He drowns in the grip of cold
grey hands, in green water that crushes without mercy. He sinks and sinks and
sinks and nothing he does matters, has ever mattered, but this will.
Death has meaning, even when
nothing else does.
Sunlight fading, far above, trail
of bubbles trickling off into
one last gasp
Heat like fire, water swirling. Grey
hands letting go, but he’s still sinking, weighted down. No strength to
struggle, darkness bleeding in, but—
A thud that makes his ears hurt,
and then a hand around his wrist—familiar, achingly. Small and desperately
tight, dragging him forward, dragging him up
and suddenly there’s light
and the pain is terrible but
those familiar hands are on his shoulders and
(not the whisper of his greatest
“Master Regulus! Master Regulus,
Kreacher is a bad elf and will punish himself, but please, Master Regulus, wake
He forces himself to think past
the tearing, burning pain, gathers his thoughts as best he can. His throat is
dry, cracking, and his mouth feels as though it’s about to bleed from thirst
“Take us away,” he rasps, and,
“Don’t punish—you’re a good elf. Don’t—”
Kreacher’s grip on his shoulders
“Master Regulus,” he breathes,
joy and relief like Regulus has never heard from him before. “Master Regulus,
Kreacher will, but where?”
More thought, and it’s so hard, but Regulus’s greatest weapon has
always been his mind, and he forces himself past the pain, the terror, the
Not Sirius, who hates him.
Not Bellatrix, who loves the
Dark Lord to the point of madness.
Not Narcissa, though he loves
her, because she will follow Lucius and he’s the Dark Lord’s puppet.
Not Severus, stewing in his
Walburga Black would doubtless
like to believe her youngest—only, now—son was some sort of Slytherin prince,
sweeping through the halls of Hogwarts in grand array, trailed by a gaggle of
The truth is something far
Perhaps it would be different if
he could relate with others his age, if he had those followers his mother likes
to imagine he does, but Regulus is hardly one to be sociable, and from the age
of nine onward, his only friend has been a house elf. Sirius is the bright and
shining star in their family, disowned or not, and Regulus will never even
attempt to take that place from him. He, like everyone else, is happy to be a
lesser star, falling in Sirius’s orbit unlooked and unasked for.
Oh, how Sirius would laugh and
mock to know that his little brother still adores him. How their mother would
rage. But it’s the habit of eleven years of life, and Regulus is unable to
break it. Sirius was always the one he went to with hurts and fears and hopes
and dreams, because he was the wise, funny, clever older brother and their
parents were hardly welcoming. In their family, it is probably he who knows
Regulus the best, but…
The thoughts are fracturing,
drifting again, but Regulus gathers them up like threads and anchors himself in
them, desperate to remain. There’s no one, no one at all, but—
A memory, bright-dark and almost
lost, slipping forward in his drifting state. Light brown hair falling forward,
framing wide, kind eyes. Clever hands touching the torn skin of his knee,
bloodied in a child’s careless tumble. A whispered word, soothing warmth, an
absence of pain—
What he wouldn’t give for that
maybe if he just
one last time
“Andromeda,” he whispers on a
fading breath, and then
“Alright buddy, now listen close.” Jikam said. It had taken some time, but the father cat had saved up enough to get his boy his first real gift. The walls of his apartment had a fresh coat of white paint, cleaning his canvas for the season to come, and allowing him space to draw new pictures along the walls and create his own art. But this time was different. This time was special.
Masterlist: Click Here Synopsis: Satan plays cupid in the apocalyptic world Chapter Warnings: N E G A N & his glorious mouth, s e x u a l tension, violence, Negan assumin about Reader’s age (…? idk if that’s a warning, maybe i should put Negan assuming his dick wants to pedo…?) (anything else, please tell me) Chapter Synopsis: A lioness dares to steal the throne from the alpha Word Count: 3,700+ (Idek how it ended up to that number) Rating: “Little pig, little pig. Let. Me. In!” - me at hell’s gate with this fic. Pairing: (So far it’s) Negan x Reader Helpful BGM: “Super Massive Blackhole” by Muse A/N: I srsly dunno how df things are going. I read #100 to #126 last night to get anything that I can use, especially on Negan. My canon research cannoned the fuck out of my brains out, got confused cos from how I understand things now, Negan in the comics is like Jared Leto Joker Marvel Aura but Negan in tv is Heath Ledger Joker DC Aura. Idek if that makes fucking sense but you get me. However, I think am getting my brain bits back aka sorting shit straight so let’s see how this story unfolds. Last thing is that English ain’t my mother tongue so excuse all grammar errors xie xie. Tagging: @angelfuzzy2 cos i saw your reblog teehee, @flames-bring-a-ton-of-ash cos because of her and her anons fantasizing about simon filled my dash so damn deep, and watching simon on the latest episode, I was influenced to put him here lmao (idk shit bout whatll happen to him here we’ll see), then @marythenurse cos she said in the nts tag to tag her any negan jdm shizzle she might be interested to so ta-fucking-da~ anyone else please tell me~ happy thanksgiving erbody btw~
(Y/N) doesn’t know where to look.
Should she focus on one matter and watch the dozens of bodies burn in a hellish fire that belches gray thick clouds of smoke to the once-clear night sky? Or be more mindful of the bigger picture and stare at the dimly lit windows of the abolished residence compound, lighting up like a sensual Christmas tree with their rooms being occupied by humans once again?
Nobody had expected anything else from the cool and damp July night. The scent of rain filled every crack and crevice of the old Liverpool pub, mixing with the scent of cigarettes, sweat, and alcohol. The soft fingering of guitar strings and jovial laughter filled the cavernous room, echoing off of the walls in a way that gave the illusion of the room being much larger than it was. Worn red bricks made up the walls, names, lyrics, quotes, and doodles covering most of them. The bar was made dark wood and was rough around the edges from a good few decades of service. It was a pub that was made of decades of memories that began during the First World War and continued on. The place was perfectly worn, not in any state of disrepair but also not obnoxiously new as to suggest it had just opened.
The people that frequented there were just as warm and inviting, a grand array of colours, cultures, political views, sexual preferences… It was the place to be for the Liverpool misfits. It was for that very reason that the pub was so vivid and alive. Everyone had their view and no one judged another. Political debates ran alongside philosophical discussions and petty gossip. One could find any combination of couples sneaking kisses, from the interracial to the polygamous to the same sex.
Perhaps that was what made the place so enticing for the British student. Here, Arthur could openly write whatever he’d like, sing whatever he felt called to, and flirt with whomever he wanted to. He had never felt freer than he did in the old, comforting embrace of the warm brick walls, surrounded by that scent of dampness and life. But it wasn’t until that cool and damn July night that Arthur truly knew what it was to live.
It began simply enough, a man slightly younger than him (but not by much) had strolled up to the bar and ordered them both a pint. Arthur simply nodded at him, thanked him for the drink, and continued on with his writing. The stranger gave him a warm, prize winning smile as he downed the pint slowly and watched.
“I’m new in town,” the man admitted as he leaned back against the counter. His figure was boyish, his smile resembling that of a child who had just stolen a cookie from its mother. “Found this place through a friend.”
Arthur nodded. This was usually how one came to know the pub. Nobody else spoke of it, at least not in public, and in private the members of the outer community said nothing good. But the pubs community couldn’t have cared less about the fact. “How’re you liking Liverpool?” he asked, holding small conversation.
“It’s okay I guess,” he admitted with a shrug before laughing loudly in a way that made Arthur look up curiously. He had a laugh that was just as childish as his smile, filled to the brim with a mixture of mirth and a zest for life that Arthur hadn’t felt himself in a long time. There was something about the stranger that he instantly liked. Perhaps it was the way in which he made the area feel lighter (or perhaps this was simply Arthur’s impression, as no one else seemed affected by it), or perhaps it was the fact that, in an odd way, he felt attracted to the boys contagious excitement. Whatever it was, it left Arthur feeling invigorated but flustered. “A lot of rain though. Damn, how does this country even have enough water for all that rain?”
“Dunno. We just happen to be cursed with it,” he admitted finally with a light chuckle of his own. He couldn’t remember the last time he held conversation like this with a complete stranger.
One pint became two, became three, and Arthur could feel himself moving closer to the stranger. He felt…comforted by his presence, happier than he had in quite a while. If you asked him now, Arthur could tell you flat out that he fell in love with the silly blond American then and there. Yet, at the time, he didn’t know he didn’t know how to process this, so he doused these feelings in alcohol and sugar coated them in laughter instead. The two men were laughing slightly louder, movements slightly jerkier and thoughts slightly random, and Arthur was enjoying every second of it, his music forgotten.
“Hey, Iggy, let’s go dance,” Alfred said purposefully with a lopsided grin as he held out a hand to the Englishman, who was momentarily caught off guard by the offer. Dance? Oh dear, no, Arthur couldn’t dance…
But those eyes were pleading and those arms looked as warm as sunshine in the damp cold night. How was Arthur to refuse such an offer when his mind and body were already pressuring him into the decision? And so, stumbling slightly as he got off his bar stool, Arthur allowed himself to be guided by the childish, happy-go-lucky American towards the center of the pub where other couples were moving together to the echoing sound of the acoustic guitars and the singing voices that rose like laughter. With a smile laced with playfulness, Alfred bowed slightly at the waist before pulling Arthur into a quickly paced dance that matched the beat of the legendary rock and roll song.
“They came to America once, yanno,” Alfred said as he swung Arthur around, managing to keep the man from falling on his arse. He had to speak loudly to be heard over the other couples loudly singing the verses of ‘Help!’. “The Beatles. I went 'cross the country to hear them preform.”
Arthur was only half listening, barely able to focus on more than those warm hands in his and trying to keep his balance. Bloody hell, how does he move that quickly? His palms were clammy, his face slightly flushed, but from what, he didn’t know. What gave this stranger such power over his emotions?
“Won’t you please, please help me! Help me! Help me!” Alfred sang with a laugh as they moved across the floor. He didn’t have the best voice, Arthur noted later when he was much more sober, but right at that moment he loved it like nothing else. They stopped moving about, finally, as the song faded to an end, and Alfred discreetly gathered Arthur closer to his chest.
The next song was quieter, and Arthur was pressed to Alfred throughout the entire thing, grateful that they weren’t doing much more than swaying. He could’ve buried himself there in that moment, lived forever in Alfred’s warm arms, his soft breath against his ear, and, eventually, the feeling of his warm, soft lips against his.
In the arms of this stranger, fingers tangled in his soft hair and lips pressed against his, Arthur finally found his place.