#then moon trips stumbles and falls for them (confused and in denial the whole time)

[bones-of-a-rabbit]

Readerbot is accidentally forced into adopting a child they won in a lottery (pls don’t ask I can’t explain wtf my friends are on when we’re streaming in the discord): a tale in three parts

[marauderundercover]

Crashed Dates (Day 2: Scarecrow)

Marinette grins at her boyfriend, swinging their intertwined hands back and forth as they walk around the pumpkin farm. It was so nice, finally being able to go on cute dates like this. They’d first started dating while he was in Paris on business, around a year ago. Sure, he’d made trips to Paris and she’d made a few to Metropolis, but it was different now that she had moved to Gotham. Now they were able to go on random, unplanned dates, instead of dates that had been planned for weeks. He was definitely worried when she first told him she was moving to Gotham, but she had reassured him that it would be fine. (Not that she had a choice in the matter, Tikki had informed her on her last trip to Metropolis that Gotham was sick, that it was calling out for help and that as the Guardian, it was her job to help it). Gotham was….interesting, but she’d settled in just fine in the two weeks she’d been there.

And so, when he had called her out of the blue to tell her he found a place he thought she’d love, she made sure she had enough layers and jumped at the chance for a day with him. So far, the day had been absolutely perfect. They’d drank hot apple cider, ate warm donuts, taken a trip around the farm on the hayride- everything was great. But for some reason, her amazingly stubborn boyfriend didn’t want to go into the corn maze. 

“Please! You’ll be my favorite person in the whole world.” She begs again, her grin quickly switching into a pout. She keeps pouting, leaning against his arm, until he sighs.

“Fine, we can do the maze.” He says and she cheers, standing on her toes and tugging him down slightly to give him a quick kiss. 

“You are the best!” She says, over enunciating every word. He just grins, giving her another soft kiss. 

“If we get lost, I’m calling the Demon Spawn to come get us out. Pretty sure he has a tracker on my phone.” Jason says, letting her tug him along towards the maze. She just rolls her eyes, grinning. 

“You know you’re secretly touched that he cares enough to track you.” She teases as they near the entrance of the maze.

“Yeah, yeah.” He grumbles, glaring at the scarecrow situated at the entrance of the maze. Marinette raises an eyebrow. 

“You have a problem with men made of straw?” She asks, legitimately confused by his reaction. 

“Geeze M, I knew you were new to Gotham but I forget how new.” He says, pulling her closer. She melts into him, still confused by his reaction, but happy to be close. As they walk through the maze, frustratingly running into deadends, Jason explains Scarecrow. Marinette decides that he’s number two on the list of villains she never wants to meet. Joker is number one. (Joker is also number one on the list of villains she wants to meet, but that’s because she’s always wondered what it would look like to cataclysm a psychotic clown). She’s just about to suggest they call Damian and utilize the tracker that was, undoubtedly on Jason’s phone, when the screaming begins. 

“There isn’t a haunted house here, is there.” Marinette says, her face pale. She wasn’t ready to be a hero again. She’d only defeated Hawkmoth a year ago. Just before meeting Jason. She didn’t want that part of her life again, not now. 

“No, no there’s not.” Jason says, eyes glancing around wildly. Marinette’s heart breaks at the panic on his face. She knew that, despite his tough guy appearance, he struggled. A lot. He had nightmares, constantly, mostly of the time Joker had kidnapped him (hence the whole, cataclysm Joker thing). Pushing down her own fear and doubt, she tightens her grip on his hand and squares her shoulders. 

“Come on.” She instructs, tugging him behind her as she darts through the maze, determined to get out. She stumbles over a rock and lets go of Jason’s hand in time for her to fall into a larger clearing. She curses as she falls, her palms stinging. 

“What have we here?” A voice says. Marinette sits up, staring up at a man in a scarecrow costume and suddenly, Jason’s fear, or rather, dislike, of scarecrows makes more sense. So much more sense. She glances around and lets out a sigh of relief. She’d let go of Jason quick enough. He wasn’t caught up in this. Hopefully, he could call his father. She wasn’t sure if the rumors about Bruce Wayne and Batman dating were true, but Batman was always quick to interfere if it was a Wayne or Wayne adjacent involved. 

“A girl who’s a little pissed that you crashed her date.” She retorts, standing up and brushing her stinging palms off on her jeans. She’d have to get the blood out later, which would be a pain. Better than having the blood on her palms mix with the dirt that also now covered her hands. 

“You’re either very brave or very stupid, little girl. Let’s see how you deal with my newest strain of fear toxin.” He says, and she lunges towards the man, not willing to go down without a fight. Almost immediately, a sharp pinch on her neck has her stumbling back away from the man as she tries to take in her new surroundings. 

She was back in Paris, but it wasn’t the Paris she had left. The city that was healing. Instead this Paris was underwater. Buildings were toppled over, and the moon was in pieces in the sky. She was back there. A place she hadn’t seen in person since she was fourteen, a place that had haunted her nightmares for ten years. She inhales sharply when she sees him. Chat Blanc. But instead of fear, she’s just angry. This isn’t real. It can’t be. Adrien Agreste was Chat Noir. And Adrien was….turning, she realizes that she can almost see him. Out of the corner of her eye, she can almost see Scarecrow, watching her. Waiting for her to react. Anger coursing through her, she charges the man, tackling him all the way to the ground. She pulls back her fist and punches him, repeatedly. 

“How dare you! How dare you use his face like that! You son of a bitch!” She screams as she hits, the roaring in her ears blocking out all other sounds. She keeps her focus on feeling the man she’s hitting, because the second she lets her focus wander, she gets sucked into her surroundings again. The way the sky just looks wrong. The odd haze over everything. And now, the corpses floating in the water closest to her. Adrien. Maman. Papa. She’s not scared, she’s pissed. Sure, those were her biggest fears and that’s definitely why she was seeing them all like that, but she’d already seen it. She’s lived it. They were gone, not coming back. And she sure as hell wasn’t going to fall down and break about it. Not when some asshole with fear toxin was running around randomly injecting people. Suddenly, something is wrapped around her and she’s pulled up. She kicks frantically, trying to get out of the steel grip she’s trapped in. She had to- what did she have to do? Another sharp pinch in her neck makes her eyes droop sleepily. She struggles again, barely able to hear the voice calling her name as she succumbs to the darkness.

---

Jason Todd feels like a major prick. He watched his girlfriend trip and instead of helping her up, he uses it as a distraction to try and call B. How the fuck was he supposed to know she tripped right into the Scarecrow? He’s cursing himself mentally as he rushes towards the ambulance. Replacement had texted him. 

Marinette was injected. At ambulances near front of farm

And Jason felt like shit. She’d never forgive him, not that he deserved it. He’d left her with one of Gotham’s biggest villains. His heart sinks when he sees the blood on her, and the oxygen mask attached to her face. Fuck. He’s almost to her, when one of the asshole cops stops him. 

“Excuse me, sir, you can’t go over there.” He says and Jason scowls. 

“Like hell I can’t. She’s my girlfriend, let me through.” He says, and the man shakes his head. 

“Family only.” He states. Jason’s about to argue, when a hand lands on his shoulder. 

“I still need to get a statement from Mr. Todd, if you’ll excuse us.” Replacement says, leading him away from the cop. 

“I left her.” He says, the second they’re far enough away. Tim frowns.

“What do you-”

“I mean, I left her. She tripped and instead of checking on her, I was a complete and total asshole and left her so I could call B to get his ass over here and solve the goddamn problem.” Jason says, feeling like even more of an asshole now that he’s said it out loud. 

“Did you see Scarecrow?” Replacement asks. Jason scoffs. 

“Of course not! You really think I would’ve left if I had?” He asks with a glare. 

“No, I don’t. So stop blaming yourself. I literally peeled her off of Scarecrow, she was beating the crap out of him. She’s gonna be tired and scared and confused when she wakes up. Just be there-”

“Jason!” Her terrified voice echoes out and Jason turns, sprinting for the cot he’d seen her on a minute ago. She had ripped the oxygen mask off her face and was looking around while arguing with the paramedic. 

“Ma’am please-” “Marinette!” Jason calls, and her face relaxes as she leaps off the cot and launches herself into his arms. He holds her as she shakes, sobs wracking her body. 

“I saw them.” She mumbles once she calms down a little. He frowns. 

“Saw who?” He asks. 

“My parents. Adrien. Their bodies.” She says, and suddenly, Jason has another name to add to his kill list. Being a complete asshole to all of Gotham, sure. Making his girlfriend see the bodies of those she’d lost? Nope. Now the bastard better hope he didn’t meet Red Hood in an alley. 

“God, Mari, I am so sorry. I’m so sorry I left.” He apologizes, his heart aching when she pushes him away. She frowns up at him and he winces, certain she’s about to break up with him. 

“Left?” She asks and he nods. 

“When you tripped, I swear, I didn’t know Scarecrow was there.” He says. 

“But you got Batman here.” She says and he jerks back. How the hell had she figured it out? When did she- “I know Bruce said he isn’t dating Batman, but honestly, I think he’s just in denial.” She adds. 

“I- what?” 

“Batman always comes when anyone in the Wayne family is in danger. Like, so quickly. And I know that Bruce says it’s just a bunch of rumors, like the whole ‘the butts match’ thing? But I also think that Batman is head over heels for Bruce, and your dad is just kinda clueless.” She rambles. Jason just laughs before pulling her into a deep kiss. She was okay. They were okay. He pulls back and grins at her, until he notices the blood again. 

“Shit, that’s a lot of blood.” He says, taking her hand in his to try and find the source. He glances at her face and raises an eyebrow at the blush that had taken over her face. 

“Oh, um, it’s not mine.” She mumbles. 

“Then who-” “Apparently I beat the hell out of Scarecrow. In my defense, that fear toxin sucked. And I was kinda pissed.” She says, frowning down at the blood on her hands. Jason takes one of his hands and gently tilts her chin up so that she’s looking at him again. He grins at her, giving her a short, soft kiss before pulling back. 

“I love you.” He says, and if the kiss she gave him in return meant anything, she felt the same way.

Next

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[hockeyforthefirsttime]

That Someone- Roope Hintz

AN: yeah, idk man. This took far too long to write, esp with thought of quality that isn’t there. HOWEVER, I can’t stare at it any longer so here ya go.

Word Count: 2,5k

TW: alcohol, slight angst, general pining

Roope has never been an easy person to understand. One moment he is your best friend, and other times he’s one of the star players of the Dallas Stars. And the two roles, they shouldn’t be all that conflicting, but apparently they are, and you don’t know how to change that. 

“Roope, can you please for one second listen to me?” 

You speak up in between giggles as he is curled up in your lap. 

“No.” 

He mumbles into your stomach, the vibration of his voice against your stomach making you chuckle. 

“You promised. The deal is that you make dinner every other time.”

“But m’tired.” 

His protest makes you card a hand through his hair, which you know is a bad idea. It only makes you feel like your best friend is something more, to you. 

“Please just make dinner Roope.” 

You sigh. And with a grunt he actually gets up and moves to the kitchen while rubbing his eyes in a childlike manner. 

You twist around on your couch and grab your phone from the coffee table. 

People always scrunch their noses when they see that your lockscreen is just black. Most people call you boring for it, most of all Tyler Seguin, the Star that you feel closest to, if you don’t count Roope. 

You don’t care though, because you don’t want to have anything there. (If you were to have anything there it’d be Roope though). And that about sums up how far into the deep end you are. You have a creeping suspicion that this is what Tyler knows, and that’s why he keeps teasing you about your black lock screen. 

Shaking your head, you turn on some soft music on the TV speaker and wander into the kitchen. 

Roope has a towel hanging over his shoulder and is quietly humming along to your music.

“You really only know how to make pasta?” 

He turns at the sound of your voice. 

“It’s damn good pasta and you know it.” 

He teases with a smirk. You have told him on multiple occasions just how good his pasta is. 

“Maybe so.” 

“It’s finished soon, Miss Denial, will you set the table please?” 

Roope asks as he turns back to the carbonara he has been making. 

It’s the domestic, small things like this that make you fall even further. He just doesn’t realise. Maybe it has to do with the fact that the only person you have admitted your feelings to is you. Because when other people ask about Roope, he’s always just your best friend. As jokingly as he does it, calling you Miss Denial rings more true than he thinks it does. 

------

As one of the Star players of the Dallas Stars, Roope acts a little bit different. He brings you out after a big win, he does, but you never go together. There is always some excuse, mostly that he thinks you will have more fun getting ready with the WAGs. Because of that it’s just easier if you carpool with them. Or take your own car. For better or worse, because that means you have to stay sober for the entire night. 

And even if you think every night is gonna be different, it never really is. Tonight is apparently no excuse. 

They have just won over the Islanders on home ice and are the usual suspects en route to the regular club. Roope had the winning goal and was over the moon when he got out of the locker room and media.

You had dressed in an emerald knit sweater, not being able to put on the jersey Roope had given you. You had tried to put it on, you really had, but feeling the weight of having “Hintz” on your back was just too much for you. Especially when you know that it’s all you’ll ever get. 

You’re all sitting together around two tables, doing shots and nursing different drinks. Roope is beside you on the outer end of the table. Tyler is on your right, for once having sworn he isn’t gonna get completely wasted. 

You’re all laughing at Miro as he downs another shot of something he supposedly likes, you can tell he’s close to the limit now. However you aren’t too scared, you’re his ride home anyways. 

Roope’s arm is resting behind your head and as the time starts nearing one am, even with the flashing eyes and loud music, you’re starting to feel drowsy. You lean into his chest and rest there, unknowingly making the whole table swoon.

“Hey, I’m gonna go get another water.” 

Roope’s eyes are slightly glassy as you look at him. Carefully he moves out of his seat to allow you to move.

“Want anything?” 

“Just a beer please.” 

Roope mumbles softly and you nod. 

The queue to the bar is longer than expected, and ten minutes have passed when you walk from there. 

You’ve almost reached your table when you notice an absence. It makes you stop and causes someone to bump into you, making you spill half the glass of water. You know they’re gone before you can register who it is. 

Sighing, you make your way over to the table and the vacant spot. 

“Hey, anyone know where Roope went?” 

The group around the table is more reduced now than you first realised. Apparently also feeling very pitiful, ‘cause no one wants to answer the question. Until Tyler does. 

“Uhh, some chick came up asking for a dance.” 

Miro stumbles to your side, positively hammered, and folds his frame over yours. 

“Roope s’stupid.” 

He slurs against the top of your head.

“Stop Miro.” 

You sigh. 

“But s true.” 

“Please not now, here drink this.” 

You say and hand him the half empty glass of untouched water.

“I think I’m gonna try to get this mafioso home for the night.” 

The remaining team members and their significant others all nod understandingly. And since you can’t see Roope, you start to hug people goodbye. 

“Don’t worry, he’ll come to his senses sooner or later.” 

Tyler whispers into your ear as he hugs you, giving you an extra squeeze. 

You set the still full glass of beer down by Roope’s spot, and take Miro’s arm so you can lead him out of the club. 

“C’mon, let’s get you and me home.” 

“Okay, I feel a little dizzy.” 

Only a few minutes later, after you and Miro have departed, Roope comes back to the table still fixing his cap and wiping lipgloss off his lips. Immediately he spots the glass of beer and takes a big swig of it. It’s not until he finishes swallowing that he notices the eyes on him, all except one pair. 

“Where did Y/N go?” 

He questions.

“So you finally notice, huh.”

Tyler mumbles, yet somehow Roope catches it. Making him frown at his teammate. 

“She went home, took Miro back to his place as well.” 

Jamie’s date of the night replies. Roope looks towards the exit, but sees no sign of you or his teammate. 

----

In all honesty, when you got the first message from Roope, asking why you left, your heart couldn’t take it. So you just shut off your phone and went to bed. And thank god for Sundays, cause you sleep until 11am that morning. It’s not good sleep, and you still feel tired when you drag yourself to the bathroom, and sad. The person in the mirror doesn’t quite look like you, she is much more bleak, faded. 

Regardless, you step into the shower and try to wake yourself up. Even though you don’t have anything to do, you still want to wash last night off your body. The soft almost non exiting pressure stream of water doesn’t help much, only adding to your frustrations. So you step out and dry off, before going back to your bedroom. You dress in a pair of old sweats that hang off your hips ever so slightly and a henley sweater you find in the back of your closet. 

Your phone is still on the kitchen bench when you walk in, and you decide to power it on again. As soon as you punch in the pin code, it’s overflowing with messages from Roope. And the general gist is worry and confusion. When you click on his contact, and see the messages and the times they were sent, it’s your turn to get worried. They go from tree am to ten minutes ago. 

Me: Roope, you need sleep

You type before you can think twice, and send the message. Almost instantly there is a new message, but this time only the one. 

Roope: I’m on my way over. 

And you swear you are frozen in time, cause minutes go by and you don’t notice, only staring at the screen.  A knock on your door shakes you from your stupor, and automatically you go to open it.

Roope looks rough, to put it mildly. He is still in the same clothes as last night, his blond hair is messy even hidden underneath his cap, and his eyes are red and droopy. 

“You need to sleep, Roope.” 

“No, I need you.” 

 You sigh and open the door a little further, motioning for him to come in. 

“Roope, please. You have to sleep.” 

It feels like there is little else to say. You don’t want to have this conversation with him now, when he might not remember it in the morning. Much less when you are on the verge of crying yourself. 

“Please, ‘jus wanna talk.” 

And he sounds so so sad, when he talks. You never could resist a sad Roope, there is something in the way his eyes plead with you. So you close the door and turn towards him, and are met with that exact look. 

“Okay, just go sit on the couch.” 

You sigh, watching as he stumbles over to the couch. The trip to the kitchen seems far too long, but when you make it you pull out a glass of water and a bottle of ibuprofen. It isn’t until you shut off the running water, that you hear the soft snores coming from the living room. 

Walking into the living room, you see Roope completely collapsed in what has to be an uncomfortable position. At that moment you decide to let him sleep it off. Even if he doesn’t end up remembering this moment when he wakes up.  You set the glass of water on the coffee table along with the ibuprofen, and decide to go about your day in other ways. 

Like getting your laptop and sitting down by the tiny kitchen table you have, to attempt some work. In reality you end up editing some playlists on your Spotify and getting consumed by it. The next time you look at the clock on the stove, it shows 3pm. And you figure you’ve wasted enough hours on the internet. 

Quietly you close your laptop and take off your headset. When you walk into the living room,  Roope seems to have realized how uncomfortable he was and has curled up into a ball. Crouching down in front of the couch 

“Hey, you need to wake up.” 

He groans, but you can tell he is starting to wake up from the way his brows scrunch together. Reaching out, you place a hand on his upper arm and shake him a little. Slowly but surely, his eyes flutter open, meeting your gaze. The whites in his eyes are still a little red, but he seems a little clearer now. 

“Morning”

Roope mumbles, while getting up. He swings his legs over the edge and his upper body follows. You can’t help but let out a little chuckle while shaking your head at him. He leans his elbows on his knees, and lets his head drop into his hands. 

“Here, drink some water.” 

You hand him the glass from the table and go to shake out two pills from the bottle. 

“No no, I’m fine without.” 

He says after taking three generous gulps of water from the full glass. 

“It will help with the pain.”

You tell him, holding your hand out towards his. 

“Why?” 

He asks, and you answer absentmindedly. 

“Because there are chemicals in this that will help you relax.” 

Roope shakes his head at you and sighs. 

“No, I mean, why are you always so kind to me? Why do you care so much?” 

You feel your heart sting and sink to your stomach. 

“Do you not want me to?” 

The fact that you are getting defensive about this should tell him enough. But he only seems to get more fired up. 

“Don’t answer a question with another question.”

And you swear, time stops for a second, giving you time to think a few thoughts. First, that you should never have let him stay. Second, that there are a million better ways to do this. And third of all; fuck it. 

“Because I want to be someone to you.”

He frowns at that, trying to take a step towards you, only to discover that you’ve moved to the other side of the coffee table. 

“Of course you are someone to me, you’re my best friend.”

Roope even cocks his head to the side in confusion. 

“I want to be that someone to you. Not just your best friend. I want you to hold me in public, I want you to take me out on the dance floor when we go out, and I want you to not rush home after a night in. I want to be able to put on your jersey and not feel like an imposter. I think I want more than you’re willing to give. And that’s fine. I’ll get over it.” 

You don’t realize you have moved through the apartment, and you don’t realize that Roope has followed you. You do know though, because you can see his reflection behind you in the window.

“All of me, if you’re willing. I’ll give you all of me, because you’re not just my best friend, you’re the friend I call whether I’m happy or sad. When I’m having a crisis or don’t feel well I think of you, or come here. I just didn’t think you’d want all of the public stuff, cause I know you’re a private person.” 

He has been moving closer and closer, now you can feel him behind you, across the entire plane of your back. In the reflection, his head is a little bent and his breath is fanning across your neck. 

“All of me, is what I can give you.” 

Roope whispers, sending tickles down your spine. 

“Are you sure?” 

You close your eyes as you lean into his chest, feeling him wrap his arms around your front. 

“Never more sure of anything.” 

The confirmation makes everything fall into its rightful place inside you, so you lift a hand to the back of his neck, which causes him to lean down and place a soft kiss on your lips. 

[missywhomst]

Missy and 13 slow dancing?? Please the lack of content has burned my crops down and killed my family

I have a hard time writing short things, but hopefully this’ll restore your crops! 

Missy dropped in from time to time, picking through the wreckage the Doctor left behind in order to find her. Bread crumbs across the universe, blind to her own body count, a conscious act of denial that Missy found endlessly amusing. And it always startled the Doctor when Missy knocked on her door. Whether it be in the middle of London or on the seventh moon of Pyronis, she always blinked and stepped back like she was seeing a ghost. And, really, wasn’t she always?

It was the slow quiet moments that tripped Missy, scuffed her knees and tore up her palms. The betrayed, confused sort of surprise that happens to children when they don’t yet know it’s possible to be hurt. Missy always feels it the most sitting in the Doctor’s library, nestled deep in the TARDIS. Time passing, the progression of days, the melting of suns and stars, has never quite existed here, but on Earth in the places the Doctor clinged to, it was nearing twilight.

Missy wasn’t much of a drinker, and it surprised her to find that out when she regenerated. The Master had used alcohol to run away, sometimes, when the drums took over, when he really thought he might be going mad this time. Drowning the hysterical voice in his head with the sweet cedar smell of whiskey. For Missy, drinking made everything worse, tipped it on its axis, and nothing seemed to make sense, moving too slow, too disjointed. And the only way she kept her sanity these days was by putting everything in tight, dark boxes. Though on occasion there was a sweet spot, tipsy and warm and bordering on hazy, when she could still taste the grapes in the wine and before her mouth got dry. She tipped the wine that was left in her glass down, watching it swirl, a deep red, deeper than blood.

“Don’t you spill that, Missy,” the Doctor warned playfully, appearing in the doorway quick as a phantom, and Missy jumped. Just a little. And closed her eyes a half beat longer than a blink. She breathed, again, slow and deep enough to quiet her hearts.

“Please,” Missy scoffed, dragging her eyes to the Doctor. “This wine would be the finest thing your hardwood has ever been graced with.”

“Is that a challenge?” the Doctor inquired, folding her arms over her chest and sauntering in towards her.

“Even if it was, you’ve never been one for reckless abandon, Doctor. Not in any of your faces,” Missy countered, one leg folded over the other, ankle lolling like a plaything. The Doctor never asked why she came to visit, popping in and staying for days at a time, wandering the TARDIS nearly aimless, some restless spirit wading in her own agitation. And when they spoke it was like this, a dance so delicate Missy feared to breathe. But she never strayed from that aloof, holier than thou attitude that had faded to subtlety by now. She was sure the Doctor could see it, the softness she’d been degraded to, was running from. The problem was, she always ran straight to the Doctor. And hated herself for it every damn time.

The Doctor raised her brow, a small purse of her lips, and ceded Missy a nod. “And you’ve never been one to back down from a threat.”

“Was it a threat? Oh dear, I meant it as an insult. A bit awkward now,” Missy winced and clicked her tongue, a heavy frown pulling down her lips. The Doctor rolled her eyes and stole the glass from between Missy’s fingers which had been dangling precariously off the edge of the couch with exquisitely balanced precision. The Doctor gulped the rest of the wine and set the glass on the end table, and then it was Missy’s turn to raise her brow.

“I thought you didn’t drink.”

“No, I’m just a lightweight this time ‘round. There’s a difference,” the Doctor corrected, and it earned her a smirk. Missy watched as the Doctor wandered to the record player across from the couch, followed her with quick steady eyes. The Doctor hummed softly to the tune, a smile creeping onto her lips, and she looked back to Missy with an odd look on her face. Something between nostalgia and curiosity, some kind of yearning to step forward. And she did, then, so soft and nearly embarrassed as she held out her hand to Missy. “Care to dance?” Missy watched the Doctor’s face flush and laughed, a stunned sort of absurdity that fell from her in rolling waves.

“That’s funny. No,” she laughed, shaking her head, eyeing the Doctor up and down.

“Oh, come on, we used to dance,” the Doctor whined, and Missy rolled her eyes, slouching against the arm of the couch and pressing her chin into her palm.

“At the Academy. As children. Eons ago. Besides you can’t ruin a good dance with the half strung droning of some self pitying sap,” Missy protested, waving a hand as if to indicate her point.

“You think this is a sad song?” the Doctor clarified, gesturing back to the turntable, confused. The music that was drifting from it was drooping and slow, the way blood can trickle down skin in fat drops. “I’d say drowsy, if anything.”

“Got that right. I’m falling asleep listening to it,” Missy protested. The Doctor’s eyes were on her then, sparkling and wonderfilled. The unbearably soft way she got when she could see into someone, into Missy. And Missy squirmed, just a bit, pressing her lips together trying to quiet the screaming ringing in her ears.

“No, Missy, I meant nostalgic drowsy,” she clarified, quickly brushing blonde hair behind her ear. “Reminds me of those cold autumn days we used to sit and watch the rain at the Academy,” the Doctor gasped a laugh then, a smile breaking her face, but it was pained and hesitant.

Missy remembered those days through the haze of their childhoods. One of those rare reprieves from the fear. The quiet, steady afternoons of drifting down into some shared imagination, the small sweet psychic links they formed in those stuffy Academy rooms. “All we did was invent ghosts,” she shook her head, stubborn, and the Doctor huffed and rolled her eyes, just pulling Missy to her feet now. Missy stumbled forward in her laced boots.

“I know you’re incapable of dancing to anything but the burning of suns and screaming of a thousand planets, but, please, just try. For me,” she breathed, eyes searching Missy’s, holding her hands warm and firm in hers. Missy’s mouth fell open, just a bit, and she felt that tingle between their skin and the fiery knot in her stomach, some strange fear that gripped her. And as the Doctor pulled her closer, wrapping an ungodly warm arm around her waist, resting her fingers on her back, a near possessive pulling on her clothes, Missy tensed. Her other hand came up to cradle Missy’s at shoulder level, and Missy found her own hand on the Doctor’s small shoulder, suspenders so elastic under Missy’s fingers.

The Doctor led her into a gentle sway, humming along to the music, and Missy frowned, then, as she noticed those little things about a person you can only see from very close up. How there were permanent little crow’s feet by her eyes, the remnants of her laughter and that incessant smile. And her lashes were darker, up close, and she smelled like tea tree and wildflowers and that warm, muffled smell of crackled time. It seemed to seep into the very fabric of Missy’s clothes, that blouse and long skirt she was so fond of in this body. Then the Doctor, grasping onto Missy’s lower back, brought her closer through the arch of a sway to the right, pulling her in as they drifted to the left. Missy’s arm came around the Doctor’s shoulders, draped over her in an embarrassing display of submission.

“Don’t run away, Missy,” the Doctor breathed, moving her head back to look Missy in the eyes. “I can feel you tensing.”

“This isn’t something I...do,” Missy admitted in a voice softer than she’d anticipated.

“You used to. Before everything went to hell,” the Doctor chuckled, breath coming out quick on Missy’s cheek. “Remember Xanthur Four? You danced with me the whole night on that moon.”

“You stole the President’s wife,” Missy countered, her fingers dipping under the straps of the Doctor’s suspenders, such small shoulders. “You used to be fun. See, things change.”

“What are you talking about? I’m extremely fun!”

“Your idea is fun is going to an anti-grav trampoline park. Used to be a bit more anarchistic. That’s when you were fun.”

“Missy,” the Doctor sighed, “you’re exhausting. What’s so scary about dancing with me, anyway? Aren’t I supposed to be the one scared of you?” She drifted closer, cheeks brushing, so Missy couldn’t look at her. “Why are you the one knocking on my door asking for asylum?”

“Asylum?” Missy echoed, disgusted.

“Just listen, will you?” Missy huffed and shook her head, blinking away the Doctor’s blonde hairs from her eyes. “Why do you keep coming here? Missy? Why now?” Her voice dropped to a near whisper, confused and gentle, without judgement. Her insatiable need to fix it was taking over, and Missy was shrinking into herself.

“Does it matter? Isn’t this what you wanted?” Missy was on the defensive now, taking an accusatory tone.

“No! Well, I mean, yes, it’s…” the Doctor scoffed, disbelieving, “lovely and terrifying to have you here just...talking and us. Like this...” she trailed off, head tilting down to Missy’s neck, her breath slow and hot on the skin there. There was a buzzing between them now, and Missy blinked. “But I’m curious what prompted it. What changed?”

Missy’s frown deepened, brows furrowed, and as she stood there swaying with the Doctor she too wanted to know how it had gotten to this point. When had Missy gone from her chaotic, sinister toying to a softer, open teasing? When had the TARDIS become a welcomed resting place?

“I don’t know,” Missy breathed, letting her head rest against the Doctor’s. She could feel the pattern of the Doctor’s breathing, steady and slow, against her body, and it calmed her a bit.

“All I ever wanted from you, Missy, in any of your faces, was for you to let me in.” Missy could practically feel the Doctor frown then. “You’re shivering,” she breathed, confused, and Missy hadn’t even realized until the Doctor pointed it out. She did that now when she felt too dissected. Laid bare. Then the Doctor let go of her hand and wrapped her free arm up around Missy’s back, holding her tight in a hug. Slowly, Missy wrapped her other arm around the Doctor’s back, letting her head rest against the Doctor’s ear.

“Afraid I’m not very good at that,” she mumbled.

“You’re already doing it,” the Doctor whispered back. And Missy closed her eyes, focusing on the feeling of the Doctor’s body wrapped around hers, on getting absorbed by the music. The slow, drooping sway of it. There was the nostalgia the Doctor was talking about. Hidden deep under the pain.

[coreshorts]

Open

She was asleep, dreaming. She had to be, or at least hallucinating as she began to doze off. She felt the strange out-of-body sensation for that slow moment that passed like pushing through a barrier of some kind, and then the world asserted itself around her, bit by bit, as she noticed its various features.

It was a manor, strangely familiar, though the Raen, dressed in little more than the oversized shirt and underwear in which she fell asleep, exposing chubby thighs and scaled arms and legs, swore to herself she’d never seen it before.

Portraits lined the walls of the worn and broken-down manor, so distant as to be unreachable, but so massive that they were unmistakable, but they, each, were charred and blackened. A crimson carpet with gold trim spanned the length of the room, from the open double doors far, far behind her that led into naught but a yawning maw of nothingness to the next set of doors that seemed to change their shape every time she looked at them, though were always chained shut. The massive room had furniture, broken down and sometimes in pieces, strewn about haphazardly. Some intersected with the carpet behind her, and she realised her body bore bruises and wounds from when she’s tripped over what was in her path. In fact, a tear in the carpet lay just behind her, soaked in her own blood, she knew. The tear was familiar, too, but she, again, swore to herself, I’ve never been here, so… why?

“Have you? Or’re you simply not rememberin’?” came a familiar voice that caused her spin around.

Standing not ten fulms down the carpet toward the chained door was a knight, a lance strapped to their back. However, the armour was very much that of a dark knight she’d met: iconic blackened, spiked plate with a crimson shawl and wicked, horned helmet. Two purple ears sprouted from it, though, and, as the figure removed their helmet, the familiar voice was placed: Keerith.

“Think. Remember what we talked about, Hali,” the purple-haired Keeper told her with a stern, yet comforting look that soon melted into a smile as Hali felt herself remember facets of the conversation she’d had just the night prior. “Y’got a lot to think about. Got a lot to recall, too, huh?”

“Like… this place?” the Raen asked softly. She realised that, though she was wounded, she felt no pain, here, no fatigue. Keerith nodded.

“Look around a moment,” she said, casting an arm off to the side, “Tell me what y’see.”

As she turned to look around again, the portraits on the walls shed dust and char, as if they’d been burned, though the walls, despite showing wear from age, were not at all singed.

“Remember what those were?” the knight asked her patiently.

“I…” she started, but instead, the lance on Keerith’s back was unsheathed, and the Raen was blown back by a single, mighty swing. She found herself flying backward, away from her body, and landed on her backside on the other side of the tear in the narrow carpet where it’d been sewn back together atop her blood.

As she looked around again, the portraits’ char fell away, revealing face, people. Figures from her past: the Naras Matriarch, the Crawford Brothers, the Immortals, the Fustuarium, Dahlia as she was when possessed by Mirseleiris, and the Outriders. Behind Keerith was one more, though, that she hadn’t seen, even covered by soot: Dahlia and Vivian, their backs turned away. The portraits struck her with a wrenching pain as she saw various gestures or expressions or body language indicating hatred, frustration, and contempt.

“This… this… but it’s not what I deserve,” she protested, standing and walking forward toward her body, frozen as if in time. 

As she crossed the tear in the carpet, each of the portraits around the room on those much-too-distant walls burst into a familiar black-and-violet flame. It licked at them, charring them to nothing. Her heart shot into her throat, however, when she saw that all of the portraits had begun to burn, even that of Dahlia and Vivian.

“No, no!” she cried, and broke into a run, calling out, “I can’t- they don’t deserve that either! They didn’t! Stop!”

She collided headlong with the back of her own body and felt herself stumble, feeling and seeing her arm outstretched, wretched with that same dark flame as it threatened to char her beloved and her sister to nothing but black. The flames died, and the portrait was whole again as her arm dropped.

“Remember yet?” Keerith asked, “Y’know what you’re fighting, now, no less what you’re fightin’ for.” She gestured up, above and behind her to direct Hali’s attention back to the portrait.

The de Bellechier twins beamed down at her, their expressions full of love and affection for the poor Raen, they hands both extended as if to free them of the portrait and offer to bring her with them. Her eyes teared up and she sniffled, the warmth of the two she’d loved so wholly - Dahlia and her sister, Vivian, alike, her family - calling out to her and bidding her to right herself.

Unbidden, she felt and heard herself speak in tandem with Keerith, her own voice different: harsher, sharper, almost angry, “I need to remember. Every night spent feeling loss and guilt and self-loathing. Every morning waking in tears, forgetting, and denying. Every day stumbling and suffering. All of it. I need to remember… me.”

She winced. It wasn’t from pain, or against a light, but almost reflexively. When she looked back up again, a familiar figure took Keerith’s place: Hali, dressed in that black dress she’d come to love so. She wondered why she did, as it was so new, but it came to her as the other her twirled on the carpet, miraculously not ruffling the gold-trimmed crimson at all.

“Yes. That’s why I had this made,” she said to herself, prompting her conscious self to look down and see herself in the same outfit, “To remember. But it didn’t work well, did it?” She laughed a bit bitterly.

“Time after time after time. Every night for moons,” her other side said, frowning and taking slow steps to approach her, hands upturned in a prolonged shrug, “I danced this dance with myself, ignorant. Making my own pleas to my own deaf, deluded mind. Stuck in fear and denial. In confusion.”

“You’re… you’re one to talk,” she told the other Hali, “If you’re part of me.”

This got a look of utter glee from the one she recognised, at last, as her darkside, as crimson eyes and an aura of abyss flared up and she clapped her hands together.

“I remembered…! I remembered! Yes!” they both said at once, one in shock and the other in joy, “This is me! You are me and I am you! We are no different! And there is no shame… in being me. Is there?” Both shook their heads, one hesitantly, the other with a wolfish grin.

“I think… that I’m ready,” she told her darkside as it reached out to gently carress her cheek as one would a lover, “Once and for all. And…”

“No forgetting,” they both said at once. Both nodded.

The darkside raised her other hand, both resting on her shoulders, and she did the same, looking up, past her own face to see Dahlia and Vivian beaming down at her, beckoning. Even through the darkness threatening to take command of her very sight with such close proximity, those faces, one to protect with all her might and one whose memory deserved so, so much better, shone like burning beacons.

“Listen to our heartbeat,” her darkside said softly, closing her eyes, “Listen for my voice. Listen… L i s t e n . . .”

Darkness began to take her, rising up over her ankles, pouring from her chest, embracing her, choking her. She wanted to close her eyes. She wanted to wake up. She wanted to run, to deny, to- to fight. 

I have to fight, she thought to herself in the midst, For them.

With the choking grasp of the abyss closing tight around her, those faces, that warmth, almost vanished entirely. She couldn’t see anymore. She couldn’t feel. It became like a cold, dark maw, comforting, yet obliterating.

“This is where I belong,” she heard from her own voice, neither from herself or her darkside, echoing around her, and then it repeated, “This is where I belong.” She sank. She felt oblivion. It was cold and inviting. It was alone.

“Non, mes étoiles,” came a voice, speaking in Ishgardian, its delicate, feminine tone and flowery accent unmistakable as that of her wife, “You do not belong there, but here. With me.”

“Hali, ma chérie,” chimed in another, sweeter voice that she immediately recognised as Vivian’s, “Don’t leave her just yet. She needs you. I am waiting… but the longer I wait, the happier I will be. Go to her, ma sœur bien-aimée.”

“Hali…?” called Dahlia’s voice. She sounded worried, distant. Not like before. She was falling away from her...

No, Hali thought, but the darkness pulled.

She growled, “No.” It pulled.

She roared it, “NO!” Everything stopped.

The hold the abyss has had on her stopped dragging her down and, instead, she felt it fall away. She, too, fell, and landed in a heap on the carpet once more, just in front of the chained door, the portrait of Dahlia and Vivian above her shining with a burning, violet light. It was unlike the darkness, but still cool and comforting. Her beacon, she realised, was here, pulling her back from the brink of oblivion.

“What... now?” she asked herself, reaching for the chains that barred the door before her. Her hand wreathed itself in dark flame and passed through one, then another, and they fell away with a heavy clatter, melted through. However, not all reacted so, and when she grabbed one that she could not melt, she heard a voice again.

“Child of darkness,” came a deep, cold voice from behind her, though when she turned, there was nothing, “You have your beacon, your guiding light in the dark. Do not lose yourself to evil or oblivion, for that is what it means to be a Dark Knight. If you cannot master yourself, the nightmares will never stop. You must prove yourself - master this power within you. You must become more. You. Must. Be. Free.”

She sighed, rubbing at her face beneath her glasses. Great. Now he’s a Mysterious Monologuing Disembodied Voice, she thought to herself, only to feel the tip of a blade press to her throat.

“Mind your goal. If you lose yourself to the darkness, I will destroy you. It is my duty. My charge.”

She had no snarky comeback about immortality for the man who called himself “The Unrelenting”: a tall, imposing figure wearing armour much like Keerith had before - his armour, she realised - and keeping a greatsword’s tip barely pressed to her throat as he warned her, “Master your power, ere it masters you. You will lose your wife, your soul, and all you cherish. You will fail, lest you heed that which keeps you tethered - your light, your love.”

She backed up, but impacted the chains. The Unrelenting lowered his sword and gazed up at the portrait.

“This door will not yet open. You are not ready. You will be,” he said, cryptic as she remembered him in the waking world, though his voice abruptly changed, sounding like her own as he continued, “I will be. Or I will be devoured. Where that leads… not even Vivian awaits.”

The figure turned, began to walk, and the armour crumpled, as though there was no one wearing it, the greatsword all that remained as the armour turned paper-thin, leaving Hali there to stare at that blade and contemplate. She didn’t have long; she was seized by a shoulder and jarred.

“Hali!” . . . . .

“Hali! Please!” begged Dahlia, shaking the Raen awake as she laid in their bed, cold sweats drenching her from horn to tail, her skin nearly a pale blue and her breathing shallow.

All at once, Hali took a deep, laboured gasp, and shot up. The world spun. She laid back down.

“N-no, no. Just… just lie down. Are- what happened? You- you-” Hali blearily allowed Dahlia’s face to come into focus. She was crying, this time, looking panicked.

“How,” Hali coughed as she croaked, “How long was I…?”

“It’s barely sunrise, ma chérie,” the Ishgardian said, worried, “What- what happened? You… y-you started tossing. You woke me up and… then stopped. You were… so cold. You’d stopped breathing for several seconds and I-” She was overcome by a heavy shudder and collapsed against the Raen, sobbing, “I thought you…!”

Hali chuckled tiredly, getting a look of disbelief from the younger girl, “I’m… I’m okay. I know… what happened. What’s been happening… this time. I’m sorry that I… mh… frightened you. Daijobu desu.”

She smiled, taking a long breath and sitting up, guiding Dahlia up with her.

“What… are you talking about?” she asked, only to be met by a smile.

“Do what you need to do with, ah… Aoife and Aedremor,” she said, reaching of to cup the witch’s cheek with a hand and leaning over to kiss her, “I trust you. I love you. And... ahah... I’ve… a bit of explaining to do… but I’m going away for a little bit. I won’t ever be far, and... I will always be there to protect you. I promise. But… I’ve, ah…”

She chuckles to herself at the ludicrous, dramatic thought.

I’ve got a door that I have to open.

[kinsbin]

Apple Tree Jealousy

Title: Apple Tree Jealousy Ship: Alexys/Negan [Self Insert/Canon] Word Count: 2038 Summary: Alexys and Negan help out the community of Alexandria by taking care of some of the farms. When a man tries to get a little too close to Alexys for comfort, however, Negan can’t help but step in and feel a little jealous.

A/N: Another commission for @bad-blue-moon-rising and her selfship with Negan!

Negan would disagree with the ongoing concept that he seemed to be the jealous type. The preposterous notion of it made him snort whenever someone dared to bring up the subject as a whole. Who would possibly dare to touch anything that was his long enough to make him jealous, after all? Who would possibly dare to gaze in his direction and not avert their eyes so that they wouldn’t have to have him see it as a challenge? Negan’s command of his area long with the power he held above his aura made him feel both volatile and in control at all times, a combination that startled most and made wary those who were not already unsure of his presence in Alexandria. He was comfortable in it. It rested well on his broad shoulders as he held himself, and his ideals, up higher than most.

So the first time the feeling hit him it was...confusing to say the least.

Alexys had begun to go out more, upon his request. While staying with her in their shared home in Alexandria was a comfort with its warmth and familiarity, Negan grew stir crazy more than he had expected. The urge to exist outside and see the world, see how the environment was doing around them and how it functioned, was strong. He longed to garden with the plants they had put in front of their home, or view the orchards Alexys had been working with since she had arrived in the encampment. Though others had given him dirty looks and her looks of sympathetic distrust, he blocked them from her view in favor of allowing her to enjoy it. To bring her around to days in the sun with the both of them developing memories together in place of the old, lost ones of the previous life.

Getting her out, of course, came with the price of exposing them both to others. Though she insisted the word ‘exposing’ sounded like they were about to go and flash an entire beach in Florida, she knew what he meant. The price of others knowing of their relationship and teasing it was a sensitive subject, with the controversy of his mere existence despite his attempts to get better, Negan felt more frustrated at the onlookers than relieved. Despite that, he couldn’t blame them. He would never blame them, because...well...the things he did were certainly beyond forgiveness on several different levels. However long he stayed, so long as Alexys was there, he would do his best to find redemption in her arms.

Which was hard when he watched her in the arms of another.

Alexys finished pulling the weeds from around the base of one of their more populous apple trees, palms sweaty in the thick leather of the gardening gloves she had been using to keep a grip on the stubborn plants. Her hair was slick with sweat, sticking to her neck and forehead in a way that made her only slightly uncomfortable through her concentration. Luckily, the breeze was enough to mostly combat the heat, leaving her with the ability to simply roll up her jacket sleeves instead of taking off the comforting item of clothing completely.

She moved to stand, slowly at first, her legs wobbling from the effort of staying crouched over on the ground in a squatting position. The dirt, softened from tilling, gave out underneath her feet towards the divot of earth created to house the seeds they were planting for more off season fruits, sending her stumbling sideways with a gasp of shock. Negan startled from his position of helping till the soil nearby, his hoe falling from his hands as he moved to make sure she was alright and possibly catch her should the fall go any further.

He was beaten, instead, when another man reached out to hold her steady. A feeling of anger blared up in the base of his stomach, traveling warmly to his throat as he watched the guy keep Alexys’ shoulders in his grip, steadying her as she remembered where her footing was. Even after she was safe and grounded, those arms stayed there. His smile was sickening as he laughed awkwardly with her, the blush on his cheeks a combination of the warm sun and the fact that he was embracing a girl both far more beautiful and far more taken then he could deserve.

“Sorry about that,” The man apologized with lackadaisical ease as he tilted his head at her, “Are you okay? You didn’t twist anything tripping on that di you?”

“Not your fault,” Alexys retorted with ease, her smile polite and warm against her face as it always seemed to be before disappearing to gaze down at her ankle. She squinted at it for a moment, standing up on the leg she didn’t trip over and giving the opposite ankle in question a curious tilt back and forth. As she rolled the joint experimentally, a hiss of surprise escaped between her lips. She lost her balance from the surprise again, and again the man was there to hold her. Negan felt his skin crawl with frustration as he approached the both of them, his shadow casting over their forms in an intimidating manner as he reached out to hold Alexys, knocking one of the other man’s hands away in the process.

A momentary frown and glare of distrust from the young man made it clear that he felt the vibes of Negan’s anger.

“Are you alright, Angel?” He questioned, laying the nickname thick as he could while keeping his hand firmly on her. Alexys eyed Negan with the man for a moment, both of them quiet before Alexys gave a sigh and a nod, “I’ll be okay...It just does hurt though. Though it might just be a bruise, it’s no big deal…”

“You should have it checked at the infirmary,” The man at their side spoke helpfully while offering Alexys his now free hand, “I’ll walk you there.”

“No you won’t,” Negan found the words falling from his lips before he could stop them. Once they were out, though, he committed to the statement as he gave the other man a sharp look of distrust that matched the one he was receiving, “I’ll walk her, you go back to your work. It’s fine.”

“You were in the middle of something,” The man insisted back, gesturing to the dropped hoe a little ways from where they were standing in a group, “I’m on my break so it’s not trouble for me to just-”

“I don’t think you heard me the first time,” Negan’s tone settled baritone in his chest, the growl fierce in reverberation as he pushed himself towards the stranger more. They were chest to chest now, Nega’s height giving him an advantage in intimidation over the shorter man, who cowered with terror under the scrutiny of Negan’s full gaze. Alexys felt the man’s hands leave her shoulder, replaced by familiar ones that wrapped around her.

She had expected him at her side, perhaps helping her limp towards the infirmary building to help get her checked out. What she HADN’T expected was Negan to reach under her, grunting softly as he raised her up into his arms until he was holding her bridal style in his grip. Alexys’ own hands flew up to his shirt, clutching onto the collar for dear life as he began moving. Her face buried itself in his chest, embarrassment flushed across her cheeks as the others working in the orchard bit back small giggles and gentle murmurs around them both. Negan did not acknowledge any of them, keeping his gaze straight ahead while his jaw set a little too tightly to be anything akin to determined.

“Negan,” Alexys managed out with a squeak, reaching up to pat at his chest to garner his attention away from the beeline he was clearly making away from the rest of the group, “What was all of that for? He was just offering to help me to the infirmary, you’re going to get in trouble if you ignore your responsibilities just to carry me around like this.”

“And let him walk around with his hands all over you?” Negan’s snarl was evident in his frustration, “I’d sooner cave his head in.”

“Negan!” Alexys hufed at him, reaching up to flick his nose, making him pause in their walking to stare down, startled at her actions. She had that way with him, he supposed. To stop him when he grew too overfocused, too angry or too loud for his own good in a community still learning to trust him. Alexys focused him where he would otherwise stay unabashed and misunderstanding of a situation. He returned her look with one of surprise that morphed slowly into an almost childish pout as he adjusted her in his arms.

“What?”

“You’re being a little asshole,” Alexys pointed out with a tilt of her head, the huff in her cheeks making her look more like an adorable chipmunk than an angry woman, “What was so bad about him taking me to the infirmary…”

“He was touchin’ you all up like that, Alexys!” Negan broke with a short shout, bringing her to his face in his arms, “Looking at you like you weren’t already mine...LIke he wanted to take the one thing that’s keeping me here away from me...And you expect me to shut up and LET HIM? I don’t know what you saw, but he...He was asking for it, the way he watched me back, Angel.”

The dust settled from his speech and cleared to give way the true picture in Alexys’ eyes. Jealous. Negan had been jealous of the way the other man had touched her. How his hands checked over her for injuries and how he offered to spend time with her instead of allowing Negan the right of passage. The shock filtered away to embarrassment as it heated up on the rosy parts of her cheeks, her hands reaching over to cover his face in their palms in an attempt to avoid him seeing the redness increasing bit by bit.

“You shouldn’t-” She sputtered out in shock, “About me I mean. I just-um-I don’t think I’m worth getting that jealous over and-”

“I wasn’t jealous.” The denial was swift, causing Alexys to look up in shock.

“You were totally jealous!”

“I wasn’t!”

“You were!”

“Wasn’t!”

“Then why didn’t you just let the guy walk me back? I’m not that special, you shouldn’t-”

She was met with his lips to hers, the kiss he offered intense and passionate as they stood halfway between the orchard and the infirmary. Alexys felt her eyes blow wide as Negan moved his lips against her own, but, eventually she let them flutter shut as she kissed back. Her hands found their way to his chest again, clutching at his jacket with a sigh as he held her close, his grip strong on her body. The kiss lasted for what felt like hours but she dared not count the seconds, too wrapped up in the way Negan held her. In the way he made her feel. Alexys sighed when he finally pulled away from her, their lips rosy with the matching blush of their faces as Negan held her gaze with careful sincerity.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Angel,” He murmured at her with a huff, “You’re the most special...the most precious thing I got in this life, now. To lose you in any way...even to that guy, I couldn’t handle it. You belong with me. At my side. That’s all I ask, alright? To me, you’re the most this world’s ever given me. And I wanna keep it that way.”

Alexys felt tears prick her eyes at his admittance, the softness of the words that had been brought on by jealousy filling up her stomach as she couldn’t help the laugh through it. She brought his head to hers so that their foreheads were touching, sighing at the comfort his mere presence brought her. She felt his smile tug at his own lips as she spoke.

“You’re so stupid,” She breathed out, “To think anyone could replace you in my life. I love you so much, and I’m not going anywhere without you.”

She sealed it with a kiss, which he returned, this one lovingly and slow as they continued walking to the infirmary, Alexys still in his arms. Negan still refusing to let go.

Them, still being in love.