#Prison: Run and gun generator

[prettydaisygirl]

OMG. I cant beleive I found a new writer who can feed my james potter delusion! Generally I'm a silent supporter but after reading your Aus, you literally have unlocked a new part of my brain. Your ideas are truly amazing ❤️ pls keep blessing us with your works🙏🏻

I feel like the au idea which I have in mind you can really express it.so may I pls request a college au with fratjames potter x reader.where they both are acquaintance and something happens.due to some misunderstanding reader is the receiving end of James wrath.after realising his mistake he makes a sweet apology gesture to reader and wants to get in her good books.

It's just a just my apology if you couldn't really get the idea( english is my 2nd language and I don't feel confident in it)

P.s pls feel free to ignore it ❤️Have a wonderful Day/Night💗

Hello, my love! Thank you so much for the request! This is my first request so I'm a little nervous haha, I hope this is what you were looking for :) Your words are so sweet, and you really made my day! Also, I'm kind of obsessed with frat!James now... Have a wonderful day/night yourself, lovely <3

frat!James Potter x fem!reader who was supposed to bring the beer ✿ 1.4k words

cw: fem reader, marauders as frat bros, alcohol (or lack thereof), armed store robbery with a gun (not described in detail), reader is James' lab partner

james potter masterlist

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part two

James is having a bad night. It’s 8pm on a Friday and he hasn’t had a single drop of alcohol yet. This is unusual, especially given the music blaring through the frat house with enough bass to shake the foundation. There are dozens of people here. Most of them know James even if he doesn’t know them, which is great until it isn’t.

Another one approaches him, some guy by the name of Marty or something.

“Dude,” The guy raises his arms and James’ annoyance skyrockets. He already knows what this guy is about to say. “Where’s the beer?”

“I know,” James grunts at him. Barty, that’s it. “I’m working on it.”

Barty scoffs but James is already pushing past him. He pushes through the crowd, many of whom move quickly to get out of his way. His eyes scan through, looking for someone in particular.

Where the hell are you?

James makes his way to the kitchen, seeing the counters still bare and no sign of you anywhere. He curses under his breath and pulls out his phone, scrolling through his contact list. Just as he presses the call button, Sirius approaches him. James holds up a hand but Sirius speaks anyway.

“Prongs, where are the drinks? If one more Alpha Tau tells me my party sucks, I might go to prison.” James just glares at Sirius’ dramatics, the phone ringing endlessly in his ear. It goes to voicemail and he hangs up with a groan. 

“I thought you said you handled it!” Sirius stresses just as Remus walks into the kitchen, beelining for the two of them.

“I did!” James argues, running a hand through his already unruly hair with a huff. 

“What’s going on?” Remus asks, crossing his arms and looking between James and Sirius with a narrowed stare. “Is this about the beer?”

“Yes!” Sirius stresses again, and points at James, “It’s James’ week to get drinks. But here we are, at 8pm on Friday and…” Sirius gestures to the empty countertops. “No drinks!”

“You tell ‘em, Sirius!” James hears Barty shout from across the kitchen and James fears he and Sirius might both end up in prison together. 

“I thought I handled it.” James tells both of his frat brothers, shrugging a bit.

“What does that mean?” Remus asks, his brow furrowing. “Did you buy the drinks or not?”

James at least has the decency to look sheepish, running a hand over the back of his hair as he inhales through his teeth. “I may have… asked my lab partner to get it for me.”

Sirius gasps, raising a hand to his chest as though clutching his pearls, “I thought pawning drinks off on someone else was against the rules!”

“It is.” Remus tells Sirius, looking at James with an expectant stare. 

“I was using it as an excuse for us to meet up, you know? So the two of us can hang out…” James feels his stomach churn when Sirius’ face bends into a knowing smirk. 

“Oh, I understand…” Sirius winks at James, “To ‘hang out.’” His air quotes make Remus roll his eyes and James glare harshly.

“Someone needs to go get drinks.” Remus reminds the two of them. The party crowd is getting routier behind him. 

“James, it’s your week, so off you go.” Sirius nudges James toward the front door. “You never know, you might find your lover along the way!” 

“Oi, fuck off!” James calls back to him right as the door slams closed behind him. 

As he begins the trek to the store, he attempts to call you several times. Every attempt is met with voicemail. He texts you, and all of them are left unread. James finds frustration and anger building in his gut, not solely from the lack of alcohol but also from being stood up, apparently. James Potter has never been stood up in his life. 

On his seventh attempt to call you, it doesn’t even ring. It goes straight to voicemail. His jaw clenches and his fists ball up and he finds himself spewing words he shouldn’t say, airing his frustrations out to you. He calls you things like selfish and rude, and even a bad friend. 

By the time he turns onto the last street, his anger has mostly turned into disappointment. He’d really been looking forward to seeing you tonight, and though it hadn’t been to sleep with you like Sirius had suggested, he had been considering it your first date. 

James is lost in thought as he approaches the store, steps scraping gently across the pavement. He’s thinking about what he might say to you during your lab on Monday when he hears your voice. It catches his attention immediately and he looks up, eyes searching for you. 

There you are, just as pretty as always, but something’s wrong. You’re standing in front of the store, tear-stains evident on your cheeks as you speak to a police officer. James’ heart sinks into his stomach and he’s by your side before he can stop himself.

“Hey,” His voice is low and soothing, more comforting than he thought he could be but you look up at him like he’s saved your life and his heart pounds. “What’s going on?” 

James’ eyes dart nervously between you and the police officer, but the uniformed man shakes his head a bit. “I’ve got everything I need. You gon’ be okay?” James is a bit confused but he realizes the officer’s words are directed at you when he sees you nodding.

“Yes, sir. Thank you very much.” Your voice is a bit choked and you wipe at your cheeks before turning to him. He feels like he needs to scoop you up in his arms, to do something to help put you back together and get that look out of your eyes. 

“What happened?” James’ hands reach for your arms, settling on your elbows. His thumbs brush over your skin soothingly and you feel tears burning in your eyes again at his gentle movements.

“I was…” You swallow thickly when your voice cracks, “I was trying to get the drinks for your party and some guy came in and he was yelling at the cashier, and he… he had a gun, and I didn’t know what to do and you kept calling me and I was trying to answer but-”

James shushes you before you can continue spiraling, shaking his head. Guilt surges through him, knowing what his texts say. And that voicemail…

“Don’t worry about it.” He assures you, and his dark eyes meet yours. “Is it okay if I hug you?” As soon as you nod, he wraps you in a tight embrace, like he really is trying to put you back together. You both stand like that for a long moment until he feels your body relax, your soft sigh brushing his ear in a puff of warm air. 

James pulls back and moves to cup your face with one hand, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” You tell him with a soft nod and an even softer smile. It’s one that gives James butterflies and he suddenly feels bad having you look at him like that when…

“Just… delete all of those texts from me.” He says, and your brow furrows, lips parting a bit to question him but he speaks again before you can. “And please don’t listen to that voicemail.”

You look to the side before your eyes meet his again, a confused smile on your lips. “What? Why, what did you say?” The smile fades when James doesn’t play off his words like he always does.

“Okay, I’ll delete them.” His face relaxes a bit at your words and he looks back up at the shop. He hears his text notification sound, but he ignores it, his eyes settling on your face again instead. 

“Do you… Are you still coming to the party?” He asks, and he hates the way desperation is plain in his tone. 

“I was hoping to, yeah.” Your smile turns a bit shy and sweet now and James beams, his hands on your shoulders.

“Okay, great! So we’ll get drinks and then walk back together!” His smile falters and he hesitates then, looking back at the store. “Actually, you wait here. I’ll go get drinks. You don’t need to come back inside.” Your heart almost breaks at his consideration for your feelings. You move up on your toes to press a kiss to his cheek.

“Okay,” You say, “I’ll be waiting right here.” 

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© prettydaisygirl

[certaimromance]

𝜗𝜚 The Other Boy Next Door.

Spencer Reid x Neighbor!reader

next chapter | series mastelist | main masterlist

Summary: Spencer is focused on not hurting you and keeping a healthy distance, but his whole world is turned upside down when he hears a male voice in your apartment.

Words: 3,9k.

Warnings & Tags: this is part of a series, check the masterlist to make sure you are in the correct chapter. mention of jail, gun, violence, alzheimer, blood. references to what happened with maeve (no direct mention). painter!reader. post prison reid (with so much trauma). lack of communication. angst. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: This chapter was veryyy difficult to write because I really wanted to show both points of view, and I killed myself researching the deeper consequences of three months of confinement to be realistic with Spencer😭 I hope this makes sense to you.

Most days in apartment 23 were lonely and very decadent.

Generally, Spencer Reid woke alone in a bed that felt far too large for one person, the sheets cool and undisturbed on one side. Coffee came first, a dark, bitter brew that filled the air with its sharp aroma. He would stand by the kitchen window, staring out at the skyline, lost in thoughts that circled endlessly but led nowhere. His medical books were always on the table, their spines cracked and pages marked with notes and highlighter strokes. He pored over them not out of passion but desperation, chasing elusive cures for his mother’s Alzheimer’s. The phone rested nearby, a constant reminder of his work, its silence pressing heavier with each passing hour.

When there was no call, which was really weird, he filled the void with repetition. He’d toast bread or fry eggs for a meager breakfast, then venture out to the coffee shop on the corner. The routine was painfully predictable: the same stale donuts, the same barista with the tired smile, the same seat by the window. Thirty-two minutes, start to finish, every time. If the phone didn’t ring even then, he’d wander aimlessly to the library, where the scent of old paper offered fleeting comfort, or return home to let classical music fill the otherwise suffocating quiet. He was always pleased to hear songs without lyrics that could further suffocate his brain. It was a nice way to wait to be needed.

But one day, the loop cracked. Midway through his meticulous routine, something—or rather someone—broke through the fog of his predictability. You moved in next door.

And then, all of a sudden, his quiet time between classical sonatas, coffee, and huge books was interrupted by your cat, and consequently, you. His whole routine changed right away. He no longer woke up alone in his bed because you and Mittens took up all the space that was left and more. He didn't just buy one coffee anymore; now he bought two, with an extra brownie that you loved. He didn't lock himself away to read non-stop because he had you to talk to and give him the support that no book could ever give him. He stopped listening to so much classical music because you liked watching him analyze the lyrics of your favorite songs. He stopped waiting for calls from work to feel useful because you always seemed to need him.

And he welcomed all the changes, because the biggest one was his favorite: you.

Everything about you captivated him from the moment he saw you hauling an absurd number of canvases into your apartment. You were unlike anyone he’d ever met. Your presence turned the once-sterile hallway into a place of possibility, where running into you felt like a small miracle. But what amazed him most was how you transformed his apartment, a place he once thought of as lonely and very decadent, into a home. It wasn’t just the way Mittens treated his space like her second domain or how your art supplies slowly began to infiltrate his coffee table. It was the warmth you brought with you, the way you made him feel seen and understood in a way he never had before.

But since Spencer was used to it, nothing good lasted. But since Spencer was used to it, he'd rather leave than be left behind again.

You two were almost like strangers now. The warmth that had once filled his days was gone, replaced by a hollow silence that lingered in every corner of his apartment. There were no more mornings waking up together, no shared cups of coffee, or lazy conversations about nothing and everything. Even your casual hallway encounters had dwindled into fleeting moments, a rushed “good morning” as you passed each other without meeting his eyes.

Now, his mornings were cold and solitary once again. He sat alone at the small kitchen table, the other chair pushed neatly against the wall as if to erase any memory of you. The second coffee cup he’d grown so used to buying stayed behind at the shop, and the barista didn’t even ask about the brownie anymore. Instead, he carried a single steaming cup back to his apartment, where it joined the growing pile of books that had reclaimed their place as his only companions.

He buried himself in his medical texts with a desperation that bordered on obsession, but even the words on the page couldn’t hold his attention. He visited his mother at the nursing home you had helped him find, but the comfort he once felt from knowing it was close had turned into an aching reminder of how involved you’d been in every part of his life. And to make things worse, the job that had always been his refuge was gone too. Temporarily suspended, he had nothing to distract him, no cases to pour himself into, and no purpose to latch onto. He was adrift, waiting for his boss to negotiate with the bureau, waiting for his life to have some semblance of meaning again.

This morning was no different from the others. A bleak repetition of what his life had been before you. Spencer sat on his couch with a cup of coffee that had already gone lukewarm. His fingers gripped the edges of an open book, but his eyes skimmed the words without processing them. The air in the apartment was heavy, stagnant, broken only by the soft, repetitive scrape of Mittens’ claws against the fabric of a cushion. The sound grated on him, but he couldn’t bring himself to shoo her away. In truth, he was grateful for the small disruption, even if it came from a cat that seemed to sense his turmoil.

But something changed this time. From the corner of his ear, a sound, a voice, pierced the thin walls of the place. It was not so loud, but it was unmistakable. A man's voice. Deep. Low. Tense. And from your apartment.

His body tensed, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. His heart stopped for a few seconds. The voice was unfamiliar; he knew it wasn't one of his friends because he knew them all, but there was still something about it that made him uneasy. It was almost...harsh. The words, though distorted by distance, still had a tone that made Spencer catch his breath. It wasn't an argument, he didn't even hear your voice respond or even give the slightest sign that you were okay. It wasn't so loud, but the pressure of the voice, the possibilities behind it, didn't sit well with you. Especially since you were always reluctant to let anyone into your home.

At that moment, a deafening crash shattered the fragile stillness of the apartment. The sound reverberated through the walls, shaking picture frames and sending a cold jolt straight down his spine. It was the kind of noise that demanded attention, the kind that twisted in the pit of your stomach and told you that something was horribly wrong.

Then, silence.

No voices. No footsteps. Nothing.

It was the silence that gutted him most. His mind instantly spiraled into the worst-case scenarios. Blood pooling across the floor. Your voice screaming his name in pain, only to be silenced. The flicker of movement as someone fled the scene. He couldn’t stop the flood of images from invading his mind. They were vivid, visceral, and rooted in the darkest parts of his imagination.

The silence dragged him back to the nightmares. The ones he’d woken up to every night in that tiny, suffocating prison cell, his heart racing and his breath shallow. Nightmares of iron bars and shouts echoing down narrow corridors. Nightmares of blood in the courtyard, spilling from faceless bodies while the sun mocked him with its indifferent light. Nightmares of whispered threats and the press of a blade against his ribs. They had told him they’d hurt everyone he loved, and for months, he’d believed them.

He had learned survival then, how to block out the fear, how to guard his thoughts, how to endure. But the nights were a different story. He’d lie on that hard, narrow cot, willing his body to rest while his mind conjured the only thing that could keep him sane: the image of you. You smiling. Laughing. You safe. It was the only thing that had kept him alive in a place that wanted to devour him whole.

And now, this silence threatened to destroy that fragile illusion of safety.

Without even thinking, his hand went to the drawer where he kept his new pistol, and his fingers brushed the cold steel. He paused, thinking about how he never thought he would need it in a place like this, a safe apartment in a decent neighborhood, where the most dangerous thing that had ever happened was Mittens knocking over a vase or spilling his hot coffee. Yet now, everything felt wrong, the voice he’d heard earlier, the crash, the gnawing dread in his chest that whispered, you’re too late, for the second time.

His breathing quickened as his hand closed around the grip, pulling the gun from the drawer. The weight of the gun in his palm momentarily calmed him and made him feel in control again, but his mind was already racing, imagining the worst. What if something had happened to you? What if that voice was threatening you or, worse, trying to hurt you? What if that man had already hurt you and that's why your voice couldn't be heard? What if he failed you like he failed in the past? Spencer tightened his grip on the gun, his mind racing as his feet moved faster toward the half-open door of your apartment.

With his body paralyzed with fear for you and his mind screaming for him to come in and make sure you were safe, the door creaked open just enough for him to see inside.

You were standing in the middle of the room, disheveled but unharmed. The sight of you, alive and unhurt, should have brought him relief, but instead, it only stirred confusion. The kitten-faced shirt he had given you for Christmas was wrinkled, your hair wild and unkempt, and faint streaks of dust and paint covered your hands. His eyes darted past you to the man beside the sink, leaning casually over the counter, focused on his work. The sink was dripping steadily, water pooling beneath the cracked faucet, and there, next to it, lay a jagged shard of broken glass on a rag. The man, dressed in worn work boots and a faded flannel shirt, was tinkering with a wrench, his brow furrowed in concentration as he replaced the faucet head.

Damn.

For the first time, Spencer Reid realized something. His instincts were wrong. His mind had misfired. His thoughts, clouded by the lingering darkness of his past and the fear, had led him to the wrong conclusion. For the first time.

The man’s voice broke the silence. “Good thing you called me when you did,” he said cheerfully. “Could’ve ended up with water damage if this had gone much longer. Would’ve been a real shame for your paintings.”

At the mention of your paintings, your most cherished works, your soul poured onto each canvas, your body tensed, a chill running through you. Instinctively, you turned toward the wall where they were propped, vibrant colors peeking out from behind the half-open door, but it wasn’t the paintings that caught your attention.

It was Spencer.

Your heart slammed in your chest as your eyes met his. His face was tight with something you couldn’t decipher, but your gaze was drawn inexorably to the thing in his hand. The weapon he was awkwardly attempting to hide beneath his jacket. The sight hit you like a punch to the gut, your pulse spiking with a mix of confusion, disbelief, and raw fear. It was like the world shifted on its axis, everything around you turning to static, muffled noise.

You couldn’t speak. Your mouth went dry, your throat constricting. No words could come, not while your mind raced, trying to make sense of this moment that felt like a nightmare, and yet, it was all too real.

The man, Mike, your neighbor, remained oblivious, still focused on the task at hand. “All set here,” he said with satisfaction, wiping his hands on a towel, his back still to Spencer. “Just keep an eye on it, and let me know if anything else leaks.”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to stay composed. “Yeah…thanks. I really appreciate it.”

Spencer shifted his weight, and you saw his hand, tight on the gun, pressing it awkwardly against his side in an attempt to hide it further. It only made things worse. His actions were clumsy, frantic even, as if he couldn’t decide whether to conceal it or confront you. And you saw it all, the frantic, fearful energy that was pulsing in the air between you. But what stung the most wasn’t just the weapon; it was the confusion in his eyes, the distance that had grown between you, and the unsettling realization that he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, tell you why he was here. Why did he have to carry that gun knowing that you had never even liked to be near the drawer where it was kept?

Mike, noticing a subtle shift in the atmosphere but not understanding its source, glanced at Spencer briefly, his expression faltering slightly as if sensing the subtle change. But he said nothing. He simply gathered his tools and offered an awkward, polite nod. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your day,” he said, too focused on his exit to feel the heaviness that hung in the air. “Always happy to help. Just call me if anything else comes up.”

You didn’t speak. You just moved, stepping forward with a forced smile that felt more like a mask, positioning yourself subtly between them. Your movement was calculated, deliberate, blocking Spencer, hiding the gun, trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy. “Will do,” you said, the words sounding like a brittle lie in your own ears. The brightness of your tone was a poor attempt to mask the tightness in your chest, the hurt you couldn’t quite articulate.

With a nod, he headed toward the door, giving you a wave as he left. “Have a good day!”

“You too,” you managed to reply, your voice thin and strained. You barely registered the words before you were practically ushering him out, closing the door swiftly behind him, the finality of the click of the latch echoing in the silence that enveloped the room.

After a moment, you turned slowly, your hand slipping from the doorknob. Your eyes met his, and the look on his face stopped you in your tracks. His expression was raw, his brows drawn together, lips pressed into a thin line, his knuckles white where they clutched the gun now tucked awkwardly against his side. There was fear in his eyes, but also something else, something darker, harder that you never saw before.

“What,” you began, your voice shaking, “were you thinking?”

Spencer opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. His chest heaved, breaths shallow and erratic. His mind, racing at full speed, tried to make sense of the words he needed to say, the ones that would make everything okay, the ones that would make you understand. But nothing fit. Nothing was enough to explain the panic that had taken hold of him, the fear that had driven him to do something he never would’ve imagined.

His gaze darted between your eyes and the gun still clenched in his hand, and a surge of self-loathing flooded him. He looked like a madman. He felt like a madman. His hand twitched, as if it were trying to pull the gun back, to shove it into the recesses of his mind where it belonged. But it was too late. He had already brought it into your life, into your apartment.

You took a cautious step toward him, each movement deliberate, careful. Like you were walking on glass, afraid that the slightest misstep would shatter everything between you. Your eyes flicked down to the gun, and your throat went dry. You swallowed hard, trying to push down the sick feeling in your stomach. “Put it down, please,” you said, your voice steady but thick with unspoken emotions.

For a moment, he didn’t move, his fingers tightening almost imperceptibly around the grip. Then, as if the weight of your words had finally broken through, he blinked and seemed to snap out of a trance. His gaze dropped to the gun in his hand, and a wave of something, shame, regret, maybe even self-loathing, washed over his face. Slowly, carefully, he moved to the table near the entrance and set the weapon down.

The sound of the metal meeting wood was louder than it should have been, echoing in the oppressive silence of your apartment. The sharp clink made you flinch involuntarily, your body tensing as if bracing for something that, thankfully, didn’t come.

“You brought that into my apartment,” you said finally, your voice low and trembling.

“I thought—” he began, but you didn’t let him finish.

“You thought what?” you interrupted sharply, spinning around to face him. Your eyes were blazing, the fury in them cutting through him like a blade. “That you could just storm in here with a gun? That this—” you gestured toward him, your hand shaking, “—was the right thing to do? Even when you know how I feel about…this stuff?”

He knew, of course he did. He knew how much you hated his work and all that it involved, even though you tried hard not to show it every time he told you about it. Spencer knew that anything to do with violence gave you nightmares that only his company and many cartoons could alleviate.

“I thought you were in danger,” he whispered, his voice quieter now but laced with desperation as he took a tentative step toward you. His hands rose slightly, palms outward, as though to show you he wasn’t a threat. He wasn’t trying to intimidate you. “I heard a man’s voice, and then I didn’t hear you at all. There was a crash, something breaking…and I—” His voice cracked, and he clenched his jaw, trying to stop the panic that clawed at him. “I didn’t know what was happening. I thought—God, I thought you were hurt.”

God.

He didn't usually say that word.

“You didn’t know because you didn’t ask.” The words shot out of you like arrows, and the sting was sharp. You took a step back, arms crossed tightly over your chest, trying to shield yourself from the wave of emotion crashing over you. “You didn’t call, you didn’t knock, you didn’t think.”

At that moment, Spencer wasn't sure if he was more hurt by your words or the fear that still haunted your gaze. It was almost as if you were afraid of him, his own mind told him. And it hurt, like a wound that wouldn't stop bleeding.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, and your eyes narrowed as you stood there, fighting to regain control of your emotions. “If you weren’t ignoring me like the plague, you’d know that my apartment flooded a month ago. I’ve been trying to get the plumbing fixed, but I haven’t had the money until now. That’s what I was doing,” you said, your voice trembling but stronger now, the words tumbling out faster than you intended. “That’s why I had someone over today. He was fixing the leak. He’s just—he’s just a plumber, Spencer. He’s our neighbor from the fourth floor.”

His heart hammered in his chest, and for a moment, he just stood there, taking it all in, the weight of your words sinking into him like a stone. The irrational fear that had gripped him moments ago now seemed distant, almost laughable in the face of what he had just done.

He opened his mouth to apologize, but the words were stuck, tangled in the knot of regret and guilt in his throat.

You met his gaze, searching for something, anything, in his eyes that might show you he understood, that he truly realized how wrong he was. But all you saw was the same deep sorrow, the same painful awareness of the damage he had caused.

“I don’t know what you were thinking,” you whispered, your voice barely audible but cutting through the silence. “Or what happened these last three months that changed you so much.” You shook your head slowly, your eyes glistening with unshed tears. “But that wasn’t it. That’s not how you protect someone. That’s not how you show you care.”

The finality in your words hit him like a blow to the chest. Spencer’s shoulders slumped, and for the first time, he looked truly broken. He stood there, vulnerable and raw, his lips parting as if to speak, but all that came out was a quiet, defeated whisper. “You’re right.”

His voice was barely above a breath, but it carried the weight of every ounce of regret he felt. “I don’t know how to do it. I don’t know how to protect you…or anyone.” His gaze dropped, his hand flexing at his side as if he didn’t know what to do with it. “I haven’t learned.” He exhaled sharply, a sound that was half a sigh and half a plea. “I’m sorry.”

And with that, he stepped forward, each movement slow and deliberate, as if he feared any sudden motion might shatter what little remained between you. His hand reached for the gun on the table, the clink of metal against wood echoing in the room like the final note of a requiem. You flinched at the sound, a subtle but unmistakable movement that made Spencer freeze in place. He saw it, the fear in your eyes, the way your body tensed, and it broke him in ways he didn’t know were possible.

Without another word, he tucked the gun securely away and turned toward the door. His steps were heavy, deliberate, like a man walking toward his own execution. He didn’t look back as he opened it, his silence saying more than words ever could. The door clicked shut behind him, the sound reverberating in the room, leaving you in a deafening, suffocating quiet.

You stood there, frozen in place, the weight of his absence crashing over you. Your chest ached, your mind racing with thoughts you couldn’t stop. For the first time, you weren’t sure if he was still the same man who had made you fall in love.

Because your Spencer would never have hidden a gun in his apartment, even when he was supposed to be suspended and without one. He would never have brought it to your home, especially after hearing you say a thousand times how scared you were of arms. And most of all, he wouldn’t have left the way he did now. He would have stayed. He would have held you, kissed your forehead, and asked for forgiveness a thousand times over until you knew, without a doubt, that he regretted every moment of his mistake.

But he hadn’t. And as the silence pressed down on you, you couldn’t help but wonder if the man you had loved was still there…or if he had already disappeared, piece by piece, in the last three months.

You certainly didn't know a lot of things.

[formylovetodaryldixon]

"Without you." Daryl Dixon Imagine.

Summary: As the two of you navigate the mysterious and sometimes turbulent waters of falling in love, a devil in angel's clothing threatens your life, managing to keep you quiet. Until Daryl finds out...

@gunnerblue21: So cool! I just found your content yesterday and so far im loving what im reading so youre amazing in my books lol so, for my request, i was wondering if you could write a story where back in the prison era, daryls girl best friend is secretly being harassed by one of the guys from woodbury, he knows that reader and daryl have a friends with benefits relationship secretly and threatens to out the reader to everyone about their secret if she tells anyone about about his harassment. When the dude from woodbury takes it too far one day and beats up the reader for trying to run from his abuse, daryl finds out and finds reader, he deals with the harassment his own daryl way lol im sorry if its long, i just really love protective daryl energy especially when its someone he really loves.

A/N: I felt some nice things with this imagine, hehe Promise it's not THAT boring, but I do hope the person who asked for this like it at least a little. Sorry for saying your name! I generally don't like the "she's mine" thing, but with Daryl I can break that rule. A warning about the sexual harassment theme in this story! although it's not very explicit. To everyone who has been harassed in any way, I'm so sorry. I still don't know why we keep silent, feeling guilty about our weakness to speak up and defend ourselves, ultimately feeling like we deserve that experience. I hope everyone can recover from that. There are surely mistakes, but it's 3 am and I have a baptism tomorrow, so I'll correct them as soon as possible. Thanks as always!

Your breathing is soft, but almost nonexistent in the void of the silent prison after the night swallows the sun, so silent that it forces Daryl to slide an arm around your waist, breaking the distance he promised himself to keep with you, searching for your warm skin beneath your short–sleeved shirt, fingers tickling your flesh with just a touch to elicit a slight movement from you, always accompanied by a sigh, a proof that you're still alive.

Sleeping together was not part of the deal, but a rule he broke long ago when, amid a world fractured by thunderous noises (guns, screams, curses), the gentle sound of your breathing helped him sleep.

Far from being a romance, the bittersweet story between the two of you began when you appeared that sweltering afternoon in the city alley next to Glenn, aimless walkers wandering the world, ruling it, and yet, his petulant, sarcastic, and judgmental, though always alert gaze, matched his condescension and hopeless and even somewhat dark comments that day—real, you couldn't deny it—but unnecessary, until it all ended in an argument between the two of you (the first of several along the way), with his true belief that he knew best shining brighter than the scorching sun.

Blue eyes like an ocean too dangerous to swim in stared at you relentlessly, a clear warning not to come closer, infested with trauma like sharks in the water.

“Ya wanna die, woman?”

That was his response to your desire to rescue Glenn when he was kidnapped, underestimating the only thing you had at hand and within you: a weapon you barely knew how to use, and an insatiable desire to live and help people. Daryl wasn't selfish, you could see it in his deep gaze—along with a somewhat terrifying intensity—it was just his own fervent wish not to die with that sharp pain under the hands and teeth of the undead, and yet, that didn't prevent the feeling inside you. You hated Daryl so deeply you could taste it on the tip of your tongue, an almost metallic taste.

“There are worse fates than death.”

Your words echoed in him the entire time it took you all to return to the camp outside Atlanta, everyone finally safe, momentarily.

Losing his brother made him withdraw from the back—and—forth conversations, sometimes empty, never deep because everyone wanted to leave the past in the back of their heads when the present and future felt like stepping into a minefield, but Daryl was always ready for the hunt and feed the people, bringing in small animals (after losing that deer and taking out his frustration on that already–finished walker) leaving them quietly near Carol or Lori, before retreating to the solitude of his tent.

Yet you always ran into each other in that small space, by chance or when Rick started to lead the camp in his endless attempt to keep everyone alive. Arguments between such different people became normal, something routine, but you were one of the few who let him go off the deep end, with the annoying and loud way Daryl used to snap at others, highlighting their lack of survival skills, with you ending the pointless conversation with a whatever, leaving him incredulous, with a frown so deep it hurt and the incandescent desire to throw a curse at you that he swallowed.

A new life had begun when that new world arose, stained with the blood of those who perished along the way, and although Daryl was always calm and ready to survive—amid his short temper that sometimes put him at risk as well—the annoyance that settled in his chest when he saw you, laughed in his face, turning the table where his cold apathy rested.

You were beautiful to look at, and the way you wrinkled your nose before smiling caught him like a poor rabbit in a trap, falling into his own trap, turning him into a prey, pathetic, vulnerable, and weak, and Daryl hated you even more for it. He hated you because you made that gesture especially with Glenn, as if you could destroy all your walls around yourself when you were with the Chinese boy (even though Daryl knew he was Korean) only to build them up again when you were with him. Daryl didn't recognize it as jealousy, even though it was, in all its splendor.

Daryl Dixon wasn't used to calling people with sweet names (they were a punch to his masculinity), but he found himself calling you lil' bunny, using that false sweetness that carried all his sarcasm in that moment. And those words were a mockery of your entire existence, you knew it, as if you were weak. But with what would happen later, you managed to convince yourself that you were.

But your sass almost matched his own, turning you into a dream Daryl dreamed at night and a nightmare during the day, and yet, he began to look for you with his eyes when the day began, always making sure you were somewhere safe, always making sure you were in his line of sight. And maybe it was staring at you too much that made him think of you differently, almost sinfully, thoughts so shameless and impure that they made him blush or feel the heat on the tips of his ears and inside his pants.

Sometimes, just seeing you exist there in the middle of the woods made him feel things that were warm, and unpleasant, and totally foreign to him. Life had been a bitch to Daryl, so unfair that it was hard to believe those things had happened to a kid (like something out of fiction, out of the most twisted mind), but they were real and they happened, and all the experiences he'd lived through built who he was—though he'd eventually put it all behind him. Daryl was hurt, both physically and emotionally, so battered and broken that he was unable to feel big, good things, keeping the wounds of war in the shadows after he'd barely escaped from that hostile place alive: his own home, ironically.

The iron blows of his parents' fists sank into his body and played cruel tricks on his mind until that little angel with blond hair and blue eyes had his tiny wings ripped off and he was convinced that heaven never existed, and that he deserved hell. So for Daryl, this new world was just a new kind of hell he knew how to live in.

Although he had also managed to chuckle a few times, a short, harsh sound, always accompanied by his usual sarcasm, like that day you two had to find a car to get back to camp when night fell, too dark and dangerous to walk.

The damned engine resisted, stubborner than a mule.

“Go ahead, give it some gas. Jus' a lil'.” You turned the key that was connected to the car, hearing a dry, harsh sound that Daryl tried to stop with a rap on the hood, his eyes finding yours between the slits. “Stop! I said a lil'!”

“That was a little.”

“No, that was too much.”

“How am I supposed to know when too much is too much, Daryl?”

“Ya listen, and if it sounds like too much, then s' too much.”

You frowned, confused and irritated.

“You're too much.”

“What?”

“What?”

“What?”

A moment later, the car decided to cooperate, but when Daryl got in, slamming the door with a little too much force than necessary, your body tensed in the seat as he drove back, opening his stupid mouth to just snarl at you like a child. And as always, you let him talk until he shut up.

“Bite me, asshole.”

Though with all the dirty thoughts about you piling up in his mind, a pile so high he could no longer see the end of it, Daryl didn't know if that was an insult or an invitation.

His temper was a roller coaster that went up and down so violently that a crash seemed imminent, with you always feeling like it would all be over in a second, catastrophic, making you feel unstable. But among the things that could be salvaged about Daryl, it was his undeniable, indelible desire to protect people—his people. Behind his apparent apathy, there was a need to make sure everyone was safe.

You had seen it, you had felt it. Between the unspoken words and the stares that trapped each other, even between the layers of his false hatred for you, he would often stand in front of you at any sign of danger, when things felt deadly, one arm extended in the air to guide you behind him while Daryl used his own body as a shield for you at the same time.

By the time you all arrived at the CDC, the fake place that seemed like a fairy tale (too perfect to be real) gave you a false sense of security, and beneath four walls that promised a safe and even promising future, Daryl dared to do what he never thought he'd be capable of.

That night, when there was no one left, not a soul wandering the world, there was only him and you, and his hand that closed around your waist in the kitchen. With your back to him, your body tensed, his heat invading your senses until you were drunker, even after all the wine at dinner, but when you felt his breath on your hair and recognized his full presence, the confusion of pulling away and pressing yourself against his body, which was already too close, was so great that the line between them blurred.

“Tell me to stop. Please.” You closed your eyes as his calloused fingers, the result of a lifetime of working with them, pressed against your stomach, and it contracted every muscle in your body, awakening a scorching heat inside, right where he was touching and a little lower. “Can I keep goin'?”

You nodded. And the rest was history.

Daryl just needed to get you out of his system, give his body the answers to that question in his head: what would it feel like to touch you, to feel you pressed against him, naked? Part of him hoped to feel in his own body that your time together would be a disaster so he could move on, but the problem was, it wasn't at all.

Shit, you were passionate even in intimacy, your hands pressing his body against yours the entire time that night lasted. And like becoming addicted to the most dangerous drug in the world, he and you started looking for each other again after that, even after the explosion of that place, during the time at the farm. Being between your legs, doing something other than thinking, blocked out the outside world and all the dangers and sadness it brought. Daryl always started there, especially when the whole dysfunctional but close–knit family arrived at the prison and that gave you two a kinda decent bed instead of the floor of a tent, when time gave you all a break.

Then you started to think that the more you cared for someone, the more vulnerable you were to a broken heart. But between the way you started wrinkling your nose when Daryl actually said something that might have been funny (sometimes unintentionally because he had no sense of humor) he started to let his interest in you show, though only one person outside of the original group seemed to notice.

Among the people of Woodbury, existed someone who hid his empty heart beneath the facade of being a good boy, always willing to lend a hand. Like new lives in a new environment, everyone struggled to adapt to that kind of normalcy, trying to collaborate to ensure the well–being of others. You among them, because you were kind or tried to be, eager to build a true future for the adults and especially the children, until that person mistook your good wishes for weakness.

One night, dressed again and breathing more calmly, Daryl and you existed in silence because life was simpler that way, less lonely, side by side in bed, but not touching, leaving a small space between you two, until he took a small rock from his pants that seemed even smaller in his large hands. It had no sharp corners, only smooth, smoothed edges.

It seemed polished, soft against your fingers, a reminder that not all that is hard is rough.

He handed it to you silently.

“Are you proposing to me penguin–style?” You joked with him, laughing when Daryl scoffed to mask the feelings he’d genuinely tried to keep from growing too much, but that were already spilling over the edge of his soul.

And as you inspected the stone under the dim light of the candle on a nearby table, Daryl took in the profile of your face, the tip of your nose, the edge of your lips, the ones he used to press against his, a demanding hand on the back of your head to keep you in place, and that sparkle in your eyes that seemed to glimmer with the power of a star.

“Thank you.” You meant it, but when you turned your head to look at him, Daryl looked away again, his eyes lost in the space between the cracks in the ceiling. “I’m truly grateful for this, so I apologize for all the times I cursed you too loud.”

Daryl frowned, his gaze searching yours, brave enough to do anything when it wasn't about feelings.

"Yer not loud, yer quiet as shit."

"In my head, I've cursed you in every way possible, very loudly. So I’m sorry.”

Again, a scoff, almost accompanied by a roll of his eyes as he settled back onto the uncomfortable mattress, closing his eyes as the weight of sleep began to overcome him, an arm draped over his face.

"Whatever. Now shut up, I wanna sleep."

Confused, and slightly offended by his sweet personality, your eyebrows tried to knit together.

"Are you going to sleep here?"

There was no annoyance in your voice—so you weren't chasing him away.

"I don' wanna walk back to ma cell."

And even with his eyes closed, you could see a new kind of ocean in his eyes, safe, peaceful.

You shrugged even though he wasn't looking at you, putting the rock in your pocket for safekeeping before closing your eyes as well. But when reason stumbled for an instant, you knew it was stupid to fall for Daryl—the person at your side who could be as much of a jerk as he was handsome—with his long hair now and those damned arms exposed, clearly hard to the eye even when he wasn't flexing them.

Daryl was intimidating, walking silently with his steely gaze that made people fear and respect him at the same time. His imposing figure was scary, but none of that mattered when everyone noticed that he genuinely cared for all and for you, in a selfless way.

And all of that made someone truly hate him.

Sean was charming, the opposite of Daryl's exterior: smiling, falsely warm, so kind at first glance that he offered to entertain the children in the library to distract them a little from the reality on the other side of the gates. And that's when it happened for the first time: his hand pressed against your backside in the solitude of that hellish place, empty after everyone left, so violent it froze you there, like a little rabbit that knows it will be devoured in the cruelest way possible.

“What are you—?”

Your stuttering made him smile, laughing at your fear, which crushed you cruelly, like a blow to the stomach that knocked all the wind out of your body. You knew there were still bad, unscrupulous people, but you didn't expect to find one in that place. A sick desire shone in his green eyes, a feline that played with the mouse's body even after it was dead, because deep down, he enjoyed that macabre and perverse pleasure of knowing he'd ended a life and could continue to amuse himself with the remains, of knowing he could do whatever he wanted with his victim.

You were never a victim, but he turned you into one in a single second, silently, taking away pieces of your will to live little by little.

And the harassment began that night, and not gradually, but escalated with such brutality that it made you vomit. Why didn't you say anything? Maybe you knew, maybe you didn't; maybe it was all the reasons, and because you couldn't find any that made sense. The fear of speaking up and made him being kicked out of security burned in your stomach, a new kind of hell that screamed at you with anger and mockery how stupid you were being. Telling Daryl would be like unleashing the lion from its cage, the beast that would end everything, though you knew Sean's expulsion would be a godsend considering what Daryl would do to him.

There were no labels between the two of you; you were nothing more than a piece of silence when the world became heartbreaking, but there was something about Daryl that everyone knew, a truth they spoke only with their eyes. The difference between Daryl and Rick, or Glenn, or the rest, was that Rick seemed to be guided in his decision–making by the shadow of his morals that still lingered within him, a memory of his past life, a compass to stay on track, while Daryl seemed willing to have no morals at all if it ensured the safety of his family.

And his anger could easily overcome his morals, or make them disappear in an instant.

Unbridled, such was his love and his anger. Daryl fought, hurt, and even killed, and you didn't want another body to fall lifeless because of you and become another scar on his mind, another reason to feel guilty about still being alive.

Sean's harassment was just words piercing your insides, calling you names others would call you if they found out you were Daryl's whore, words that were just that, nothing more: a terrifying touch that, like the wind, came and went, until one night, his hand pressed so hard into your flesh it almost felt like a bone of your ribs would break.

And when all that torture of a few minutes was over, you sat in the prison's backyard, asking for some kind of guidance from whoever or whatever was on the other end of the call. A sign, a hint of what to do, how to stop keeping quiet, how to stop suffering and fearing, but with no answer, just the devastating emptiness that seemed to swallow you alive—only shining to tell you that maybe the only way out was a bullet in the head, in his or yours.

But shit, the beast was dragging you down to hell with him, and you let him do it.

“Shit.” You cursed under your breath when someone sat behind you, but like the first time his body landed behind yours, it only took you a second to recognize him as you glanced over your shoulder. “You scared me.”

Daryl chuckled, his legs on either side of you.

“Whatcha doin' here? S' cold.”

Always hiding your feelings, you chuckled back.

“I was waiting for you.”

“Shut up.” He scoffed, wishing with all his might that it were true, that your feelings for him were as strong as his, but silently, always avoiding speaking about them, Daryl leaned forward until his chest was so close to your back that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, even under his poncho. “Did ya have fun with the kids?”

He cared for everyone, without measure or any condition.

“Yeah. We read a lot today. I know it’s not your strong suit, so I won’t bore you with the details.”

“I can read, woman. I jus’ don’ like it.”

“Can you? Tell me the truth; I won’t tell anyone.”

It was an attack, but not an offense, and Daryl chuckled once more, that signature sound of his, before pressing himself against you, his hand cupping the spot where Sean had touched you without a hint of kindness, hand holding you with affection and a hint of teasing, his fingers almost cupping your breast.

"Hey." The tickle of his touch made you try to escape, but there was no way out when his other hand held you in place. "At least ask me out first."

He's screwed, always had been since that first afternoon together in the city, and now Daryl knew it clearly as he smiled softly against your hair, ignoring your fake protest as he tried to hide from his own feelings.

"Missed ya, bunny."

That same night, when he buried himself in you, you held him even closer, wanting to erase every touch Sean left on you, which still felt like fire burning your skin. But trauma, guilt, or shame—everything made you keep silent for the weeks that followed, which brought more damage, leaving you feeling more worn down every day, making your self–loathing grow, and even your desire to end it all.

And one day, it all turned into just pain, physical in every fiber of your being.

Sean had an unstable temper, quicker to anger and lose control than a little boy who didn't know how to manage his emotions, and hell, he did just that. In one moment, one of those distant moments now because you'd stopped going to the library alone, the devil disguised as an angel caught you in the emptiness of a hallway, his claws closing so tightly around your arm that it was easy for him to push you into an uninhabited room.

Don't cry, don't give him that pleasure. The only thing he won't be able to take away from you is that. Not one tear, not because of him. Fight, or at least die trying to be free, but he didn't give you the chance when his fist slammed into your belly, destabilizing your whole world, breaking something inside, just because in his eyes, as if you belonged to him, you dared not to listen to him, to try to run away from him. And when he felt he had nothing left to lose, Sean took advantage of every second of it. His anger was like those natural disasters that sweep away houses and people in their wake, leaving a stain of mud so big that covered the essence of your life and the hope to live that you always knew how to keep alive.

He didn't make a sound, and your body screamed without making the slightest sound either.

But life and pain became one when you were told it was your turn to go on a supply run, just you and Daryl because the chosen neighborhood was remote and small, enough territory for only two people to go. You were good, you were careful, meticulous about not letting walkers see you, but Sean had exposed you to so much pain that your vision blurred at the edges of your eyes, obscuring your gaze to the point where you didn't see the walker who pushed you against the wall of that kitchen in that abandoned house.

Maybe it was the sound of his fist in your ear that kept you from hearing death.

Life passed in a second, like the worst things that end quickly because they don't deserve to have freedom in the world, almost dying when you took too long to press the knife against his skull, the sharp edge finally sinking into what remained of his rotting flesh at the same time as an arrow.

The lifeless body fell to the ground, as heavy as your breath.

Every day that you had to leave the protection of the prison, it was like a blow to his chest, or so it felt to Daryl, with no air in his lungs until you finally returned, always worried that something would happen to you, that you wouldn't come back to wrinkle your nose in sarcasm or happiness, but in that moment, when death's hands truly almost closed around your body, Daryl could swear he saw life laughing at him as it played with yours.

You were there, but the next second you could not be.

And Daryl lost control.

"Are ya stupid?!"

Yes, you were, but not for the reasons he thought.

He shouted a few cruel words, and you listened silently, missing another chance to tell the truth, lowering your gaze for the first time in your life, but holding your head as high as you could, somewhat exhausted. For Daryl, the thought of you vanishing from his life was terrifying, but in that moment, that possibility became devastating and unbearable.

The drive back to the prison was so silent it stunned you.

The afternoon fell, heavy and lonely as you sank into your cell, lying on your side and face against the wall, wanting to disappear so far that not a trace of your existence would remain in the world. With your body aching, your muscles begging for mercy, and a mind screaming into the void to let it sleep until the end of days, you fell asleep. You had fought hard for the hope of living even in that world dictated by Sean's selfishness, always without conscience, eager to see blood, but not spilling it like the coward he was, enjoying sending you tumbling off the cliff only to catch you a second before hitting the ground, repeating the action over and over again.

Always on the verge, but never allowed to truly die.

That night, late when the icy wind chilled him to the bone and let him think, Daryl entered your cell, leaving dinner on a plastic plate on the only table.

“(Y/N)?” He sat on the edge of the bed, his heartbeat blocking his throat and any attempt at an apology Daryl was ready to utter. “Hey—”

“Leave me alone.”

“Bunny—”

“Don’t call me that.”

Your indifference hurt more than your anger, more than the blows he’d received in his childhood and in that life. So many years of abuse in the place that should have been the safest for him—his house, not a home—and yet, Daryl would much rather have to face that hell again, as a child, than have to feel the cold of your heart.

“M' sorry.”

“I don’t wanna hear you.”

Daryl swallowed, hard.

“Can I stay here at least?”

His voice was low, deep, but terrified, like the child silently begging his mother to love him, even after feeling her hatred.

“Do whatever you want.”

It felt like the entire prison was collapsing on his chest, crushing him underneath.

Daryl feigned courage, refusing to accept the idea that this was the end of both of you, and he lay down, on his side even though his view of you was your back, the space between you feeling wider than an abyss. And again, as the minutes or a couple of hours passed, your breathing slowed, hiding behind the silence of the place. You had forbidden him any access to your body, losing that right himself with his stupidity and his actions, with his outburst, with his fear of losing you that Daryl didn't know how to begin to explain, but the idea of ​​feeling your lifeless body, in any sense, in the most brutal or the simplest way (like simply stopping breathing, an unnecessary fact that Hershel had dropped one afternoon long ago) made him cross the boundaries you silently drew, reaching out his nervous hand to tickle you as he had been doing so many times that he had lost count.

Just a touch, so light you wouldn't feel it. Yet when his fingers lifted a fraction of your long–sleeved shirt, a whimper of pain seeped between your closed lips. Daryl frowned, for you'd never done that in your life together, and then, a red bruise glowed almost imperceptibly in the light of the candle that was a few nights away from burning out.

His calloused fingers slid over your skin to expose you even more, just as the pain made you wake with a gasp.

"Stop."

"The fuck happened to ya?"

Your words and his collided, a mess scattering around the room as you turned, sitting up with a pain you held prisoner between your still closed lips as he sat up as well, and your confused, dazed, and anger–filled expressions met, face to face. There was no place to hide your surprise anymore.

“Daryl—”

“Who?” His voice grew thicker, more dangerous with the full weight of his rage. “Ain't gonna ask ya again, (Y/N). But m' gonna beat the shit outta every single person in this whole fuckin’ place 'til I find out who it was if ya don’ tell me who did that to ya.”

He was threatening you… not you, but there it was, the moment looming when he would lose control, reaching the point of no return. Your throat was so dry it hurt to swallow, feeling the fear in every corner of your being, as if you were made of nothing but that.

“Daryl—” His jaw was so tight it hurt, you could see it, every muscle that contracted, but he didn't ask again, true to his promise. “Please, no, it's not worth it.”

And then he saw it clearly, the pain in your eyes that hurt more than that bruise on your skin, the misguided idea that, somehow, you were the one who wasn't worth it, that the person who hurt you wasn't worth hurting. And that was more painful for him, for the man who took other people's pain as his own, especially if it came from the person he loved the most. And between the small spaces of his anger, Daryl felt his gaze water as he approached you as he could, pulling you close, until his demanding hand cupped the back of your head, once again to look you in the eyes.

“M'sorry, m' so sorry.” His deep voice cracked on the last word, but it was all or nothing, to love you completely or not to love you at all. “M'sorry I yelled at ya, m'sorry I was such a jerk. I swear I only did it 'cause m' terrified of losin' ya. I love ya so much that I know I can’t live in a world without ya. I’d die for ya, ya know that, but I hope I don’ have to 'cause I want a future with ya. An' to do that, I need to keep ya alive.”

Daryl pulled away, playing his part.

“Tell me the name. I’ll do the rest.”

Then, you said his name out loud, for the first time. And Daryl nodded, pressing his lips to yours in a hard, short kiss before he left, without another word. Unable to speak, you knew it was either you or Sean; you couldn’t save both of you: and he didn’t deserve to be saved either.

And it all made sense to Daryl in that moment, the way you stopped going to the library alone, the way you started jumping in fright whenever he touched you, an act that began when that boy came into his own home, daring to destroy it, not knowing how far someone like Daryl Dixon would go for you. Sanity faded into the shadows, terrified of fighting a nearly savage man, a man who lived so much in the wild that he adopted the instincts of an animal: fight to dead to live, to protect.

He clenched his fists, so tight the skin seemed to stretch to the point of breaking. Daryl needed nothing more than his own hands, hard and rough after using them to fight for his own life. And though his mind was clouded with only one murderous thought, his near–perfect memory led him seamlessly through the prison until he found Sean's cell.

The bars creaked slightly when he opened them, but the peacefully sleeping boy didn't feel it until Daryl's hand closed around his neck, with no trace of gentleness until he pushed Sean to the ground, though his fingers itched to break it right there. It was like forcing a dormant volcano to awaken, a force of nature that not human could stop.

Sean whined, scared, feeling the fear of being prey in his body. He looked so small compared to Daryl that Daryl felt a throb of pity, one that disappeared instantly.

"Out."

"What?"

“Get the fuck outta this prison 'fore I step on yer neck. An' if ya cry for help like the lil' bitch ya are, I'll break it 'fore ya say a word.”

He knew Daryl would do it, without any guilt. There was a blankness in his gaze, but somehow, all his composure was gathered there, and that was even more terrifying to Sean. Daryl wasn't completely blinded by his anger, but rather used it almost strategically, calculatingly. So he did it. Sean walked down death row in silence, feeling his heart pounding in his prickles, his mind so messed up that he couldn't even imagine how it would all end, but knowing it would.

The cold air hit him in the face, as hard as a punch.

"Listen, man, I don't know what's going on, but I swear you're wrong." Daryl's expression remained flat, emotionless, even though they were all over his body, noisy, buzzing in his ears, so loud that they blocked out the sound of the walkers' growling on the other side. And when Sean saw that his words didn't make even the slightest change on his face, he feigned dementia even more. "I don't know what (Y/N) told you, but she's crazy. She threw herself at me."

There it was, the typical excuse, absolving himself of all blame only to throw it at you.

Which only made his blood boil.

"Yeah, she kinda is. (Y/N) is wild, but she's good, one of the best people in this fuckin' place an' in this fuckin' world, an' ya dared to hurt what's mine even though ya knew I'd kill ya."

“I don’t—” Sean choked on his terror, so latent it made his body shake even more, like a tiny leaf. “I’m sorry, I swear. Please don’t kill me, I don’t want to die.”

And it was funny how Daryl remembered what you said to him that first day.

“There are worse fates than death, but by the time m' done with ya, yer gon' beg me to kill ya.”

Like fire on gunpowder, everything was strident even when there wasn’t a deafening sound. Time stretched each time Daryl gave him a break, a pause just to make him feel the pain of each blow more, for his body to register it even after his mind shut down when it could no longer take so much damage, his system shutting down as well, leaving Sean on the edge of the precipice until morning came.

The exact trace of time was lost long ago, but when Daryl returned to your cell, you were still there, sitting on the edge of the bed, one leg tucked beneath you, the other on the floor as if everything had frozen, until you looked up and your gaze regained a little life, a promise that everything would soon be all right.

“Lie down.”

You did, silently and painfully. Daryl lay down with you, closing the space between you for the first time, as if it had never existed.

[aeristudios]

2099: A Seventeen Series

50 years ago, the milky way as we know it was destroyed, leaving the remaining human population to find find shelter in another galaxy—deemed The Shattered Nebula. Now it's 2099, and with civilization spawning across several planets, we will follow the lives of the thirteen souls of Seventeen as they carve their paths through love, danger, destiny, and the beyond...

Genres: fluff, angst, smut, sci-fi au, dystopian au

General warnings include heavy topics, depictions of violence and murder, talks of murder, uprisings/rebellions, morally grey characters, recreational drinking, use of guns, etc. Each story will be explicitly tagged and will be 18+ ONLY.

If you would like to sign up to be tagged for each story when it's released, you can sign up here.

✦ Thank you @hobeemin for the banner and dividers ✦

See You, Space Cowboy

✦ ⋆ ࣪. With a bounty on your head, you are determined to get your revenge at all costs… even if it means losing the man that you love.

pt. 1 pt. 2 visual concept 1 visual concept 2 playlist

Girl With The Spider Tattoo

✦ ⋆ ࣪. Jeonghan doesn’t do feelings. He runs his business, takes care of his sister, and lives his life attachment-free. He was okay with that until you showed up, too perfect and careful lies. But despite that, he wants you anyway.

coming soon

Like Wildfire

✦ ⋆ ࣪. She was someone soft from his past, a dreamer who longed to be with the stars—someone who had no business surviving in the bloodstained world Soonyoung lives in. She disappeared during an uprising, and he assumed she was dead. Now, years later, he finds her with the rebels, with eyes like wildfire, ready for revenge.

coming soon

 Lucid Dreams

✦ ⋆ ࣪. After a near-death experience, Investigator Jun starts seeing you in his dreams, someone he doesn’t know but feels deeply connected to. When he tracks you down in real life, you claim never to have met. But each night, the lucid dreams grow stronger… and your reactions start to change.

coming soon

The Fixer

✦ ⋆ ࣪. Chan is a fixer—always ready to please, trained to obey… except for when it comes to you.

Sleeping With The Enemy 

✦ ⋆ ࣪. You're the daughter of a rebel general, forced to marry the crowned prince Joshua to unite the warring factions. You hate each other and it's no secret. But an attempt on your life forces you to share chambers with him, and you aren't so sure you hate him anymore.

coming soon

What Lies Within

✦ ⋆ ࣪. You’re hired to investigate a string of murders tied to relics once held in the now-destroyed Oracle Vault. Minghao, a famous ancient artifact curator, agrees to help you, but only if he gets to keep the relics. The deeper you go, the more disturbing the truths become, and you find yourselves fighting for your lives— and running into each other’s arms.

coming soon

Save Me

✦ ⋆ ࣪. You're a prisoner from Mechara for a crime you did not commit, locked in a floating penitentiary. Injured during a riot, you’re taken to the infirmary, where Seokmin, the resident medic, treats you under strict surveillance. He’s gentle, careful, too kind for this place. And as much as you don’t want to, you start to trust him.

coming soon

T.K.O

✦ ⋆ ࣪. Seungkwan is a smooth-talking promoter who runs underground fights. Everything was going fine until you entered the ring and knocked him off his feet.

coming soon

Cordis

✦ ⋆ ࣪. You’re the sole survivor of an explosion from a chemical lab in Zoie City. Jihoon rescues you, bringing you to his station. He monitors your vitals daily as you recover, watching your heartbeat stabilize in sync with his own. He insists it’s clinical. But he’s lying

coming soon

Erased

✦ ⋆ ࣪. You sell memories on the black market—sliced, edited, and projected. Vernon is your most loyal client, always buying memories that don’t belong to him. One night, he brings you a memory chip he found—a forbidden one—and asks you to watch it with him. It’s a memory of the two of you: laughing, kissing, saying goodbye. You don’t remember it. But he does. And someone out there wants that memory erased—for good.

coming soon

Need You

✦ ⋆ ࣪. You overheard something you shouldn’t have, and you’ve been on the run ever since. Almost at the end of your rope, you turn to the one person you know would drop anything to save you—even though you still hate him for breaking your heart.

coming soon

Peaches

✦ ⋆ ࣪. Seungcheol is at the top of the world as the head of The Organization. He’s respected, feared, and if you are an enemy? Run. But once a month, he returns to his serene hometown to visit his mother… and buy peaches from the girl who doesn’t flinch when she looks him in the eye.

coming soon

[drenched-in-sunlight]

I think to make sense of how Marika feels about her Omen twins, you need to follow a string of:

1/ how bad is Marika’s PTSD?

2/ how bad are people in the Lands Between in general feel about the Hornsent? The Hornsent is very much leading a whole empire that is hunting down anyone they deem inferior, even their own brethren. the fanbase tend to forget that people of Land of Shadow and Lands Between have every reason to already feel grievance towards the Hornsent royalty, even without Marika’s influence.

They were the Golden Order before Golder Order was even a thing (and they want that, btw, the Greatsword of Damnation skill description very much pointed out that the Hornsent royalty wanted to build their own Golden Order under the banner of the Spiraltree, they are just pissed as hell Marika wrenched that divinity from them and made it under the Erdtree instead).

And Marika, even as a God, was still just one person, with an ailing son at the beginning. If she wanted to consolidate power, she had to unite other people under a common cause. And I do think she promised them a world abundance of healing blessing and no death, and no one will suffer under the Hornsent anymore (sounds awfully familiar, isn't it. except that Marika was always gunning for revenge as well). Omens being shunned that badly can’t be just because of Golden Order propaganda, it’s also because people in fact did suffer under the Hornsent and still remember it too.

3/ Messmer, who is fanatical to the point of even though he admits the Tarnished has Marika’s sanction, he will still hunt them down because he considers them lightless / unworthy, who was very much around when the Omen twins were born, why did he do nothing about it?

I’m pretty sure he has no qualm about killing babies, he doesn’t gaf about his siblings chasing something doomed to fail, he very much goes extra miles to torture any Hornsent on his way. So who protected the twins from him? Who hid them from him?

1 + 2 + 3 = you have a Marika who still very much suffered PTSD from what her people went through, she thought she had escaped, she thought she had managed to build a world where everyone was free from Hornsent’s cruelty and always bathed in gentle ray of healing - something the minor erdtree in her village could never do, because there was no one there to heal. But now she gave birth to … Omens?

It’s a sign that whatever the Hornsent once did to her, it’s left a taint forever inside her (yes i very much believed she was under the Hornsent capture before she managed to run away, either via the Mimic Veil or other means). That she never really escaped that cold dark gaol. And for all of his belief in her sanctity, I think Messmer knew that too, that it’s a wound he could never heal, and now all he could do was to make sure she wouldn’t be tainted further.

And after distress, came fear. Fear for the Omen twins, even though she should hate them, she still loved them, she couldn’t help it. She carried them for months and had loved them all that time. That wouldn’t stop even when they triggered all of her trauma at once.

I think it should be noted that in the DLC there is an item that is the same as Omen Bairn item in the base game, which points out that Omen (or in their case, Hornsent) babies with overgrown horns meet a frightfully early demise. Morgott and Mogh both have overgrown horns. But they are alive! They are ! Very much alive! And grow into adulthood!

Who healed them? Who kept them alive? Who else but the woman who used to make several blessing flasks for her cursed firstborn, whose innate power is healing, right?

Before the Omen twins, Omen babies had their horns excised, causing them to perish, but once there are ones born into royal linage, exile is on the table? and again, they have overgrown horns, and still live to adulthood. if they were left to rot in prison, they would have already died.

Marika built a world with a promise that the cruel shadow the Hornsent cast would never befall there, but now… she gave birth for two of them. Her position as a God Queen was of no use if her people clamored for the twins’ death, her duty to them will always outweigh her personal feelings. But she sure as hell would not let her sons die, either.

They weren't exiled to faraway land, they were kept under the capital, presumably so Marika could visit and heal them if their horns caused them pain, the shackles were made so they wouldn't wander up above and ran into civilians that pretty much would call on the Omenkillers to go after them. it was a cruel existence, yes, but it's all she could do for them. she tried her best out of love.

That is why Godfrey never held it against her, even when it's apparent he loves Morgott (as he cradles his son's body gently in the boss cutscene). Godfrey knew she had done everything she could.

All of that above answers this 4th question: why Morgott was accepted as Lord of Leyndell, even went so far as having command over a whole army of the Night's Cavalry?

In the time of unrest, Omens were welcomed in the army, but they were distrusted, even their weapons have an enchantment on it so it could be taken back if they tried something funny.

But Morgott was trusted to command a whole army and held the walls of Leyndell for that long?

The only way I could rationalize that is after she was forced to separate from Messmer, Marika brought both Morgott and Mohg back to live with other demigods. A big part of the Erdtree's power force was in Messmer's hand, now that he was not there anymore, I imagine people would become more accepting of letting Omens join their rank. And because Messmer was not there, the twins would actually not have to deal with him. In a twisted way, when Marika lost her beloved firstborn, she gained the other two back.

Even though they weren't officially recognized as her child, but more as warriors serving in Leyndell army, Morgott proved himself with his tactical mind and combat prowess (while Mogh used the resources brought by his new position to secretly started funding his blood cult, and this is how I think he met Miquella and all the stuffs in that part of the lore happened. Like you can't convince me he built that whole palace and had all that fancy clothes without money or resources taken from somewhere else).

Then Godwyn died, and Morgott witnessed everything thereafter. and the rest of the story, we knew how it played out.

So yeah, that's my take on the timeline and story of the Omen twins. I know it doesn't have a strong official description backup as my theory on Messmer, but I feel like this makes sense with all of my other interpretation, and if you agree with those, they are what actually back up this one.

If I draw Morgott in the future, it'll also be based on this premise.

[midnightshindig]

The rex meeting parents thing was absolutely adorable🙏 bouncing off of it could we get something similar but with meeting your younger sibling(s)? And just generally how he is with kids💕💕

Rex x Reader: meeting the siblings

my qualifications: I have a sister in middle school and a six year old brother, they've both met my partners multiple times over the course of the last five years. And they're snotty little menaces (/pos)

hcs under the cut!

After meeting your parents, Rex is cocky

He's terrible with parents but that went great, he's going to be amazing with your siblings

"Thank you for coming with me to babysit, sorry about our date..."

"No no, it's okay! I bet they're gonna love me, I'm great with kids."

and, much to your chagrin, he's right

The minute they set eyes on him, your ten year old sister and six year old brother are allllll over him

"I like your hair! Why is it like a girls? Do you wear jewelry? Do you want to see my tiara collection? Can I braid your hair? Does it hurt to be pulled up like that? Can you do my hair like that?" your sister, spouting off a million questions a minute

In comparison, your brother is quiet, staring at him in awe

Rex FEEDS off of this attention, opting to pick up your brother with his permission, tossing him in the air effortlessly

What's even the point of being a superhero if you can't throw a six year old every now and again?

You stand off by the doorway, eventually migrating to sit on your sisters bed, watching them play

He takes to children like fire

your sister is teaching him how to have a tea party, and your brother is tangling his hands in Rex's now-down hair.

He'll regret that later when trying to brush it

But for now they're having a grand time

"Would you like more sugar, Sir Rexinold?"

"You know, I think I would!" He holds out his plastic teacup, your sister dropping in a fake sugar cube, and the two of them giggling over it

He fits in so well with them

The only problem is his.... Rex-isms

they don't turn off

"You are under arrest for being a bad guy!" Your sister yells, pointing a fake sherrifs gun at him

"You'll never catch me alive, kiss my ass!" Rex yells back, running through the halls with his hands fake-handcuffed behind his back, held together only by the imaginary bonds of play pretend.

"REX!" You call after them, poking your head out the bedroom door as the two of them race through the halls "No swearing!!!"

you're not certain, but you think you hear Rex hit something before calling back "Shit- Sorry!!!"

soon after your sister returns to the room, holding Rex's "handcuffs" and throwing him in "jail" (on the bed next to you)

You two chat while your siblings briefly entertain each other

"so, does this make you my prison husband or?"

Rex laughs, headbutting you playfully "No way, you're definitely under my protection."

"Says the guy who got arrested by a little girl."

"Hey man!!" He defends, raising his hands "She's vicious, I don't know how you're the superhero in the family, she's so badass all on her own."

"Psshhhtt-" you punch his shoulder, pushing him off the bed inadvertently

He would've caught himself, but, again, imaginary handcuffs.

Soon after dinner, you give Rex the task of putting the kids to bed

"They'll want you to read them a story, or a dozen, but feel free to limit them at three."

You walk in thirty minutes later to find Rex dramatically reenacting the kids' bedtime stories

Your sister is fast asleep, bored of childish tales

but your brother? he's enthralled.

"And then the dragon said 'but I'm just hungry!' and the knight said 'But you're eating the people!'-"

cough cough

Rex turned to look at you, a wide smile filling his face

"And here comes our princess- will you do the voice?"

and how can you not?

So three more storybooks later, and your brother is asleep too

The two of you retire to the couch, your head laid on his shoulder, hands pressed together

"What can I say? they love you." you relent, sighing

Rex wraps an arm around you, pulling you closer "I always wanted real siblings, like, ones that cared about me."

You lean into him "Well these ones love you."

that means so much more to him that you could possibly know.

BONUS:

"Rex- stop fidgeting!"

"But this sweater is so itchy-!" he whines, pulling at the collar

Your sister pulls him by the hand towards the spot where your father, mother, and younger brother are standing, "Rex, Y/n, come onnnn we're gonna miss it!"

You laugh, walking past the two of them and joining the rest of your family

"Cmon kiddo, between me and Y/n, in front" Rex corrals your sister into position

Your matching sweaters blend into a sea of red and silver as the cameraman steadies his focus

"Ready? Say Cheese on three-"

"One-"

Rex looks at the people around him briefly

"Two-"

You slip your hand into his

"Three-"

There isn't anywhere else he'd rather be

"CHEESE!!"

the flash goes off, and your family Christmas photo is taken

[ovrgrwnivy]

Hello! I saw your requests were open so I was wondering if you could write a Spencer Reid x Reader fic based off “prison for life” by Olivia Rodrigo. Spencer has always been in the protector role so i believe it would fit him, please and thank you

PRISON FOR LIFE ; spencer reid

i know i can protect myself, but when you do it for me it’s hot as hell . . .

a/n: your brain is huge this song is so spencer coded

warnings: spencer reid x fem!bau!reader, unsub / case entirely made up to avoid spoilers, protective!spencer, established relationship, secret relationship, mentions of guns, violence, blood, criminal minds in general

a team. the worst kind of conclusion to draw when you’re narrowing in on an unsub, or two in this case. two family annihilators that would stalk and learn the routines of their victims, the kills were usually quick and ruthless, in and out in a matter of minutes.

only this time, your team had gotten there right in time. derek dragged one unsub out the door while the other bolted down the stairs towards the basement. without thinking, you’re sprinting after him, unknowingly running straight into a trap.

you trip the moment you barrel through the door, flying head first down the flight of stairs and landing on the hard concrete with a hard thud.

dizzily, you get to your feet, clumsily reaching for your gun only to realise you dropped it on your way down. it’s dark, you’re disoriented, and most terrifyingly, you’re not alone down here.

a fact you’re abruptly reminded of when a cord is wrapped around your throat, pulling your back flush against the chest of the unsub you were hunting. the initial panic urges you to scramble, but your training kicks in and you manage the lodge your elbow right into his ribs making him drop the cable.

the same elbow connects with his jaw with a satisfying crack but he’s not going easily, using the hair at the back of your head as leverage to bash your head against a dust old desk.

the struggle goes on for what feels like hours, and you’re giving as good as you’re getting. with a successful knee to his groin you send the unsub tumbling to the ground, and right as he’s about to lunge at you a metallic click sounds from behind where you stand.

“one more step and i’ll empty my clip”

spencer reid, your favourite coworker who also happens to be your long time boyfriend, has his gun pointed at the unsub with one hand as the other reaches out to pull you behind him protectively.

in a matter of seconds tara is cuffing the dirtbag before you and hauling him up the stairs with the help of jj, leaving you and spencer in the dusty basement.

“I had it under control.”

“It was no problem, darling, honestly, no need to thank me” spencer teases, holstering his gun and taking your face in his hands to fully examine the extent of your injuries “you really think i was just gonna ignore the fact you ran after a killer and didn’t come back within sixty seconds?”

“i’m not some damsel in distress” you groan, letting him examine your face with no resistance “i can protect myself”

“i know.” spencer nods, using his thumb to swipe the blood away from your bottom lip “it’s not gonna stop me protecting you, though. sorry”

he can see through your faux annoyance. spencer knows just as much as you do that you like having him as your protector, it’s ‘his job’ as he put it.

though, his protectiveness has made hiding your relationship that bit trickier.

everyone on the team would take a bullet for each other, there was no doubt about it, but people hotch were beginning to notice that spencer often went above and beyond when it came to your safety.

like when the bau were being targeted, he never left your side, if you were sent to interview a suspect reid was right there with you. even if a joke was made at your expense, it wouldn’t be entertained by spencer.

sometimes you could pass it off as it being because you were a woman, because even though all the women on the team were more than capable, the men on the team had a fierce protective streak for them whether or not they knew.

“you’re so annoying..” you grumble, fighting a small smile.

“mhm” spencer chuckles, pressing a quick, light kiss to your head “i love you too, darling”

“oh!”

a squeak from tara has both of you whipping your heads in her direction, frozen in the mixture of fear and embarrassment that you’d just been caught out.

“well,” tara clears her throat and makes a poor attempt at concealing a grin “we’re all done here when you two are ready.”

[boredgrace23]

I can't believe I've never noticed that a lot of the mercenaries/the women in purple are based on actual villains in media:

Pyro is the monster/the alien. This one is obvious. He's the typical villain you'd see in sci-fi. They're always described/put in in the context of being "weird" or "creepy."

Engineer is the genius and slasher villain. This one is also obvious when his dialogue is put into context. He mocks everyone in his domination lines and has that general vibe of "stalking towards you like Michael Myers." He's also incredibly smart.

Spy is the double agent. The one who's "suave" and "knows what he's doing at all times" while simultaneously backstabbing you, much like how an antagonistic spy would in espionage movies.

Scout is the bully in high school films. I don't need to explain this one. He literally stole Heavy's sandwich in meet the scout.

Soldier is the fanatic villain who's driven purely by their ideology. I also don't need to describe this one.

Demoman is the anarchist, and, this is more of a broad term, but the criminal as well. The one who blows shit up because it's fun and are in it for the money. The destructionist type.

Heavy is the machine or the beast. He's always in front gunning down as much people as possible like how a machine/beast would in sci-fi or fantasy. He's also got more of a stereotypical henchmen vibe too, the type of character that stand intimidatingly behind the main villain.

Medic, the mad scientist. This one is also easily explained given the nature of his character. German, a man of science, etc.

Sniper is a sort of corrupted villain, the one who was "good" before he fell into the dark side. Though this assumption is based on the theory that Sniper didn't get into the mercenary business until Miss Pauling came to him for a contract. He's also the hunter archetype. That one's an obvious one too.

Miss Pauling is the Femme fatale/hench(wo)men. She's like a combination of these two, but the more comedic parts of them(?) She's awkward yet still charming. The punctual women who has her head on her shoulders at all times.

And finally: The Administrator. She's the mastermind/authority figure. The kind of person you'd see in spy movies or movies based around prisons. She's the top dog. The authoritarian.

But yeah, that's it. While I would also include Saxton Hale and the Mann brothers in this, I am unfortunately running out of time here because I need to vacuum up. That's it, though. This was more for myself as a reminder, but you guys can have this analysis too.

[auspicioustidings]

Devil's Trumpet

AKA the Appalachian horror brain worms would not leave me alone

Summary: You move to small town West Virginia to get your head on straight but the men in the woods start unravelling you instead.

Words: 3.5k

CWs: mild horror, vague reference to mental illness

This is best read while listening to some Southern gothic tunes 🎶 I suggest Big Dark Love by Murder by Death!

Colour leeched out of the world here. There is something almost comforting about that, something familiar. Familiar too is the way this town moves like syrup too thick to be pleasant in your mouth. It was how you moved though the world once. Not anymore though, no, now your mind is your own and not an invading force. Now you can appreciate the drab slowness as something external to yourself, just an environment around you and not a prison closing in inside your head.

There wasn’t much of a plan really. A will reading that left you with not a lot, but enough to get the hell out. Signing with a fountain pen that made your skin crawl with how it scratched. A stiff drink and a dart thrown at a map and tearing a ragged hole in the Greenbrier River as the sharp point didn’t quite sink far enough into the board and tore its way through the paper on the way down. You were never any good at darts.

You aren’t putting down roots. Those were for old growth, not for hardy weeds that broke through concrete and always found another crack through which to grow when killed. Nothing that felt too much like a home, so instead a room at the only inn.

This town is too small to warrant one, but it doubles as a watering hole come evening. It doesn’t seem to have been updated in an age, you wonder idly if the plaque upkept to a gleaming shine declaring the inn to have been opened in 1824 is somehow conveying pride at the fact. The peeling wallpaper in your room was probably pretty once, but the green now seems sick with age and the delicate floral pattern has started to wilt.

There is no routine to your days here until one slowly creeps in as it always does.

Breakfast first. You don’t know if it’s something in the air here, but you wake up with a bitter taste in your mouth and are eager to drown it in food and mint toothpaste. The inn has a small kitchenette for guest use and you make yourself toast with butter and strawberry jam. It’s a little too sweet but the tea helps, black with no sugar.

You stretch out the back of the inn and enjoy the view of the woods. You don’t call it yoga because it makes you less likely to do it, but you had learned when things were bad that quietly engaging your body in the morning was a good way to quiet your mind. There’s a little tension in the back of your neck you try to work out but it sticks there until you finish up and go back inside to shower. The hot water fixes it you think.

The first few weeks here you just sit and watch the world go by, but then you one day you decide to get up and spend some time wandering the town. It’s small, decrepit. There is the inn, a few sparse houses, one general store. The library, despite being the only venue with any chance of entertainment, is usually empty. You meet Mrs Lela Kaletaws who runs it, although she isn’t always around.

Roads here are barely holding together, but the one main road that runs out of town is at least in somewhat better condition. It runs parallel with the woods at one point, curving off just past old Mr Kleer's house. The man in question usually sits on his porch but he’s friendly enough so you don’t pay much mind to the gun.

After you’ve wandered town you make sandwiches for lunch. It isn’t much exciting, but it is routine and is filling enough that you bunker down for a nap after.

In the afternoon you go for a long walk before returning to the inn for dinner. There is a bar downstairs that opens in the evenings and serves food that while not a delicacy by any means is hot and filling. You retire to your room, read some of your book and go to sleep.

It continues that way. Breakfast, stretch, shower, wander, lunch, sleep, walk, dinner, read, sleep.

At first you only really skirt the edge of the woods, but with each passing dreary day you venture closer to the depths down the packed dirt path. The path through the woods is confusing and unmarked. Where you swore just yesterday it went to the right, today it goes to the left. Even so it must be your sense of direction, because the path always leads you past the jimsonweeds that come up to you chest before spitting you out on the road that leads to old Mr Kleer's house. The flowers are beautiful, but there is some metallic tang to their otherwise sweet scent that causes your teeth to ache.

—

More comfortable with the area now, it causes a fright when you see a man in the woods just in the corner of your eye only to snap your head around and have him vanish. You force calming breathes and keep walking. There is no such thing as ghosts in these woods.

Old man Axell calls to you from his porch as you pass, rifle butt settled on the rickety wood that you worry will collapse and left leg stretched straight out towards you like reaching for something.

“Seeing things in the woods kid?”

“I look spooked sir?”

“Like you’ve seen a Ghost I reckon.”

You give a shaky laugh at that.

“Only if ghosts come in flesh and blood and quick feet. Some man gave me a fright is all.”

“Must be out of towners” Axell says.

You do not like the way he says it. You do not like that he looks at you strangely. But you smile and nod and get on your way. He is only an old man.

—

There is someone in the woods. You feel his gaze on you, feel the dull prickle that rests on your nape from those eyes.

“We really must stop meeting like this” you say.

You have stopped trying to catch him. Now you only speak, eyes set on the dirt path in front of you. You do not think you will get a reply and when you do you shudder horribly at how much closer the voice is than you had anticipated.

“Don’t enjoy the company?”

He’s English and you frown. Out of towner. The old man must know something, but maybe you cannot begrudge him having fun at your expense. You have not made friends here.

“Enjoy company where I can see it if it’s all the same to you.”

The man laughs. It is a confusing laugh, warm and cold all at once as it bounces through the trees.

“Careful what you wish for.”

You resist the urge to turn even as his voice moves strangely, like he is swaying from one side of the path to the other.

“Must have a face like sin to keep hiding away” you say.

The next words you can feel. His breath is right at your cheek, a strand of your hair lifted by his fingers.

“Quite the opposite.”

Your heart is a prey animal running from a predator, beating wildly against your ribs as you turn to find he isn’t there. Only you certainly felt him. He leaves a sweet smell behind.

—

Sleep does not come easily that night. The rain against your window casts the moonlight strangely into your room. You spend hours watching as the creeping vines on the wallpaper seem to twist and shift beneath the moon flowers. When you finally fall asleep, it is almost as if you can smell them. Sweet and slightly metallic.

You wake up with the fading scent of damp earth and something on the edge of rot in your nose and the feel of dirt packed uncomfortably under your nails. They’re clean you find, but you spend the start of the morning cutting them down once you see the fading scratches left on your arms and legs through the night.

—

He is not the only stranger in the woods. You swore you would not go back, but routine takes you there without thought.

The Scottish man likes to walk on your right hand side, just enough steps behind you that you can only see him at the very side of your vision. You think he is handsome, but it is difficult to be sure. What you can be sure of is that he is dressed oddly. You have spoken to him for a while now, discussing yourself mostly. Perhaps it is the eerie quiet of the woods that makes you want to fill the dead space, but you tell him more about yourself than you ever would have thought yourself comfortable with.

“Are you a soldier then?” you ask.

“Sometimes, I think.”

You take a moment to chew that answer, wonder at the taste of it. There is a panic when you smell blood on the air, but it is quickly blanketed by sweetness. You have reached the jimsonweeds. It is too early, you have not walked far enough to be here already. But before you can protest the steps to your right stop and you know the man is gone.

None of them ever come farther than this.

—

You try the next day and the next to get answers from him. He seems to make a decision at one point just as the familiar smell reaches you and you think you will leave with no more information than you had before.

“I’m SAS.”

He is not there when you turn to thank him. He is not there at all when you return the next day.

—

The library run by Mrs Kaletaws is added to your routine. Breakfast, stretch, shower, library, lunch, try to sleep, walk, dinner, read, try to sleep. The small building has the peculiar addition of a cat you never quite see. You hear the skitter of claws on worn wood floor that has started to smell of sickly sweet rot, see fading scratches on the legs and arms of the chair, find hairs on your clothing, feel the prickle of eyes focused on you from the dark running up your spine to settle dully on the back of your neck. You have tried before to get a glimpse of the creature, but it only seems to exist in the very corner of your eye and retreats when your gaze tries to creep around to catch it.

Lela never talks about the cat. She told you once that it is only her and her wife that live in the basement below the library. You have never seen her wife and fear she must have some permanent sickness that stops her from being able to do much. You think they should move above ground so she can at least see the world through the windows obscured by racing raindrops, but you keep it to yourself.

The one computer here is old, the white plastic exterior now yellowed. Still, it is the only gateway to the outside world in this little town and you blow at your tea while waiting for your search results. ‘SAS military bases in West Virginia’ is a shot in the dark, but you need to start somewhere. After a sip you dump more sugar into your cup before looking at your finally loaded results.

There are none. No British military installations at all in the USA. You had hoped at least the results would bring up something about training exercises but it is just pages of useless information about bases around the world. You read about the SAS, fall down a rabbit hole of how they torture their soldiers to train them to withstand it. You go through pages and pages of search results until finally one talks about SAS soldiers in this area.

The link takes you to a dusty website that stopped being updated sometime in the late 90s. It’s some sort of conspiracy blog and you are prepared to close it, but you can’t help but get lost in the story it tells.

The details are unclear which you suppose is the hallmark of any good conspiracy. 40 years ago. There was a team of two, or maybe four or maybe seven. They set up just outside the woods with little to no explanation. There’s an interview from a local, not a name you recognise so one you think is likely long dead. She says two of the soldiers went into the woods first. She remembers something bad must have happened, because there was an argument between the five left outside. Nobody was allowed close, but she watched two more men go into the woods. After that the operation seemed to vanish entirely overnight and nobody heard anything more about it.

Whoever authored the blog has a gift with words because despite your logical mind knowing it was probably nothing but a random training exercise, the hairs on the back of your neck raise.

There is a photo of the alleged unit at the end loading slowly. You stare in fascination as line by line appears from the top. The world stops before it fully loads. At first you are confused as to why your whole body is tense, why your heart is racing. And then you figure it out. Silence. Complete and all together sudden silence. No rain hitting the windows, no scratching of the cat echoing, not even the whir of the computer.

You do not want to look away from the screen. You do not want to turn around. The prickle on your neck goes from dull to sharp.

The computer powers down.

—

He says to call him John. This man does not walk to your right like the Scottish one, or behind you like the first one you met. He walks in front of you. You can see the full expanse of his back clad in a vest. He wears a hat. He only ever turns slightly, enough to see that he has sideburns but never enough to see his face.

You are so enraptured by being able to see so much of him so clearly that it takes you a while to notice there is someone on your left. A few steps behind like the Scottish one does on your right. It takes you by surprise enough that you are about to forget the unspoken rules and turn, but John predicts your move.

“Eyes forward.”

“Sorry” you say automatically, fixing you eyes to his back and letting the other man stay as the impression of a creature just in sight of your left eye.

“They’re pretty, Captain.”

“I’m aware.”

It should not make you blush but somehow it does.

“What’s you name?” you ask.

There is no way to direct it specifically to the man on your left, so you simple direct it to the back of John and hope that the trees will send it where it needs to go.

“Captain?” the man asks, not for permission but as if genuinely unsure of the answer.

“Kyle, your name’s Kyle.”

“Right. Kyle.”

You catch the movement of him touching his chest, maybe rubbing at a name tag there but you can’t be sure.

“You can call me Gaz if you like.”

John and Gaz are your company for weeks. Whenever you ask after the other two, the air turns sweet and bloody and you are left alone among the jimsonweeds.

—

“Got intae trouble for ye.”

You’re not sure where you are but you recognise the voice. Is he in your room?

“We both did. Curiosity would’ve killed you little kitten,” comes the other voice from the first man in the woods somewhere behind you.

You hazily look down at yourself. You are not in the bed at the inn, you are in another bed laid on your back. You feel your legs brush against one another, not clad in the flannel you remembered wearing. Silk, you are wearing silk. Delicate against your skin, not much of it. Were you wearing perfume? Something smells sweet.

As you stare at the bare expanse of your leg a hand sinks into your thigh, squeezes.

“Fuck LT, so soft. Fingers just sink right in.”

You fight the urge to look to the right where the hand is coming from. You can’t look, some primal part of your brain knows you cannot look.

“Stay away from the woods” the man behind you whispers into your ear like a caress as his hands settle gently around your neck.

You do not feel the snap of bone, but you hear it. You taste the blood in your mouth.

You do not manage to fall back asleep when you wake.

—

Breakfast, library, try to sleep, don’t go into the woods, dinner, try to sleep, stare at the wallpaper, try to sleep.

—

You overhear Axell and Lela once. You think they are talking about you.

“You think we’re doing the right thing?” Axell asks.

“I don’t think there is a right thing anymore.”

“It’s been a long time now. Maybe we should let them go.”

“You think we could?”

There is a silence. Neither of them thinks so. Paranoia settles over you that you haven’t felt since back when things got bad. It’s like an old vice settling into your bones, or maybe seeping out of them as if it never truly left. You cannot go back to that place again so you take some aspirin for the rhythmic pulsing behind your eyes and the dull prickle at the back of your neck and resolve to put any thoughts of conspiracy out of your mind. Lela and Axell are simply old, there is not something they know that you do not.

—

You do not mean to walk into the woods again. The man behind you is back. He feels different somehow.

“I could eat you right up” he says against your neck.

Old Mr Kleer sees the bloodied bite at your throat and says nothing as you walk by.

—

You book a bus ticket. It feels too much like there are tendrils growing from you to burrow into the ground, to fix you here. If you don’t rip them out now, it is only a matter of time until the roots are so deep you won’t be strong enough to move. You aren’t eating properly, you’ve hardly slept and when you do you wake up with a bitter taste in your mouth and covered in scratches. There is still the shape of a bite on your throat and the B&B owners in Pennsylvania look at you with pity as you check in.

The building is charming and fairly new. You stare at the neutral pink wallpaper. One corner of it has lifted ever so slightly. You fall asleep staring at the peek of green underneath.

—

It doesn’t rain as much here, the sun is out and everything seems more colourful. Weeks pass in a haze and you slowly emerge again, eating properly, sleeping through the night. The town on the Greenbrier starts to fade to an unpleasant dream.

—

There is something comforting about the old man who comes to stay and sits by you for breakfast in the mornings. He has the remnants of a Russian accent and laughs frequently and easily. The stories he tells are fantastical, but he’s non-committal about his visit to small town Pennsylvania although he at least tells you that he likes the nature around here. He whispers that his legs aren’t up for much walking anymore, so he has to take the easy paths through small patches of nature.

It takes a week or so more to work up the courage to accompany him on a walk. It seems silly, but the woods make you feel afraid. Maybe a short walk through the small area he spoke of will help you get beyond it. You rub at your neck, feeling the marks faded but still there.

—

He notices your discomfort and tries to ease it with his stories as you walk the dirt path.

“It’s the most important thing I’ve learned you know” he says, the aching grief in his voice causing you pause, “you cannot leave friends behind.”

You turn to him, intending to ask how much longer the path leads since it is getting dark now. He is not there.

“Nik?” you ask, calm at first but increasingly more frantic.

That old familiar dull prickle settles on the back of your neck as you run back down the way you came to get out of the woods. Drooping tree limbs get in your way and you push through, ignoring the scratches. As darkness falls you slow to a walk, unable to see anything in front of you. You catch the smell the sweetness of the jimsonweeds. You can smell blood.

Foot steps that are not your own surround you. A set in front of you. One behind. To the left and to the right.

“Welcome home.”

[absolutesomp]

click for better image quality

my guy so mortal he can't handle specs's ~+30 stash. story and concept details under the cut

Originally I was trying to fill in the space between bill coming back and the events of the handyman au, but it got away from me. It's also what happens when I slap that au and Misery by Stephen King together, sort of. #miserabill au i guess

Anyways, in this au/future in order to hopefully lure some of the henchmaniacs that are still at large, bill is released back to his body, completely powerless and weaker. His immediate order of business is to destroy the ankle tracker, unfortunately because he got nerfed his body doesn't instantaneously heal. He ends up getting chased by gnomes (?), loses his hat, and runs to the mystery shack which is temporarily run by Melody since Soos is away for a week or 2 for reasons. Bill passes out because of unfun pain, and Melody takes the life size triangle in. From there its just... idk plot, maybe some inversions of the gf episodes.

Melody would 100 % try contact the Pines about it but due to winter weather (yea its winter) it gets delayed. When she does I think there would be some kind of argument about whether to shoot him with a space gun or not cause it might "release him" from his flesh (?) prison. So he's just stuck there plotting his way to power. Also they have read the Book of Bill, but the theraprism part was not in it for them.

A couple plots I have in my head are bill doing the drunk transcript thing with the Pines on a group call and gets bullied, the shape shifter is back and wants that sweet sweet monster knowledge bill has, the Stans try to take a interdimensional short cut to the shack but end-up running into a few of the henchmaniacs who are lying low (for now) they're running a little middle-of-nowhere diner ig, the swap carpet is back, melody just generally having to keep track the oldest child in the universe, and everyone and everything in gravity falls wanting to fight him. Abuelita is there too.

Also, Bill doesn't have crack on his physical form, but has them on his dreamscape/nightmare realm/astral projection form.

[autisticshadowthehedgehog]

A Cluster of Burning Stars - Prologue

{ao3}

“What do you think it’s like down on Earth?” 

“I bet there’s lots more places to run than up here. It looks so big. All the pictures make it look so open. So much bigger than this stupid ship.” 

“Don’t be rude.” 

“I hope it’s just like those fairytales you read me, Maria! With magic and destiny and true love…” 

“--What about you, Shadow?” 

“...it doesn’t matter. If we go there, we’ll go together, and that’s what’s important.”

“...”

“...”

“...Stop being a sap, Shadow, and tell us what you actually wanna see.”

“Fine. I wanna hold a spider.” 

“I knew it.” 

“Ha ha.” 

“Stop arguing, boys. We have to go back to lessons in a bit. Let’s just… enjoy the view.” 

“It… it is a lovely view.”

“...Yeah.” 

---

Knuckles the Echidna and Miles “Tails” Prower the Fox had been thorns in the side of Doctor Ivo Robotnik for way too long for him to not lose his mind the second he saw them during his most recent conquest of the planet. Of course, they wouldn’t have it any other way, this was pretty much how they get their kicks. It got a bit difficult sometimes, but that’s what the extended team was for. But for today, it’s just Knuckles and Tails. They should be fine for now. 

Today’s mission brought them somewhere strange, though. When Tails picked up the signal that Robotnik’s ship had reached the general area, he was worried that he was going to a deserted island in order to capture more flickies to turn into robots-- still hadn’t gotten tired of that, apparently. But when he picked Knuckles up from Angel Island and flew over, they had to engage stealth mode incredibly quickly, as they noticed the island was, indeed, not deserted. 

“Hurry it up, Tails.” Knuckles muttered, standing on the wing of the plane and staring down at the huge metallic facility taking up half the island. He could see a protected road and an arched, towering fence over it. It led a little bit off the shoreline, over to what seemed to be some form of landing pad. What drew attention the most, though, were the flashing lights and distant sound of an alarm. Robotnik must already be inside. 

“I’m working on it.” Tails muttered, giving him a quick glare. “It’s a bit hard to scan government files and fly a plane at the same time.” He put a hand to the communicator in his ear, and called, “Vector, Espio, you better be working, too.” 

He heard a few mutters of confirmation from the other end of the line. 

Knuckles glanced down at the land below, narrowing his eyes so the lights stopped bothering him so much. “This isn’t the kind of island I like being around, Tails.” 

“I know.” 

“I prefer silence. Nature. Solitude. No sudden noises.” 

“I’m aware… hold on, Vector got something.” 

Knuckles sighed and reached to his ear, turning on his communicator; he tried to keep it off, mainly, because the static when everyone was silent annoyed him to no end. But once it was on, he could hear the Chaotix from back in Station Square, scanning whatever computer they’d managed to snag. 

“–Prison Island,” Vector was saying, as Knuckles could hear Espio distantly chasing Charmy around the room; the bee seemed to have grabbed something from his fellow detective and was refusing to give it back.

“Prison Island?” Tails asked. 

“Secret Military Base.” Vector affirmed. “Research facility of GUN. There’s a ton of military facilities, but that big thing in the middle should be their prison. Six levels of security. Should be completely impossible to get through.” 

“Okay,” Tails said, “So how long do you think it’ll take us to bust after Robotnik in there?” 

“Less than an hour.” 

“Alright. We’re shutting off communications. Send the emergency alert if you need anything, you know how.” Tails switched off his communicator, and then said, “You ready to break into a government facility?” 

Knuckles finally smiled, and punched his palm. “When am I not?” 

---

Six levels of security, protected by the best technology and weaponry that the Guardian Units of Nations could offer, were never going to be a match for Dr Ivo Robotnik. He hadn’t even brought his best robots-- he sat in a simple Robo-Walker and blazed his way through hall after hall, hidden elevator after elevator. Security drones would come to attack, but of course they were no match for his technology. Robotnik was the genius of the century, at least according to him, so of course this would be no problem. 

There were six levels of security, he knew, and the files he’d spent days hacking into were a bit more correct than what Vector dug up in a few minutes. While each level had defenses, guards, cameras… everything stopped at Level Seven. GUN never assumed that anyone would be able to get that far, and besides, they didn’t like people knowing what was in there. 

Once Robotnik entered, he approached the large, shining computer in the center. And he looked underneath, to see the frozen tube, holding GUN’s dark, shameful secret within.

“So this is the military’s top secret weapon. A bit smaller than I expected.” 

He was not deterred; size was no guarantee of power. His own Bokkun messenger could carry a multitude of explosives, and that stupid fox couldn’t be over 3’0, and yet he and his echidna friend had been foiling his plans for far too long. Luckily, he had a solution, thanks to the hidden files, the buried research of his brilliant grandfather. And now that he had that information, he could finally defeat those dumb animals, and proceed with his plans for the Robotnik Empire. All he had to do…

“Enter user data, aha… enter password.” 

An easy password. Of course, GUN wouldn’t have guessed it. Robotnik had guessed it due to, as Tails would put it, his inflated sense of ego leading him to believe his family line was superior to all others on the planet. Robotniks had always treasured family above all else, but not always for reasons of superiority, something the girl he was using as a password had once understood. 

“M-A-R-I-A.”

The computer buzzed, and then all Robotnik had to do was place the key to open the chamber, a key that GUN had haughtily assumed none but them would ever be able to find, bring to the facility, and reach level seven to utilize. 

But being experienced at stealing these precious stones to power his machines (though Knuckles always somehow got them back, annoyingly), Robotnik simply removed the white chaos emerald from his pocket, and placed it into a console beside the capsule. It took only a moment before the distant hum and glow of the emerald began its work. Robotnik allowed the gunner machine he sat inside to step back as the capsule slowly began to rise, a small amount of smoke clearing from the platform. GUN and their dramatics… well, honestly, Robotnik could appreciate that. Presentation was very important.

The capsule finished rising, and lifted itself in a diagonal position, as if whatever was inside would need to sit up. Then, with another puff of smoke, the lid flipped open. 

And, in confusion, Robotnik watched as a black hedgehog climbed out, shakily standing. 

The hedgehog was still for a moment, eyes narrowed, clearly trying to figure out where he was. He then turned, seeing Robotnik himself. His eyes widened for just a moment, before the emotion was hidden again. Carefully, he observed the room, and then crossed his arms. 

Sensing he wouldn’t speak on his own, Robotnik prompted, “So. The military’s top-secret weapon is… a hedgehog.” 

The hedgehog continued to stare, and then knelt down. Eyes down, he said, in a quiet, dark voice, “My name is Shadow.” He looked up, then stood and crossed his arms again. “Since you were so kind to release me, my master, I will grant you one wish.” 

Robotnik took a moment, trying to decide if the hedgehog was joking. It seemed a bit impossible to tell. But, well, with an ego like Robotnik’s, it was quite easy for him to accept that, of course, this creature would immediately want to serve one as great as him. 

“Well, I could definitely use some assistance getting out of here.” Robotnik said, considering. “I’m sure GUN has already brought in more forces. And that silly echidna and his little friends will probably come in to ruin my fun.” 

The hedgehog once again had a moment where his facial expression changed, a glimmer of something behind his eyes. “GUN? We’re in a GUN facility?” 

“Where else would you be? If you are this ‘ultimate lifeform,’ you are a GUN weapon.” 

The hedgehog watched him for a moment, and then turned and began inspecting the room. He walked to the computer, running a hand across it, before he turned to his capsule. He peered inside, almost confused. 

“Is something the matter… Shadow?” 

The hedgehog looked up. “Am I the only one here?” 

“But of course. You’re the weapon, aren’t you?” 

The hedgehog blinked once. Then twice. Then he turned, so the doctor could not see his face. A small whisper. Tiny enough that Robotnik, who wasn’t paying much attention anyway, definitely wouldn’t have heard it– and if he did, he wouldn’t have known what to do with it, or with the break in the hedgehog’s voice as he spoke. 

“They killed them.” 

They wouldn’t have kept them separate, would they? They’d want all their eggs in one basket. That’s why they were all on the ARK in the first place. 

Maria died to keep them all safe. She died and they killed the others anyway. Of course they would. Of course they would, they’d always said that Shadow was the most useful. That’s why he’d had to protect them, that’s… that’s why it was his fault, he hadn’t protected them enough, and now they were all dead. 

GUN had taken everything. 

---

Shadow burst through everything in the facility, and when they reached the outside, and he stopped to take a breath, and he looked up at the Earth that had been denied to him for so long, denied to all of them, he held his tears back. 

Two mobians were there, species he vaguely recognized from their textbooks on the ARK. Fox? And… porcupine? Bandicoot? Echidna? Echidna seemed right. The red echidna turned to him, eyes wide with confusion and anger. 

“Hey, you!” he shouted, and Shadow resisted the urge to cover his ears, the noise of the collapsing building inside and the distant gunshots already thundering in his head. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The fox gave him some kind of chiding, but Shadow didn’t listen. He just gave them both a fiery glare. “I’m granting my family justice.” he whispered, not caring if they could or could not hear him. 

He leapt forwards, then, spinning and ramming into the echidna. It sent the red mobian flying back, and Shadow took no time in turning and swinging a kick, sending the fox flying away from him. He heard the echidna leap back up, shouting something in an excited tone– someone who liked to fight, then. The fox said nothing, but Shadow could see him get back to his feet, steadying himself. 

But as Shadow turned to continue the brawl, he wasn’t thinking about them. He was thinking about that first night.

“I can’t sleep.” 

“Why?”

“It’s a new room. I don’t know how.” 

“So why bother me?” 

“It’s your room. How do you sleep here?” 

“I just… do. Other hedgehog, help me out here.” 

“No, I’m with her on this. I feel weird.” 

“...you want to cuddle, don’t you?” 

Two little voices, muttering, “Maybe.” 

“Fine. Come here.” 

He remembered that feeling. He had to be ten years old then, they were all so young. He’d scooted back on the bottom bunk, and then the blue hedgehog had crawled up, cautiously curling up on the bed’s edge, but then the youngest leapt on, bounced, and dragged them all together. She laid inbetween them, hugging them to her, refusing to let go. She had her head on Shadow’s shoulder, then, and whispered, “Night-night.” 

Both of the others had been uncomfortable at first, not used to touch. But they’d realized fast that she needed this, and, well, maybe they needed it, too. Just someone to hold. 

I’m sorry. 

They were gone now. Because he’d failed them. 

I’m sorry, Maria. 

I’m sorry, Amy. 

I’m sorry, Sonic. 

I won’t fail your memory. 

---

Hundreds of miles away, on a deserted island, a second pod let out a long beep, before falling silent again.

[docholligay]

sounds like you successfully argued to have migrants put in PRISON instead of the equivalent of a hurricane/emergency evac center :/

So i had a whole, really cutting takedown of this statement, and, in general, the smattering of bad faith engagement I've had with a post that went far beyond my usual reach so wasn't written with as many protections against folks looking for a crack in the wall.

But being mean to someone, who, in any case only believes what they are saying so far as they can be anonymous while doing it, isn't helpful. It doesn't inform you any better, it doesn't inform anyone of how to go about this stuff, it just makes feel good that I, what? Made someone on tumblr look silly? Everyone claps? Jesus Christ what a waste of life.

So, let me tell you what actually was successfully argued. What was argued was that the one place in the state that had been offered up by the politicians was rejected by its people. There may be one someday, but not here and not today.

The prison that guy mentioned? (It was not me, but you'd be forgiven for thinking it--this went around with an INSANELY, fox newsbite level, bad faith crop that made me immediately regret not editing better) It's not owned by the state. I went and looked it up later. It's owned by the Bureau of Indian Affairs. Supposedly they are running it for their own use. It's gonna be a lot harder to get them to use that.

What we successfully argued, is delaying the implementation of anything. Delaying is a huge part of resistance. Every headache you give people, every hour you cost them, is a win. We cannot afford to wait for utopia, and perfection, and a savior. Some of our greatest weapons in life are delaying, and feigned incompetence, and picking at threads. Especially if you live in a red area, sometimes you gotta go, "Oh sure, yeah, but you know, not THERE, and...no, not there either, cause of X, and, man, Y is almost a perfect place but I just can't sign off on it because..." you see what I'm saying? Oskar Schindler was arguing he needed Jewish children to polish the insides of gun barrels.

The other thing that was argued, is when the commissioner said, 'We'll bend over backward to accommodate your orders," we said, "No we won't." And that goes much further than any site. It sends a small message, that, even in a red part of a red state, not everyone is falling into line. This is why action matters.

I'm not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, and my work in political arenas is not either. But, I have been doing stuff in political arenas since Obama, and, I have always worked here, in this very complicated place. I am an extremely pragmatic worker. I do what works. I don't care much about the appearance of goodness. Sometimes delaying a project is what it takes. Sometimes, in life, you lose anyway. But that doesn't make the delaying worthless. I have lost a lot of fights, and I am going to be set up to lose a lot more. But, today? An offer had to be withdrawn. And that's something.

I hope you come back, and reread both the post and this response, and, even if you disagree with me, have a different perspective on how political action can be approached. More than that, I want it to give you hope that even small, imperfect actions matter. The perfect is the enemy of the good. And the good is the enemy of the literally accomplished.

[gaycragula]

I'd love some König x M!Reader where König has been captured by an enemy, and the reader, along with a few others are going on a rescue mission to find him. The reader eventually finds König, all tied up, and has a little bit of fun with him before untying him. When he's untied, he gets his revenge on the reader. ;)

(My life will be completely fulfilled if you write this)

Caught Between a Rock and a Hard… Man

NSFW UNDER THE CUT Warning: Smut. 18+/explicit content Pairing: König x Male Reader

Pairing: König x Male Reader Warning(s): sub reader, dom König, dick sucking, deep throating for a moment, throat fucking, tied up, captured and tied up König, dry humping, handjob, pinned against a wall, cum on face, cum eating, choking on air/choking for air, coughing caused by choking, spit on dick, attempt at making him game accurate, probably didn’t work Word Count: 1994 AO3 Link

The building was teeming with hostiles. Or so it was supposed to be. Your team had split apart to cover as much ground as you could as quickly as you could. 

You’d been put by yourself on the first floor of the building. Each room you entered was empty, though you could tell people had been there recently. It frustrated you with every room you entered. Empty cans, bottles, and miscellaneous trash littered most of the rooms. 

You groaned as you ‘cleared’ another empty room. These fucks had probably left long ago. Probably with their little prisoner too. You almost decided to call off the mission temporarily as you entered another room. You’d just took a breath to tell your team to regather before you stopped in your tracks. 

In the corner of the room sat the mountain of a man you’d been looking for. His arms and legs were tied to a chair, his head lulled forward and his shoulders rising and falling with each breath he took. 

You made quick work of making sure no one was hiding in the room before setting your gun down and stepping over to the masked man. “König,” you called out before your hand brushed over the mask on his head. 

He jerked in response, head shooting up at the sound of your voice. “Scheisse, you came.”

His voice was rougher than it normally was though that still couldn’t mask the relief in his voice. “Of course I did,” you hum, crouching down to cut the ropes off. “I couldn’t leave you to rot.”

The ropes were tight leaving very little room to get a knife in. You debated trying your knife anyway, biting your lip as you thought. “Are you waiting for permission? Untie me,” König hisses, trying to jerk his leg in your general direction. 

“Shut it big guy. Those fucks got you secured in that chair. Don’t wanna hurt you,” you snip back, trying your luck at sawing through the outside of the ropes. 

König shifted in the chair, his head lulling back as you sawed through one of the five ropes holding his leg. “These guys must’ve been terrified of you,” you joke, moving onto the second rope. “They sure as hell didn’t want you up and running.”

“They knew what would happen if I got out,” König chuckles, trying to pull his leg out of the binds. You chuckled before his words settled in your mind. 

You bit your lip as you mulled over his words, glancing up at him. He was still looking straight up, the ideas his words put in your mind seemingly only affecting you. 

Your knife cut through the final rope and you heard him let out a sigh of relief as he immediately stretched it out. “Thank you, liebling.”

You stood up and stepped around him to do the other leg, your touch lingering just a little too long on König’s thigh as you moved. You felt his muscles twitch under your touch before you were down and working on the second set of ropes. 

Now that you knew what you were doing, you managed to get them off quicker, setting the rope out of the way. König was quick to stretch the leg, hips shifting in the chair and you felt your breath catch in your throat. 

You took a deep breath before you made the decision to slide into König’s lap. His arms twitched and his head jerked back up, his eyes meeting your own. “What are you doing?” He whispers, eyes narrowing as he watched you. 

“Testing something,” you mumble back, shifting so you were straddling one of his thighs. Whatever König was starting to say next was quick to die on his tongue as you pressed your knee into his groin. 

You heard him curse before he was pressing his hips harder against your knee. You leaned forward, resting your head in the crook of his neck. Your nose buried into the fabric of his mask, his scent filling your nostrils. König cursed and you felt his shoulders tense as he pulled against the ropes keeping his hands connected to the chair. 

“Leibling please,” he pleads, his nose pressed against the temple of your head. “Don’t tease me like this.”

You hum in acknowledgment of his words as you begin to fumble with his belt. König was no help, basically humping your leg. Your hand pushed against his waist in an attempt to slow him down to no avail. He was whispering your name over and over, desperate for the friction your clothed leg provided him. 

 The sound of his belt coming undone was music to your ears and you were quick to let it drop to the ground. The button on his pants was easier to get undone and you were unzipping his pants just as fast. König’s dick was straining against the fabric of his boxers, a wet spot already forming. 

“Quit humping me,” you hiss, pushing against his hips again. “You’re like a dog in heat.”

A noise akin to a growl sounded in his chest as he reluctantly stopped his hips. You rubbed him through the fabric of his boxers, the groan he let out at the feeling making you shift in your spot in his lap. His breath was coming out ragged, his hips twitching in anticipation.

You pulled the hem of his boxers away from him and used your other hand to pull his cock out.

König’s groan vibrated in his chest, his back arching away from the chair as you ran a finger down the underside. His breath hitched when you wrapped your hand around him, squeezing just enough for König to feel the pressure.

You gathered some spit in your mouth then let some drip down onto his cock to slick it up. König sighed, his head falling over the back of the chair as you slowly jerked him off. His thighs quivered under you, shoulders tensing every few seconds as he tried to move his arms. 

It wasn’t long before he was practically begging you to speed up. His legs were restless under you. You could hear his boots scraping the ground as he tried to find a comfortable position for them. He was panting, chest heaving and you almost missed him moaning your name. 

You glanced up at him and felt your stomach flip. He was looking at you with pure lust. His eyes lidded and the glint in his eyes had your face heating up. You slid your free hand under his hood, rubbing your thumb over his jawline as you pressed your forehead against his. 

You were suddenly very aware of the temperature. Your gear felt too hot on you, König’s breath fanned hot air over your face and you were aware of how much you’d been sweating. A curse fell from your mouth and you pushed yourself back from König and the hand on his dick came to a stop. 

“No, no. Please don’t stop,” he begs. “I’m so close. You can’t stop now.”

“König we’re not secure,” you mutter. “I don’t want to get caught like this.”

König groaned in complaint as you wrestled his dick back into his pants. You’d gotten it back into his boxers before you heard the thud of ropes falling to the ground and you were on the ground with him on top of you, your back pressed against the wall.

He held you in place by your hair as he stood up and pulled his dick back out. You couldn’t even speak before he was pressing the tip against your lips. “Open up.”

The tone in his voice shot fire through your veins and you did as told. König used the grip in your hair to keep your head still as he pressed into your mouth. The stretch to accommodate his size burned and you could feel yourself tearing up. 

You placed your hands on his thighs to stabilize yourself as you tried to relax your jaw as much as possible. König cursed above you, resituating his legs so that you were practically trapped between the wall and him. 

He knew you couldn’t take all of him in your mouth, you trusted he wouldn’t push you past your limits. The thought helped relax you body as König started fucking into your mouth. You felt the tip of his cock brush the back of your throat with each thrust in.

König was mumbling above you. You couldn’t make anything out with the squelching sound his cock was making. Your eyes fluttered shut and both your hands move to undo your own pants, you dick achingly hard. 

You got your belt undone before König was tugging at your hair, regaining your full attention. “Hands off,” you hear him say, borderline snarling at you.

You groaned around his dick, reluctantly putting your hands back on his thighs. König grunted in approval, running his fingers over your scalp in some form of thank you. 

The room filled with König’s grunts and groans and the squelching of his dick as he fucked your mouth. He was hunched over you, the hand not in your hair planted on the wall behind you so he could lean against it. His thrusts were getting more erratic, his groans louder. 

Your fingers dug into his thighs in an attempt to ground yourself, to focus on your breathing. The grip in your hair tightened and you let out a noise of surprise as König pulled you farther down his dick. 

You felt him go down your throat, your airway clogging momentarily as your nose pressed against the hair on his pelvis. König held you there for a moment but as soon as you pushed back against his thighs, he let you go completely and pulled his dick out of your mouth. You heard him jacking himself off above you as you fell into a coughing fit, caught between trying to catch your breath and trying to not choke on air. 

König’s hand returned to your hair and he’d pulled you back upright, his tip pressed against your lips again as he came. You flinched as it shot up your cheek, narrowly missing your eye, the rest coating your lips. 

He sighed quietly as he looked down at you. You could tell he was smiling under his hood. Whether at the mess he made or at you, you weren’t sure. You licked your lips to clean them off at least a little bit, fighting the urge to grimace at the taste as you swallowed. 

The sound of static coming from your headset startled you and you felt yourself jerk as your teammate’s voice filled your ear asking anyone if they’d found König.  

You did you best to calm your breathing as fast you could before responding, “Yeah, I found him. Just got him up and running.”

König took the time you were speaking with the team to put his dick away and pull out a handkerchief to wipe the rest of your face off. Your team made the decision of where to meet up and you were quick to shut your mic back off once it was decided. 

You pushed yourself off the ground, sighing quietly as you redid your belt, hoping to whatever forces above that your boner wasn’t too noticeable. König chuckled as he watched you before gently grabbing your chin and tilting your face towards him. He cleaned the rest of his mess off of you, which you were more than grateful for, before leaning down and lifting his hood up just enough to kiss you. 

“Thank you liebling,” he whispers as he stands back up. “We’ll continue this when we get back to base.”

“Long as you don’t try to kill me again,” you mumble, rubbing the front of your neck as you started out of the room. Despite your words, König could tell you were excited to get back. 

[thebuddiearchives]

BUDDIE FIC RECS ✴ HOSTAGE SITUATION ✴ VOL. 1

Fic recs centered around season 5 episode 6, Brawl in Cell Block 9-1-1.

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all this time i didn't know(you were breaking down) by BooyahFordhamYacht Oneshot || Teen || 3873

buck does not handle the prison riots well at all. eddie gets really mad and then really worried, in that order.

alt;

Eddie thinks it started with the ambulance, or the gun.

But then Nolan’s mom comes out, and Nolan’s going to be okay, and Eddie can breathe again, kind of, and all he can think is 'Christopher,' so he leaves. He walks out and tries to imagine that he and Buck are fine, and it doesn’t work, and he tries not to care about that.

It doesn’t work.

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caught up in the war inside by farfromthstars // @doeeyeseddie Oneshot || General || 2561

Buck shoots him a nervous look before focusing on the road again. “You said you didn’t want a ready-made family. I didn’t wanna overstep.” For a few seconds, Eddie just stares at him before he blurts out, “I didn’t mean you.”

~

coda to 5x06, in which eddie strikes one thing off the list of Things He and Buck Don't Talk About

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follow me home (how could i ever leave without you?) by buckleyseddie // @buckleyseddie Oneshot || Teen || 6517

There’s a short silence and then, “I’m gonna go see mine,” Eddie says. 

Buck tries not to let his face fall. Savanna’s son is okay, there’s no reason for them to stay here any longer so of course Eddie wants to head home to see his kid.

The thing is, Buck wants nothing more than to go with him.

He wants to keep Eddie in his line of sight and he wants to make sure Christopher’s okay, but he can’t bring himself to call out to Eddie, to ask him if it would be okay if Buck came over today. He doesn’t want to impose, but he also really doesn’t want to go home alone.

Maybe if he lingers long enough Athena and Bobby will invite him over, maybe Ravi will let Buck buy him breakfast.

Before he can test that theory though, Eddie looks over his shoulder at him and asks, “you coming, Buck?” *** or in the aftermath of the hostage situation, Buck goes home with Eddie

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gathered up your things and slipped away (no time at all, i followed you) by zashizawa Oneshot || Not Rated || 1115

The gunshot goes off, and instantly, Buck is standing in the middle of the street with blood on his face, staining his clothes, in his mouth, everywhere.

(Or, post s05e06, Buck needs to see Eddie and Chris.)

————————————————————————

Half of my heart has always been yours by justhockey // @everything-i-am Oneshot || Not Rated || 2509

It felt like Buck’s soul got ripped in half when he heard that gunshot crack through the air. For the length of a heartbeat everything was frozen in one agonising, unbearable moment.

And then Buck was running - chest heaving and legs as heavy as lead - to get to Eddie.

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I don't feel it till it hurts by bigfootsmom // @bigfootsmom Oneshot || General || 5796

Where Buck is not as okay after being pistol-whipped as he appears and Eddie is not okay in general.

If Buck were here he would tell Eddie that everything is alright and Eddie wouldn’t believe him, but he would be able to pretend for a while.

Eddie wants to see Buck. But it feels like invading Buck’s space with Taylor to just drive over to the loft. Even though it’s what his heart aches to do, Eddie holds himself back. Buck is with his girlfriend. He doesn’t need Eddie showing up and fussing over him.

————————————————————————

I think that I should probably tell you this In case there is an accident by Pan_Cake_Cats // @dorkydiaz Multichapter || Teen || 2688

But he didn’t have to do that. Eddie is…..fine. And Chris doesn’t need him. So why are his fingers burning as they itch to type out a message to Eddie. What would he even say? The phone drops from his hands and clatters to the table as he resigns himself to the fact that he should sleep. He puts on the tv as soft background noise and just stares up at the ceiling for hours. But he can't help but feel guilty. Guilty that to feel calm, to feel right again, he needs to see Christopher. Who is not his son. Eventually he does fall into a restless sleep. He wakes in the late afternoon to the klinking of keys and Eddie’s warm voice cutting through the sterile stillness of the loft.

————————————————————————

if you don't know me by now by ColorMeParanoid // @color-me-paranoid Oneshot || Teen || 2699

They’d just returned from a call and were lounging around after lunch, taking advantage of a calm moment between calls while they still could when Ravi changed the channel and said, “Hey, Buck. Isn’t that your girlfriend?”

“I didn’t know she was covering the prison riot,” Eddie said and Buck found himself frowning.

“That’s because she’s not.” Or, at least, she wasn’t the last time he saw her.

“Are you sure about that?” Hen said, glowering at the TV. “Because it looks like she found herself a perfect story.”

Or, the one in which Taylor crosses the line and the inevitable breakup follows

————————————————————————

isn’t it just so pretty to think by spiritsontheroof Oneshot || General || 11232

Buck feels like his whole life is a waiting game now. Waiting for whatever is going on with Eddie to come to a head or work itself out, waiting for his sister to come home, waiting for being with Taylor to feel right. Sitting, waiting, wishing.

————————————————————————

Jump by goodiecornbread Oneshot || Teen || 4719

Buck is fine, okay?

It's just that, after Eddie almost dies again, he gets a little jumpy. That's all. He's fine.

–––

Buck dealing with some things after the ambulance jacking.

————————————————————————

a little less war torn by renecdote // @renecdote Oneshot || Teen || 5647

“I gotta be honest,” Eddie says quietly, “you’re not really reassuring me here, Buck.”

Buck bites his lip hard. He can’t tell the truth. He can’t. Christopher is here, and Eddie will probably leave, and then he’ll be alone again, again, again. Tears blur his eyes and he blinks quickly, trying to hold them at bay.

“Hey.” Hand on Buck’s shoulder now, squeezing just a little too tight. “I’m serious—do I need to take you to a hospital right now?”

Set right after 5x06 ends. In which Buck is all kinds of not okay but Eddie helps.

————————————————————————

Misplaced aggression by basicallyiwriteshit Multichapter || General || 7961

Eddie's been having a lot of feelings about how closely ingrained into his and Christopher's lives. His brain can't decide if that's good or bad, even though his heart's seemingly made the decision, and he snaps.

Evan knows he should take a step back. Let Eddie have time with his family, and quit being such a present part of his and Chris's day-to-day lives. He didn't expect Eddie to yell at him about it, though.

————————————————————————

nowhere we can go with nothing underneath by alasse Oneshot || Teen || 3401

Set immediately post 5.06. Taylor takes the bare bones of what Buck shared with her and starts digging, until she comes up with a pretty good guess at the truth of the riot and the transplant, which she wants to turn into a feature. The choice sets her on a collision path with Eddie—and with Buck.

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when the world crumbles (bring me home) by tawaifeddiediaz // @aashiqeddiediaz Oneshot || Teen || 2905

He regrets not following Eddie quick enough.

Or, the one where Buck and Eddie talk and cry it out

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Wish we could cut all ties with the morning light by Mellaithwen // @mellaithwen Oneshot || Teen || 2506

“You ever think that maybe I might be doing this for me too?” Eddie asks.

Buck looks a little broken at that, the way his face seems to almost collapse in on itself, and the breath he lets out is shaky and a little surprised. But it’s true. Eddie needs this. He needs to convince himself that he’s safe, that Buck’s safe, that Christopher’s safe. He needs the quiet ministrations to calm him down—he needs to slip into the familiar motions of giving care until his heart rate slows and finally the last of the adrenaline can ebb away.

He lets his thumb brush at Buck’s cheek, his hand still cradling his jaw. The moment seems to stretch and breathe and they stay there for a while, tethered by touch, until finally Buck gives a little nod of acceptance as he lets Eddie continue with his work. . While they wait for news at the hospital, Eddie tends to Buck's head wound.

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you showed up just in time by lecornergirl // @clusterbuck Oneshot || General || 1445

can i come over, typed out quickly and sent before he has time to overthink it. He wouldn’t even ask, not normally, but nothing about the past twenty-four hours has been normal.

Eddie texts back almost immediately. No.

Buck’s blood runs cold, horror settling like lead in his veins, and his heart feels like it’s trying to climb up his throat and leave his body as he tries to figure out what he could have done to piss Eddie off. Eddie had seemed fine in the hospital waiting room—if tired, as worn out and frayed as the rest of them, but—

A key turns in his door and Eddie walks in, Christopher in tow.

————————————————————————

[witherby]

Does Mouse not care their business is super not moral? They feed and entertain murderers, kidnappers, drug dealers who probably sold to kids too, crime bosses, terrorists, and overall bad people who do bad things most of the time only for extra money and not out of need.

Does the police not care? Or civilians that may have gotten hurt by the criminals or their dear ones gotten killed by them and now see the same people who broke so many, go to a place that got created especially for them like a prize?

Does Batman not care that the criminals he refuses to put a bullet in continue to break out of Blackgate Prison and Arkham Asylum to sew chaos across the city? He just keeps wrangling up these killers and psychos and general bad people non-lethally and depositing them back into the buildings designated to keep them there with no success.

Does the GCPD not care that their reputation is in tatters because the system designed to handle crime is failing, and they have to rely on volunteer vigilantes to keep this city from becoming an irreparable warzone to be dismissed by the rest of the world and nuked off the map?

Wouldn't it be easier if every bad person just died? Put a bullet in the Joker's head. He's the worst of the worst. Surely just him at least, and everything will be fine!

Well...okay, but we made an exception for Joker, but Killer Croc is literally in the name! Just kill him, too. Bye bye, mister Jones! Should've tried harder!

Hmm...and come to think of it, Mr. Freeze is doing a lot. It's for the sake of finding a cure for his wife, he's doing it for love, but he's still a bad person! Kill him, too! And, y'know, maybe we should kill Harley and Ivy as well! And Penguin! And Clayface! And —

Oh, look at that. They're all dead. What a load off Gotham's back, am I right? Hey y'know...we got rid of the big guns, but crime is still happening. There's still murderers and rapists and robbers and arsonists running around despite knowing the consequences the more violent players had to face. Why not clear them out, too, since the gun is still smoking? What's one more?

What's one more?

What's one more?

What's one more?

What's one more?

The systems in place are not working. Arkham needs reform. Blackgate needs reform. The city needs reform. It's a festering cesspool of crime and misery and everyone is doing their best to improve upon it in the only ways they can. Have you ever had a really fuckin bad day and had it all turn around because of one act of kindness? Have you ever been halted from making an impulsive, possibly irreparable decision due to someone else's altruism?

Maybe a little café on the corner wouldn't stop you from committing a crime. But going in there for a coffee and being treated with the patience and respect everyone deserves sure isn't gonna hurt.

Truce Juice is not the end-all solution to Gotham's problems and Mouse isn't pretending that it is. But it's something. It's making an impact. It's been turned into a neutral ground in Gotham and successful enough to franchise.

You don't have to like someone to provide them with good customer service. You don't have to like them to take their money and give them a bagel. But maybe the bagel was the thing that got rid of their hanger, cleared their head, and stopped them from robbing the bank two blocks over.

It's something.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Lisa Needham at Public Notice:

It has often been said that Donald Trump was running for president to keep himself out of prison. Mission accomplished.

But the fact that Trump wasn’t behind bars long ago, that he didn’t suffer any consequences for his criming and now likely never will, can be laid squarely at the feet of one man: Attorney General Merrick Garland. Garland dragged his feet on prosecuting Trump for election interference and pilfering classified documents, making it easy for him to run out the clock.  Coming in on the heels of a literal insurrection, Garland was a bad fit for his job from the jump. He made clear early on that he didn’t see addressing issues from the Trump era as a priority, declaring that he would not look backward. Garland is an institutionalist, leading him to see his real job as protecting the Department of Justice rather than imposing any consequences on Bill Barr and others who turned the DOJ into a corrupt playground. Someone who saw the abstract notion of an institution as more important than actual people and actual wrongdoing was never going to be the person who aggressively pursued an ex-president whose crimes were always in full view, which was what the country desperately needed back in 2021.

Bringing a knife to a gunfight

Rather than moving quickly to prosecute people — including Trump — for January 6, Garland’s first moves were to take actions that actually favored Trump, all in the name of protecting the institution. In May 2021, the DOJ went to court to block the release of most of a Bill Barr memo that might have revealed how hard Barr worked to avoid charging Trump with obstruction of justice after the Mueller report. There, Garland was continuing work that had begun under Trump. But while it made sense that Barr would want to block the release of information revealing his role in helping Trump, it made no sense for Garland to want the same. The country had both a right and a need to learn everything possible about what happened during the first Trump presidency and led to a spasm of treasonous violence. That’s far more important than getting a generally favorable ruling on the DOJ’s right to sit on memos. 

Garland also moved quickly to defend Trump against defamation claims by E. Jean Carroll, brought after Trump claimed she made up her accusation of sexual assault to sell books. The DOJ filed a brief substituting the government as the defendant for Trump so it could argue that Trump’s defamation of Carroll was done in the scope of his employment as president, which would likely have resulted in the case getting dismissed. As with the Barr memo, Garland decided it was more important to preserve the DOJ’s general ability to protect federal officials from defamation claims than to acknowledge the unprecedented nature of Trump’s behavior and let him suffer the consequences he clearly deserved.  Taken in a vacuum, neither of these actions would be quite so galling. In both instances, Garland was generally trying to maximize the DOJ’s power, which isn’t necessarily awful. But what is galling is that he took these two steps with such swiftness, only a few months after being confirmed, while not showing nearly the same concern to address Trump’s crimes. 

Fairness to the point of absurdity

Garland’s desire to always appear evenhanded is also what led to the ridiculously aggressive pursuit of Hunter Biden, naming a special counsel and ultimately successfully prosecuting the president’s son for tax evasion and lying on a federal form to obtain a gun. And don’t forget how swiftly Garland appointed a special counsel to investigate President Biden’s retention of classified material. In early November 2022, the White House voluntarily disclosed that some classified documents had been found at Biden’s think tank. The FBI opened an investigation five days later, and Garland raced to name a special counsel, appointing Robert Hur in January 2023. Hur was a Trump appointee, serving as United States Attorney for the District of Maryland from 2018 to 2021, and he demonstrated his hackishness by releasing a report in February of this year that did grave political damage to Biden by gratuitously describing him as an “elderly man with a poor memory.”

While Garland couldn’t move fast enough to protect the DOJ and to aggressively pursue the Biden family to show his evenhandedness, he didn’t get around to naming Jack Smith as a special prosecutor until November 2022, nearly two years after the insurrection. By that time, it was likely already too late. This is true even if Smith had not run into unexpected obstacles, such as Trump winning over the Supreme Court with an absurd argument that he was basically wholly immune from criminal charges.

[...]

All those motions and appeals take time, which is why it was a bad idea to wait until November 2022 to appoint Smith, who then had to convene a grand jury to consider criminal charges over Trump’s willful retention of classified documents and his lies to the FBI about it. Smith didn’t issue an indictment in that case until June 2023. Smith had to convene a separate grand jury for charges related to the insurrection, so the DOJ didn’t indict Trump on those charges until August 2023.

This left Smith overseeing two incredibly complex cases against a defendant with nearly limitless resources, given that Trump could keep tapping political action committees for his legal bills, shifting the cost to his campaign donors and the RNC. By March 2024, Trump had racked up $100 million in legal fees, and while he kept draining the coffers of various PACs, donors were always eager to replenish those funds. Therefore, Trump could file as many frivolous motions as he wanted and run out the clock without taking any money out of his pocket. Smith never honestly had a chance that these cases would wrap up before Election Day. Garland’s foot-dragging on naming Smith is precisely what allowed Trump to run out the clock on his federal criminal charges, setting the stage for a presidential run that culminated Tuesday with his shockingly thorough defeat of Vice President Kamala Harris.

Appointing Merrick Garland to AG was a terrible choice in retrospect, as his timidness allowed a criminal to get off scot-free and run for President (and win).