#;;mar's.shenanigans | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kalimarinus · 8 months ago

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om i keep seeing mistakes w my writing and the whole post itself. what the freak

close call. - fic

[ summary : reader gets trapped, their fellow soldiers save them. ]

[ relationships : tf141 x gn!reader (platonic) ]

[ warnings : 2nd person pov , gn reader 🤍 , use of y/n (your name) & c/n (codename/callsign) , (leg) injuries , more than needed description of the injuries & pain , a lot of writing about reader , many inaccuracies whoops sorry! ]

[ word count : 1,930 ]

[ notes : i really need to stop procrastinating,!! but wow a proper fic this time around.. also!! i'm so sorry ghost lovers he's barely mentioned + thesaurus my beloved <3 i swear i proofread this 100 times if it still has ONE mistake i'm so sorry but i'm gonna cry now. > ver inspired by the AMAZING WONDERFUL WRITER @python333 < please please please go check their lovely works out or else ill break your ankles coryxkenshin style (EMMM IF YOU DON'T WANT ME TO TAKE INSPO FROM YER WRITING JUST LMK !!! I'LL TAKE THIS DOWN!!,,..) ]

This was a predicament. Just some minutes into a mission, you had gotten separated from the rest. You can barely recall how or why, besides the memories of running for safety. You just knew you were trapped now. Trapped in some rugged building, not even sure how far you got from your comrades or your objective. It’s quiet inside, not silent, but much less noisy than a few minutes ago. You’re far enough away from everyone that you can’t distinctively hear the shouting of soldiers and the sounds of gunfire. And just like in some stupid action movie, of course some random heavy objects fell on you and got you stuck.

As a result of dashing away from the danger into a building and also stupidly looking back just to check if you were safe, you barely noticed a concrete pillar in front of you. In a split second, you ended up on the creaky, wooden floor, and you swear you can somehow feel a bruise forming on your forehead. However, the ringing in your ears and the throbbing pain in your head felt like nothing when a sharp pain suddenly surges through you. Your instincts immediately make you shout, and there’s a moment where your voice ripples throughout the room until you bring yourself to finally focus your eyes on the gaping hole in the ceiling and then the pile of rubble piled atop your right leg that seemed to have just materialized on you.

The jagged edges of the rocks ripped through your uniform, and there was a prominent burning but somehow cold sensation right around your ankle and thigh, but to you, you could feel the ache everywhere. You attempt to shift your leg around to get more comfortable— more comfortable than you are right now at least, but you can feel the sharp edges of the rocks dig deeper into your skin. To you, it feels like a thousand giant hornets stung you and then got pounded by a sledgehammer— but all the pain is just focused on those two spots. You try not to panic but you swear you can feel something piercing a tissue of muscle or something, just the grotesque thought of skin, your skin and muscle getting ripped open by a slab of stone makes you want to throw up— but you’re sure you’re exaggerating. That thought is pushed aside by the reminder of the agony your nerves are enduring, making you almost cry out again— but you’re able to push it down enough that it just comes out as a deep groan.

“It’s not that bad. Just stop thinking about it.” You mumble mindlessly, like voicing your thoughts out loud would make it better. You try to calm yourself down— to remind yourself you’re still alive and breathing, despite the fact there are parts of rock buried deep in the flesh and some of your bones have probably snapped in two from the weight dropped onto you. A few deep breaths later and you think you’re composed, at least relaxed enough that you can figure out a way to get your leg dislodged and yourself out of this building safely.

“Just need to… push this off.” You try to reassure yourself as you prop your body up, reaching an arm over in a struggle to push some of the debris off your leg, but it’s no use. Attempting to shove the rubble to the side. Lifting some up and then pushing it. Using both arms. Trying to kick one of the bigger ones off with your other leg. Adjusting your lower half again regardless of how much it hurt to move last time— then doing everything all over again. Nothing. The mound is too heavy.

Again, you inhale in and out a couple more times, trying not to stress and drown yourself in hysteria. Once in a state of enough calm again, your mind scrambles to search for ideas to get out of the situation despite the pounding in your head from earlier. Your earpiece. Your hand immediately shoots up to grab where your earpiece should be, but your fingers don’t feel the cold material. Your eyes widen and your stomach churns at the chance it somehow slipped out of your ear when you were running. You survey the area, but the floor just consists of dust, other sorts of clutter, and no earpiece. ‘It has to be around here.’ You look around you multiple times, over and over again, like the small device is going to suddenly appear in front of you.

The realization that you don’t have your earpiece has you fearing for your life again— you don’t even know how you didn’t notice that there was no familiar voice of your captain saying, “C/N, do you copy?” Or maybe your lieutenant randomly saying some corny jokes. Probably your only chance of getting out of here alive was gone. You know you shouldn’t give up so easily— to keep trying, but you felt like there was already zero hope. You’re going to bleed out and die right here, you’re sure it’s the end. You think you should accept your fate and just wait here patiently to die, but still, you’re holding on to the probably last shred of energy and life you still have in your body. Just in case, maybe with some miracle, you’ll get out, somehow.

And so you wait, and it feels like hours. It feels like days, years, but it’s probably only been thirty minutes you’ve been sitting. Sitting there, the pain in your head wearing off but the throbbing in your leg getting worse by the second. The heft of it all just makes your entire nervous system scream in pain. Now you feel like you should’ve appreciated that adrenaline a lot more because now that it’s worn off, your ankle feels like it’s being crushed by an anvil and your thigh feels like it's been penetrated by a huge nail.

You kind of regret the decision of not yelling— calling for help, so maybe someone would find you. That should’ve been your first option, but now you can’t seem to say anything, like someone had ripped your vocal cords out and on top of that duct-taped your mouth shut. You’ve lost enough blood that you’ve lost all of the energy you thought you had earlier, and you can slightly see the bottom of the large rock on your thigh being tainted with a deep red. And you’re sure the one on your ankle has been bloodied too.

“C/N? C/N!?” Suddenly a recognizable voice yells out your callsign— tone frantic but somehow still gentle, and glazed with a British accent. It interrupts your thoughts and in a dire attempt to let them know you’re here, trapped, you try to use all the power in your body to try and call back, but only a quiet, almost silent whimper comes out but you don’t think they even heard it. “Y/N, are you there?—” They cut themselves off and you hope it’s from shock, surprise as they see you, disheveled and bruised. And now you’re sure they have because whoever it is comes running to you, shouting for other people. “Guys, they’re in here!” They say, and you can feel them grab and squeeze your hand tightly, so tight now you think the bones in your legs aren’t the only things that are broken.

“Did -ou call th- p-ra-edics alre-dy, Gh-st?” “-ou’re g-ing to be -kay, -eah?” You can barely pick up anything now, but you can tell there are multiple voices now, one gruff and the other having a heavy Scottish accent. You feel like you’re going deaf, the noise around you going muffled and you finally realize you’ve been slipping in and out of consciousness. When your head lolls and you can briefly feel your chin against the in-between area of your collarbones, that definitely makes it apparent, to yourself and to the people around you. Your vision turns foggy almost every other second, and you see black and white dots dancing around your eyesight until it fully turns dark. All the commotion around you goes faint and you want to stay awake when you feel your hand get squeezed again, but oh god you can’t because you feel so nauseous and dizzy like you’re going to vomit and—

In just a flash, you wake up with a small and quiet gasp— your sight blurry and all you can see is white along with some slight movements, and a consistent beeping noise in the background. You slowly sit up, grimacing as a brief pain radiates from your right leg again, but then let out a relieved sigh as you can feel it dull down again, which your assumption for that is medical drugs, thank God for those. Your eyes finally focus just enough for you to know what’s around the room— and you grasp the fact that you’re in a medical bed, your body from the waist down covered in thin, pale sheets. The bright white lights of the med bay shine down on you, an ECG monitor to the right of your bed, and there's an analog clock hung up on the wall in front of you. You think it reads somewhere around 11:30 P.M. You're also kind of grateful now that you didn't stay conscious when your legs were freed from the rocks because they feel almost mangled in spite of the bandages.

Never mind your injuries for now— because your eyes land on the men to your left, all four of them sleeping sitting up in blue metal chairs. You recognize them, you know them. There's no mistaking that out-of-place skull mask, that silly-looking mohawk, the person wearing sunglasses inside of a hospital, and lastly, the man with the boonie hat that he never takes off. “Cap?” You quietly say, your voice (thankfully) restored now. “Johnny?” You call out to your sergeant instead, and he mumbles something under his breath as he starts to wake up, but his grogginess almost instantly fades away when he realizes you’re conscious. “Y/N?” Soap responds back, and you barely have any moment to respond with another word because he practically dashes and pulls you into an embrace. You almost wince at how tight he’s hugging you, but you grin and squeeze him back.

A throaty voice breaks the silence, saying, “Stand down, sergeant. They’re still hurt ya know?” You assume it’s your captain— who you didn’t know had already woken up in that short span of time. He gets up from his chair and walks over to you until he’s at the side of your medical bed, right next where Soap is still hugging you. You can tell Price is relieved you’re okay, but you also know he’s trying to keep his composure and not reveal all his worry. “You alright, soldier?” He asks you, attempting to pry Johnny off your body, huffing when he just latches on harder. You answer with a simple, “Aye, sir.” As the man clinging to you finally lets go. “I almost bled out there, damn. That was a close call.” You finally say after a few moments of silence, and you’re sure Price and Soap have the same exact thought in their minds. “And so would the others, if they were awake.” Price adds with a chuckle, turning his head to glance over to the other two, still sound and sleeping.

#;;mar's.shenanigans #srb

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kalimarinus · 8 months ago

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it's out guys, it's here wooo

nikprice painting date - spitball

[ relationships : nikolai x john price (romantic) ]

[ warnings : 3rd person pov , reader not present 🖤 , quarreling old men , i know nothing about painting , i say the f-word (pardon my french) ]

[ notes : thinking so hard about nik and price having a painting date 🧎‍♂️ I LOVE THEM SO MUCH AGGHH ]

i can imagine them painting on one huge canvas together. and i feel like john would have a painting hobby when he was younger, so it’ll probably be half a masterpiece and half looking like a kid’s finger painting (don’t tell anybody, but the ‘worse’ side is probably nik’s. still amazing though)

but they bicker like an old married couple on what to actually paint. it takes more time to agree on what to create than it takes to actually do it

then i just know nik has the urge to put just y'know.. put some silly little brush strokes on john’s cheeks mid-way too. & suddenly it’s impossible to resist, that very decision turns into a fucking painting fight and soon enough their faces and painting overalls are both covered in acrylic paint (they are so immature, sigh)

eventually, they do finish the painting after possibly a couple hours. price spots the many very small mistakes but nikolai assures him the painting is wonderful, and they both (especially him <3) did lovely. (he doesn’t trust nik)

or better yet, they are painters. like professional ones who actually have a clue on what they’re doing. painter!nikolai meets painter!price and move in together and live a happy ever after? yeah, i’m about to implode

i can see nik being more into painting portraits with gouache, and price more of a landscape painter, using oil paints.. and somehow their paintings still complement each other’s perfectly— color, composition, style, everything. they are meant to be

nik wears a bright red painting beret just for the jokes and funnies, and when his husband mentions anything about it, even one word, he says, “but you’re wearing that boonie hat? while painting? really? that accessory is practically your baby.” and then price goes on a rant on why his hat just needs to stay on. (yes, he still has his hat even in this au, how could he not)

#yeah!!!#;;mar's.shenanigans

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