offer.”

“Then we will find another motel.”  Hanzo turned to leave, but Jesse quickly bounced back to his feet and placed a hand on the other man’s shoulder.

“You really wanna get back up on that horse?  After such a long ride, I bet you’re feelin’ it pretty bad…”  The cowboy slid his hand down and gave Hanzo’s inner thigh a light squeeze.  “…right around here.”

Hanzo gasped and tried to quickly jump away, but he was too close to the wall.  He turned to shoot Jesse an angry glare, but the cowboy didn’t seem to mind.  He placed his hand just above Hanzo’s shoulder to prop himself up as he leaned in with that cocky grin on his face.  This was bad.  There was no horse knocking into Hanzo’s groin to keep himself from reacting to the other man.

“So what’ll it be?  You stayin’?” Jesse asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I need a bath,” Hanzo quickly replied and shoved his way past the other man to get to the bathroom.

After locking the door behind him, Hanzo took a quick shower to wash away the sweat and grime before filling up the tub with steaming hot water.  As he tried to relax and ease his aching muscles, his mind inevitably wandered back to thoughts about Jesse McCree.  Hanzo could have easily begun his meditation techniques to stay focused, but he worried about sharing a bed for the night.  Perhaps it would be best, after all, to relieve some of this tension.

He let his mind wander back to the image of Jesse digging around in the car, covered in grease.  He remembered the cowboy’s thighs as he held on to the horse, but instead, Hanzo imagined how those thighs would feel wrapped around his own waist instead.  It didn’t take long before his cock twitched with need.  Hanzo eagerly took himself in a firm grip, fist pumping over his length as he pictured Jesse above him, riding him at a gallop, and that voice - that gruff, husky drawl whispering “darlin’” in Hanzo’s ear, begging him for more.

He must have been more wound up than he realized - it didn’t take much longer before Hanzo finally hit his peak.  With his free hand, he bit down on a knuckle to try and keep quiet as he released into the tub, slowly stroking with his thumb until he spilled every drop.

Hanzo relaxed with a content sigh, enjoying one brief moment of peace before immediately regretting what he had done.  His knees felt weak and shaky, but Hanzo knew he couldn’t sit much longer in this dirty, lukewarm water.  But not only did he have to force himself out of the tub, he had to return to the bedroom and look Jesse in the eye just after he had fantasized himself balls-deep in the man.  With a reluctant groan, he carefully pulled himself to his feet and drained the water before using a towel to dry off.

Since all his belongings were still in the car, Hanzo didn’t have much of a choice but to sleep in his old clothes.  He pulled on his underwear and jeans, but decided the shirt was too soaked in sweat to wear overnight.  He finally opened the door and found Jesse lounging on the bed wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs.  He had funny-looking farmer tan lines around his collar and arms, but that hardly mattered compared to the rest of him.  The muscles in his chest and arms were perfectly sculpted, and the hair on his chest trailed down his stomach and vanished beneath the waistband of his underwear.  And those thighs… Somehow they turned out to be even better than imagined.  Allowing his gaze to linger a bit too long, Hanzo decided he was grateful after all that he was already too spent to have an involuntary reaction to the other man.

“About time,” the cowboy spoke up as he hopped to his feet.  “I’m dyin’ to get rid of all this engine grease.”

“My apologies,” Hanzo muttered as he made his way to the bed.

As Jesse helped himself to the shower, Hanzo sat on the edge of the mattress, absently running his fingers through his hair in lieu of a brush.  Once he was satisfied, he tied back as much as he could, though his bangs still framed the sides of his face.

Just as he was prepared to settle in, Hanzo noticed that Jesse had left the bathroom door open a crack.  Had he realized it hadn’t shut all the way?  It must have been an accident.  Hanzo paused, wondering if he should close the door for the other man, but in that moment, the water turned off and Jesse stepped out of the shower.  Hanzo didn’t mean to ever invade the other man’s privacy, but his eyes just so happened to be pointed in the right direction to get a glimpse of Jesse’s incredible backside.

Hanzo quickly turned away and shut his eyes, but he still couldn’t shut out the image of that muscular back, the curve of the cowboy’s hip bone, and that round, perfect ass.  Face buried in his hands, Hanzo took slow, deep breaths, trying to calm himself and focus his mind.  It almost worked, until he felt the dip of the mattress as Jesse settled down beside him.  Hanzo sat rigidly upright, eyes widening as if he had somehow been caught in the middle of a guilty act.

“Feelin’ alright?” the cowboy asked.  “Actin’ a mite jumpy.”

“I’m fine,” Hanzo replied with a heavy sigh.  “I’m only tired.”

“Well…”  Jesse grinned and settled back against the pillows.  He patted the mattress beside him before folding his arms behind his head.  He still wore only his boxer briefs, and Hanzo couldn’t help but allow his gaze to linger.  “C’mon and get comfy.”

Though he had no other choice, Hanzo still hesitated for a moment before settling in under the sheets beside the other man.  He was overly self-conscious of imposing on Jesse’s personal space, so Hanzo perched himself uncomfortably at the edge of the bed, making sure to take as little of the blanket as possible.

He shut his eyes, taking slow, even breaths to try and fall asleep, but a light touch on his left shoulder caused his eyes to snap open.  Jesse’s hands were rough and calloused, but his touch was so gentle as he traced over the lines of Hanzo’s tattoo.

“Can - I - help - you?” Hanzo asked through clenched teeth, his whole body rigid.

“Just admirin’ your ink.  Damn fine work,” Jesse replied as his fingers trailed down Hanzo’s arm, following the curve of his bicep.  “What’s it mean?”

“The dragon is a symbol of my family crest,” he replied, voice nearly a whisper.

Jesse finally removed his hand, but leaned in closer, stretching his arm forward over the other man.  “You’ve seen mine, yeah?”  A simple black outline of a skull with wings sprawled over the cowboy’s left forearm.  “Not as impressive as yours, but it’s kinda like a family symbol too.”  He paused to give a heavy sigh, dropping his arm to let his hand rest on his companion’s waist.  “‘Least I thought we were like family.”

Hanzo swallowed thickly, trying not to think about how close their bodies were, that they were actually touching one another as they lay in bed together.  “Have you considered covering it up?” Hanzo suggested.  “There are many talented artists capable of creating new art after you’ve changed your mind.”

“Maybe I should get me a big ol’ sleeve like you got,” Jesse spoke around a yawn.  “Maybe horses instead of a dragon.”

“That would look ridiculous.”  Hanzo didn’t know how he managed to speak at all.  His throat felt tight and it was almost difficult to breathe.  Jesse still hadn’t pulled away.  Why hadn’t he pulled back?

“S’nice,” the cowboy muttered, though Hanzo wasn’t sure what he was referring to.

Was he attempting to argue that his horse idea was nice?  Or could it have been that he felt comfortable lying here together?  Jesse sounded barely awake, so Hanzo could only guess what he had meant.

In fact, he wasn’t sure if Jesse was even still awake at all.  The cowboy’s breath had become slower and steadier, and Hanzo suspected the man might have been drooling in his hair.

“McCree?”  Hanzo paused, but there was no answer.  More softly, he whispered, “Jesse?”

The cowboy was most definitely asleep, still wrapped around his companion.  After Hanzo had taken such care not to invade Jesse’s personal space, the man still went ahead and fell asleep with his chest pressed close against his companion’s back.  So close, his breath was warm on the nape of Hanzo’s neck, causing the hair to raise up on his arms, but he just couldn’t bring himself to pull away.

It felt too nice to resist this little indulgence, so Hanzo allowed himself to relax, for once, and even rested back slightly against the other man.  That night in Jesse’s arms was the most restful sleep Hanzo had felt in a long time.

[wordsorbet-blog]

My Personal Bio for TWD’s Negan

See... before all this bullshit, he was the prized coach and gym teacher at the local high school. Life was once a blissful picture for him. He had a beautiful wife and was expecting a son. Things didn't seem like they could go wrong. Until the day he was called into a meeting with the school board regarding allegations pressed against him for sexual harassment. Some of the boys who had failed his class decided to be vindictive sh*ts and made accusations against him, claiming he molested and 'touched them while they were showering in the locker rooms.' That was when his entire world fell to pieces. Lucille who was in her 5th month of pregnancy had come down with late stage ovarian cancer. It had spread to every vital organ that could simply not be replaced. There was a chance his son would make it through to delivery, but even still ran precarious health risks.

Job lost, wife dying, son was now the one hope he held for his future and kept him motivated to keep them comfortable with a roof over their head and endure the endless fights about the trials and court dates in regards to his record. A tension had come over him like a constant blanket. There would now be various holes in the wall from when he saw red and felt the need to discharge his energy into whatever was closest to him. See when he was a kid, he was gifted in sports and dabbled in all of them. His personal favorite was baseball. He had tried out for the minors and it is where he met his beloved Lucille. He had a record for most homeruns in the history of his team. His bat was on display in their home above their mantel. There would be many nights he would slump down in frustration looking up at that bat, thinking one day he could teach his son to weild it and have a far better life than he could imagine.He was now working at the local used car lot where 'the service was swell and deals were a steal!' He gagged everytime he had to utter that ridiculous slogan. "Welcome to Merches.." He would attempt to get away without having to say it, but an incredulous evil eye from the balding boss who looked as though whatever strands he had left were an overused brillo pad, insisted with a single look that he relay the rest of the stupid advertisement. His days were long, drawn out and he would be more than tempted to give him a solid sucker punch, but with his situation being precarious, he refrained and exersized his restraint for the greater good. Eyes glazed over as he heard the muffled griping in the background as Baldy Boss man finished his rant. "Yes Sir.. I will make sure to locate those papers and fix any errors and place a call to the family to make sure they are taken care of." He rose from his seat as 'Merch' shooed him out of his office.

Finally the end of the day, where he would get into his precious 1968 Dodge Charger and rev his engine as a reminder he hadn't lost his manhood while in the throws of submission to the working world and its rigors. He sped off to the pharmacy where he noted more authority on the road than usual and strange occurances as he wondered what in god's name was going on. He shrugged it off until he noted a cop car in the lot riddled with barbed wire clinging to the grill. Blood and gore covering it. He slowly wandered past it as he looked around. He didn't see any casualties, but the smear of blood and guts leading to the store would have indicated fatality for certain. Puzzlement now ran through his mind as sirens punctuated the air. Helicopters and service men were starting to flood down the local streets. He knew it was a state of emergency and he would need to act fast. He had nothing on him to defend himself.Casually moving back to the cop car, he tugged the barbed wire from the grill of the vehicle and cautiously made his way into the disheveled store. Moving to the back he peered around. Panic seemed to still ensue outside and his pace quickened. He said to himself "Fuck it.. " and managed to grab a few bags and raided the pharmacy. His wife was sick and he would be damned if they were going to be stuck barricaded in their home without any medical care. He heard a sickened groan. Inhuman as he turned and saw a corpse, yes.. a CORPSE dragging its body along the floor of the store toward him. Teeth gnawing and clacking in desperation to get to him. He wouldn't stick around to find out what exactly it wanted, it was pretty fucking obvious. "What the Fuck is going on!" He took the barbed wire and swung it around the goon's neck and severed the head from its body. What got his goat was the head was STILL in motion! "FUCKIN CHRIST!!" He took a heel to it and squashed it like a bug.

He grabbed his bags and other assorted goodies and made for his car. He headed home where he would hear the reports of the breakout and the radio warning everyone to stay barricaded inside until help arrived. "No shit Sherlock..."

 ---------------------------------------

When Lucille had seen him, she held fast to her growing belly and noted the bloody mess. He was thankful she was alright and kissed her forehead even as she complained about his appearance and her worry for him. "I am fine.. Jesus... Looks like we need to hunker down. I will get some materials and get us all set for now until they figure this sh*t out." She had kept nagging at him even as he walked out the door to get started. He couldn't argue considering she was probably scared sh*tless. She was dying and carrying their unborn child. It was a lot on her shoulders, and he would make damn sure he did right by her. He wasn't a bad man, not by any stretch.

Days had passed.. it felt like months. Supplies were dwindling and Lucille's condition was much worse. He pandered to her every need, but many nightshe found himself sobbing out of earshot. What he didn't expect, was his life was about to change. As he sat looking up with tear filled eyes at the bat he dreamed about holding with his son, it was then a sick familiar groan could be heard from behind him. Shooting up like a top, he turned to see his nightmare had become a reality. Tears spilling with aimless protests of 'No..no no" he had no time to grieve.. seconds would pass before he did the only thing he could. Grabbing the bat above the mantle, he swung with all his might. Killing her instantly and dropping to his knees. That wasn't even the worst of it as her belly began to move with a sick wave and he picked up his bat once more and with a scream of anguish.. bore down in a heavy blow against her belly. It sent guts and blood spewing to decorate the ceiling above. A switch flipped within him. An anger and devestation that couldn't be quenched.

The world wouldn't do him any favors. In fact it seemed to have it out for him. So, he would flip it the bird and make it his own. No one would stand up to him. Rage taking over and along with his need to keep his beloved close to him in some way, he created what you would see now as Lucille. The barbed wire from that police car was now what wrapped around the crimson coated wood of his precious baseball bat. To hell with anyone who stood in his way, and slowly he developed a following as walkers couldn't seem to touch him. His leadership skills won in any alpha struggle on the road. No one would question him.

---------------------------------

The factory they had claimed was now cleared out and rooms were furnished and resources stocked. Outposts were developed with arms to last a lifetime. He was the leader of the Saviors. Everyone was proud to call themselves Negan after him. A new world with a new leader. He would now exert his humor into every facet of his rule. He wouldn't abide by disobedience and would strike down any who questioned it. Decorating his fence on the outskirts with their now decaying bodies that lunged and discouraged others from daring to enter the Sanctuary to steal what they would never get.