I'm a part of lot of different tv show and movie fandoms. A little bit of everything put into one big thing. This is a collection of imagines and preferences.
#69 walkingdead
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The feeling that something’s wrong permeates your shapeless, incoherent dreams, strong enough to rouse you from sleep. A quiet gasp falls from your lips as you startle awake, hair tousled across your pillow, still drowsy and a little disoriented, limbs heavy. You lift your head to find the digital numbers of the clock sitting on your bedside table and groan at the time. Nobody should be awake at this hour. This hour shouldn’t even exist to you—you should be dead to the world and time itself until the sun brightens your room. But the nagging thought of something keeps your eyes open, the familiar, cramped bedroom slowly coming into focus in the dark.
You think it’s an instinctual reaction, that maybe your cat has broken something in his nightly rituals of terrorizing your apartment. It’s an almost monthly occurrence. It’s also a problem for tomorrow, when you’re not exhausted and you’ve had at least one fortifying cup of coffee before dealing with his shit.
But that was before you gained another roommate. Now, there’s another reason to worry; not that you don’t trust him, exactly—he’s been here for a little two months—but things can get downright volatile with the literal Antichrist under your tiny, insignificant roof.
…You’re still trying to process that, for one thing.
When you coaxed Michael Langdon off the streets with the promise of a hot meal and a warm shower, you never expected the metric ton of emotional baggage that he carried with him into your life. And you never expected to accept it, to try and help him, even if you still have no fucking idea what you’re doing.
He’s been quiet and distant at best and moody and stubborn at his worst. He has powers you don’t really understand and it freaks you out a lot more than you’ll admit to him. There’s been days where his mood shifts fast enough to give you whiplash—a darkness that crosses his face before he pulls you in with a watery, pale blue gaze and a whispered apology. You’ve seen the evil that lurks inside his soul (and fuck, is it terrifying), but you’ve also seen the gentleness, too.
It’s his messy, raw, and entirely human side that makes you determined not to fail him. Michael’s revealed his past in broken fragments over the last few weeks, and you kind of want to throat punch everyone who’s given up on him and used him in his short, confusing life. So far, you’ve kept him from stumbling down a dark path of vengeance and destruction. You don’t know how long it’ll last, and that scares you more than whatever the Devil planted in Michael’s soul.
You kind of want to throat punch Satan, too.
If only it was that easy.
A muffled whimpering sound floats down the hallway to your bedroom. This time you know for sure it’s not your cat. You wrench back the sheets when panic begins to settle around your lungs like a vice. Your eyebrows knitting together, concerned, as you hop out of bed in a thin long sleeved shirt and pair of loose cotton shorts, your bare toes ice-cold against the hardwood floor. In the short walk down the hall, the cat finds you; he’s nothing but a black smudge in the shadows, a soft trilling sound while he follows your footsteps. You think maybe he’s worried too; that he’s sensed the same cold fear that prickles down the back of your neck.
