#a loud gunshot rings out. i collapse to the floor

[b33tlejules]

i may be losing my mind but at least i havent gotten to the point where im assigning classpects to fallen hero characters.

yep.

at least i havent done that yet.

mhm.

[violetflowerswrites]

Taking it Slow

Summary: An unexpected explosion severely injures you, and Jim Street, your LAPD SWAT roommate, comes to your rescue. The life and death situation makes you reevaluate the status of your “just casually dating” relationship.

Pairing: Jim Street x (Female) Reader

Disclaimer: Cannon violence and danger. Mentions of fire, explosions, and bombs. Location is an elementary school, mentions of danger to minors, but reader is the only one injured. Gruesome descriptions of bodily injury and blood. Some angst and mentions of divorce. BUT ALSO consensual kissing and touching. The smut in this is absolutely filthy as usual. Oral sex (female receiving). Consensual P in V sex. Street has a big cock. 18+ for explicit smut, violence, and language

Word Count: 4.5k

A/N: I finally got around to watching more SWAT after taking a break from crime dramas and I gotta say, Season 4 has been SO good. The commentary on our Covid and post-Covid society especially with race and Black Lives Matter is so thoughtfully done. I was re-inspired to make a part 2 of my Jim Street fic from back in July 2022! This fic can be standalone but it is technically a continuation from “Too Complicated.” Enjoy!

Part One Here - “Too Complicated”

Part Three Here - “I’ll Be Here”

Masterlist Here

…

“All Units please respond, bomb at Harriet Tubman Elementary, repeat bomb and fire at Tubman Elementary.”

The police scanner radio squawks to life in the leather-scented interior of Sergeant Daniel “Hondo” Harrelson’s sliver Dodge Charger.

Hondo locks eyes with Jim Street, LAPD SWAT. His expression falls immediately, drawn and serious.

A school bombing?

Not on their watch.

”20 David, Sergeant Harrelson responding. Let’s roll!”

…

Your pink highlighter squeaks across the tiny Times New Roman text of each signature line on the paperwork you’re preparing.

A tightness in your neck forces you to pause and lean your head to the side, trying to release the tension in your body.

It’s another tough case. The student was expelled out of a previous school due to repeated fighting. His current teacher is young and inexperienced, and the counselor is definitely overwhelmed. You were called in to take over his case and then recommend him to a therapist, a behaviorist, a specialist, someone before he was expelled again.

Who knew that an 8 year old could wreak so much havoc at a school?

You glance out the window of the 2nd floor classroom, watching the poor kid get into a screaming match with a yard duty. The bright red digital display of the classroom clock shows 9:00 am in blinking lights that seem to say…

tick

tock

It’s

only

9

freakin

AM

on a Monday.

But, no one could have predicted what would happen in the next ten seconds.

One

A thunderous boom echoes across the playground, so loud that all the kids freeze, balls dropped and forgotten.

Two

Thousands of shards of shattered glass fly through the air as the school building collapses into itself from the roof downwards.

Three

The ear-splitting screech of the fire alarm forces everyone to cover their ears, eyes squeezed shut.

Four

Smoke rises in thick gray plumes into the sky, followed by bright orange flames.

Five

The stampede of three hundred little feet shakes the earth as panicked children run towards the grass field, away from their burning school.

Six

Bewildered shouts across the blacktop try to account for all the children, staff members still running out of the smoke.

Seven

Wide-eyed stares fill with tears as it dawns on the kids what had happened.

Eight

A dozen simultaneous calls to 911, all trying to be heard over the crying, screams, and shouts.

Nine

A terrifying pop pop pop makes everyone flinch and duck for cover, as the heat from the fire breaks even more windows. But it could have been gunshots. Everyone doesn’t dare to move.

Ten

After those ten, chaotic seconds, you finally open your dust-filled eyes, ears ringing, sounds muffled as if you were underwater, and your dazed mind takes several agonizing seconds to comprehend the scene around you.

Fallen desks and books scattered haphazardly across the classroom.

Shattered glass reflecting the flickering flames of a fire somewhere above you.

Looking up, a gaping hole in the ceiling leading to a smoke-stained blue sky.

The incessant blaring of the fire alarm doesn’t help your clearly concussed head make sense of it all.

You deduce that there had been some kind of accident. An explosion maybe.

And that caused an industrial AC unit to collapse through the ceiling, knock you out of your chair, and pin one of your legs from the waist down.

And now, an alarming pool of blood was starting to seep from under the crumpled gray metal.

Even more alarming, you couldn’t feel a thing underneath the crushing weight.

“Oh. I’m dying.” You huff out loud, your logical deduction giving way into dark humor.

You twist your neck around, the soreness long forgotten, and try to find something, anything, to help yourself survive.

You grab your cardigan, covered in drywall dust, and slip it under your upper thigh, tying the sleeves together as tight as it could possibly go. The makeshift tourniquet immediately soaks up your blood, turning the cream-colored yarn into a horrific deep red.

Bile rises in your throat as panic sets in, but you push it down, desperate to get out of this.

You look down, realizing that your phone fell out of the pocket of your jacket when you grabbed it. The screen is cracked, but usable.

Without hesitating, you press a number on your phone and it starts to ring. There’s only one person in the world you want to talk to before you lose consciousness. Maybe forever.

…

“Street! What do you think you’re doing?”

“What? You’ve never played in one of these as a kid?”

You’re out on another casual date with Jim Street, LAPD SWAT. Also known as your impulsive, annoying, immature, and absolutely adorable roommate.

That you had accidentally-on-purpose kissed one drunken night. Which led to much more…for several hours.

And now, the two of you went out most every weekend, casually dating, but not trying to label it…yet.

“Come on, Y/N! It’ll be fun!”

Street ducks into an arcade, which immediately deafens you with a cacophony of beeps and honks, electronic character voices, and techno dance music. It’s an overstimulating nightmare so you focus on the leather-clad back of Street, who is leading you deeper into the room.

A couple of surly teens throw judgemental side eyes at the two of you, grown-ass adults screaming and shouting at basketball, skew-ball, and claw machines.

You clutch a small blue plushie, from Lilo and Stitch, courtesy of Street’s claw machine skills, as he whoops upon seeing another game, his childhood favorite.

“Yes! We have to play this next!” Street grins at you from ear to ear.

You hesitate for a split second, but shake your head, chuckling, “Okay NASCAR, wait for me!”

You tease him, knowing that Street’s name is all too fitting, his long history of all things on wheels that can go faster than 100 miles per hour is well known.

You sit behind the plastic wheel of the racing game as Street quickly punches in a couple quarters.

“Think you can keep up?” Street teases you immediately.

“Mhm.” You reply, your face dead serious, all traces of amusement long gone.

Street takes in your expression and furrows his brow.

“Oh shit!” He exclaims as you leave him in the dust, your digital car screeching as the wheels fight against the tight turns.

You’re silent, the only sounds are the quiet clicking of your foot pressing on the fake gas pedals of the game.

Your car peels around the track, going into the final lap, with a 3 second lead on Street.

“Oh my god, are you seriously drifting?” Street shouts in frustration, watching your vehicle slide sideways against the last tight turn and across the finish line with a flourish.

He smacks the wheel and laughs.

“That was crazy, Y/N. I didn’t expect you to be so good! I thought you said you didn’t really go to arcades growing up.”

“Can we go home?” You grab your jacket from the armrest of the racing game chair, turning away from Street.

“Uhh…yeah sure.” Street says slowly, confused.

You walk quickly out of the arcade, a mix of frustration, shame, and sadness filling you.

Hands clench into fists at your sides as you suck in a shaky breath, trying to steady your whirlwind of emotion.

Street half-jogs to catch up with you, calling your name. He reaches out a hand to grab your wrist, but the instant he makes contact you snatch your arm back abruptly.

“Don’t touch me!” You snap, more harshly than you intended.

Street’s face flashes confusion, hurt, and a bit of anger all at once. You see him stifle the urge to snap back at you, and instead, he shoves his hands into his pockets, his shoulders slumped down and he quietly pleads with you instead.

“Talk to me, Y/N. Don’t keep it in again.”

You know you’re acting like an asshole and ruining the date. Street surprised you with being the mature one in this situation while you’re the one taking out your emotions on him.

So you slowly reach out to take one of his hands in both of yours. It’s warm, heavy, and sure in your grasp, a reassuring anchor. You clutch his hand close to your chest and duck your head down, unable to make eye contact.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Just tell me what’s going on. Please?”

“It’s just—I’m not used to opening up like this.”

“I know. We’re learning how to, with each other.” Street slips his free hand under your chin, lifting your head up to kiss you affectionately on the cheek.

“Take your time.”

You sigh into his touch, releasing some of the tightness in your chest.

“Can we get ice cream first?”

…

Over a double scoop of cookies and cream, you confide in Street more of your life story.

How there was a period of time in middle school where you used to spend hours at the arcade after school to avoid going home.

Your parents were fighting constantly and you just couldn’t take all the screaming. Your older sister was in high school and worked part time, so she would drop you off with a handful of quarters and get you after.

For some reason, that racing game became your focus, your obsession. You channeled all your frustration, all your hurt, all your pain into that game.

It was your escape.

“It feels silly to freak out now. It’s been well over a decade since I’ve played that game.” You mumble into your ice cream.

“It’s not silly,” Street reassures you, “It’s a painful part of your life.”

You scrunch up your nose and murmur in agreement, not really wanting to think about it anymore. You take another lick of your ice cream, accidentally getting some on your cheek.

Street reaches out with a finger to wipe the smudge of the sticky treat off your face and instead of cleaning his hands on a napkin, he decides to lick it off instead.

You raise your eyebrows in surprise, the gesture unexpectedly sexy, but Street just chuckles.

“What? You taste good.”

…

You clutch Street by the collar of his leather jacket, slamming his broad back against the apartment door.

He drops the keys with a clatter, slides a free hand up to lock the door before gripping the back of your neck roughly, returning your desperate kiss.

“Y/N. Are you sure?” He releases your lips with a pant, pressing his forehead to yours and checking in with you.

Consent is so sexy, especially coming from him. Your previous boyfriends always took what they wanted, when they wanted, and you thought that’s how sex had to be.

It was only after being with Street that you realized how gentle, how considerate, and how trustworthy someone could be during sex.

Street treated you with respect, with reverence. He took his time to worship your body.

You were his queen, his goddess, and even if he didn’t say as much in words, he sure as hell showed it with his actions.

So yes.

You were fucking sure you wanted him.

You pulled off your clothes as you walked ahead of him towards your room, dropping fabric across the hallway on your way there.

Street followed quickly, stopping at the foot of your bed with his jeans still on. His chest visibly flushed red as he stared in wonder at your naked form. And he half-laughed, half-groaned out loud.

How did you manage to get your clothes off so quickly and look so damn delicious on the bed for him?

He grabs both of your ankles and drags you down, lifting them up above his shoulders so he can taste you.

You lean back on both elbows, your hair splayed across the sheets as you tip your head back in delight.

“Oh shit, that feels so good.” You breathe out, a moan slipping through your lips.

“Mmm, I can tell.” Street smiles into your pussy as he licks long strips up your core. He finds your clit within a few moments, and starts alternating sucking and licking the sensitive nub.

Your thighs start shaking as the stimulation shoots down your legs.

Street’s chin grows slick as your arousal throbs out of your core, but he simply holds down your thighs with his strong grip, and dives his tongue into your center even more.

It’s only when you spasm particularly hard, almost kicking him in the head that he finally releases you, chuckling as he swipes a thumb across his lips, wiping off some of your juices.

Your body is still twitching, your nerve endings shooting electricity from your core all the way down to your toes and you throw an arm back across your forehead, trying to recover.

“Come on, you can’t be done yet…” Street teases.

“Absolutely not.” You laugh out in a huff, “j-just…give me a minute.”

“Nah.”

Street lifts your legs again, this time crossing them behind his hips, so that he can line himself up to your entrance.

He pushes in slowly, but just the round head of his cock stretches your pussy to the point that you have to grab his arms and stop him.

“Hold on, Jim.”

Street freezes. You only call him by his first name when you’re being serious or something’s wrong.

He pulls out immediately and lifts you up into a sitting position. He immediately grabs your face in his hands, searching your eyes for pain.

“I’m so sorry, did I hurt you? We can stop— I didn’t mean to—“

You grip his wrists and gently remove them from your cheeks. Instead, you press a gentle kiss to his lips, your gaze at him soft and reassuring.

“I’m okay. Let’s try a different position.”

“Are you sure?”

You turn around, holding up your weight on your hands and knees, and spreading your hips back. You flip your hair over your shoulder and glance back at him with a smirk.

“You haven’t made me cum yet, have you?”

Slowly, Street’s concerned look spreads into a smile.

“No, I haven’t.”

“So fuck me.”

Street holds his cock steady while you carefully push back against him, controlling the pace.

When you’ve fully taken him in, now adjusted to his size, Street still hesitates.

“It’s okay. I’m ready now.” You brace yourself.

“Be as rough as you want.”

A sound akin to a growl escapes from the man who is balls deep in your pussy.

He places a bruising grip on your right shoulder and left hip, and slams you back, knocking the wind out of your lungs.

He does that again and again - pulling out almost all the way before slamming your body back against him almost violently.

“Oh fuck!” You yelp each time, your pussy throbbing around him.

Street then pushes your neck down, and you fist the sheets in your hands as you press into the bed, your ass in the air as he thrusts into you relentlessly.

You can hear your bottom smacking against his strong abs, as he swings his hips into you over and over.

And that cock, his huge, delicious cock, spears your pussy in just the right place every time.

“Oh my god, Street. That feels so good!” Your muffled voice can barely be heard over his grunting. God, you love it when men are loud during sex.

Before you know it, you’re close. Street must be too because he snakes a firm arm around your tummy and lifts you up, holding you tightly to his chest. Your core is still clenched in a vice grip around his member as he thrusts upward into your pussy.

“Street! Oh wow! You’re so big!” You praise him, feeling his cock hitting your cervix from his position.

“Yeah? You like it when my cock hits your pussy. Just. like. that?” Street punctuates his question with a hard bounce into you.

“Mmph!” You moan, and you grab his arm, still trapping you against his sweat-slicked body.

“Street,” you pant.

“Yeah?”

“Go faster.”

With a guttural groan, Street grabs the flesh around your hips and drills up into you. His cock drives in and out at a speed that could only be described as mechanical, a piston that pumps as deep as it could possibly go before pulling out and slamming back in as far as it can go.

You fall onto the bed again, unable to do anything but hold on far dear life as Street rails you like a rag doll.

Within seconds, you feel that familiar tingle spread from your core to your entire body, washing over you in waves of pleasure.

“Oh god— I’m cumming!” You scream, gasping for air.

You are answered with a growl as Street collapses on top of you, cumming inside your throbbing core, your pussy milking every last drop from his twitching cock.

Fuck, that was incredible.

After a few moments, you crawl out from under him, and stand up to head to the shower. He leans up on an elbow, watching you with a blissed-out smile. You tie your hair up into a messy bun, the simple action somehow sensual as hell as he sees your bare shoulder blades squeeze together as you reach up to your head.

You turn, catching him admiring you.

“What?” You ask, totally unaware.

“You’re beautiful.”

Your already hot skin somehow flushes even hotter at his words. You have a love-hate relationship with Street’s compliments.

So you just lean down and peck his cheek with kiss-puffed lips.

“Go to bed. We both have work tomorrow.” You whisper before pushing him back onto the mattress, shaking your head in laughter.

…

Your current reality is a universe away from yesterday’s date night with Jim Street.

You stare at his name on the phone, willing him to pick up.

“Y/N?”

Before you can explain to him, you hear the police radio in his car announce your school site and the bombing.

“Jim. I’m there.”

Street is speechless, the dots connecting with several torturous seconds as his worst fears become true.

One

You had told him that morning that you weren’t going into the office, but visiting a school today.

Two

You never call him, preferring to text. If it’s a call, something must be urgent.

Three

You almost never call him by his first name.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Hondo responds to the radio but Street barely hears it as he shouts into the phone.

“What happened? Are you okay?”

“There’s been an explosion. A bomb? An AC unit fell through the roof. I’m trapped on the second floor.”

“Are you hurt?” Street repeats his question, desperation seeping into his tone.

Somehow you hesitate to tell him. So instead, you switch to video call and show him your leg.

Street’s eyes widen in horror as he sees the bloodied, crushed flesh.

Hondo glances at Street’s phone, his siren already screaming down the streets of LA.

“We’re coming.”

…

“You can’t keep me here, Hondo! Y/N is hurt, I have to get to her!”

“Street, you’re compromised. You’re gonna take risks and I can’t have you do that, not when there are kids here who need your head straight.”

Another sudden crash makes both men instinctually duck for cover. They had just arrived into a horror scene, with a blazing fire, fire trucks dousing the building with water, police holding back hysterical parents, ambulances treating kids and staff for smoke inhalation, and a soot-smeared principal talking to the fire marshal.

Hondo makes a beeline for her, Street on his heels.

“Sergeant Harrelson, LAPD SWAT. Is everyone accounted for?”

“Yes, all the kids and staff, but we’re missing one visitor, a social worker.”

Street chokes your name out, to which the principal nods, confirming that it’s you.

Meanwhile you breathe out a sigh of relief.

“Thank god everyone is safe.” You remark weakly, still on the phone, hearing their entire conversation.

Street is astonished you can think about others but his train of thought is interrupted when Chris in his comms crackles to life.

“There! I got eyes on the bomber! He’s on the roof, east side!”

“We have to go!” Street yells desperately.

“Okay.” Hondo huffs out, making a split second decision.

“Tan, go with Street and get Y/N out. Weapons hot, masks on, the bomber might run into the building. Deacon, you’re with me, let’s trap this rat.”

Street wastes no time running inside the smoke-filled building, his flashlight barely penetrating the ash and dust as he finds the stairs and runs up, Tan covering his back, sweeping his gun back and forth just in case the bomber decides to come their way.

“I’m coming, Y/N. Ten seconds out.” Street speaks into his comms, and his phone, for your benefit too.

But he doesn’t hear a reply.

“Shit!” Street curses. “She was losing a lot of blood, she’s not responding!”

Tan makes a game plan immediately as they keep running.

“I got the AC unit, you start CPR!” Tan shouts.

They skid to a stop at the destroyed classroom, and Street’s heart almost stops at the scene.

Your limp body, lying in a pool of dark blood, trapped under a giant hunk of metal, your phone still clutched in one hand.

Street kneels next to you, his own heartbeat reverberating loudly in his ears.

Thu-thump

He presses his fingers to your neck, feeling for a pulse while leaning down, trying to feel your breath on his face.

Thu-thump

Nothing. He immediately rips his smoke mask off his face and breathes into your mouth.

Once. Twice.

Thu-thump

He braces his hands against your chest and pushes down forcefully, starting CPR compressions.

Thu-thump

With a grating screech of metal, Tan manages to tip the AC unit off of you, revealing your upper thigh soaked in blood and your leg clearly broken in at least two parts.

Thu-thump

Street barely glances down to look, focusing on bringing you back to life. He feels for a pulse again, finally feeling a weak heartbeat, but a heartbeat nonetheless.

“She’s stable! Let’s get out of here!” Street shouts, throwing his smoke mask back on, and another for you.

Tan has already tied your leg down into two splints, one for your thigh, and another for your calf and ankle.

“Ready!” Tan replies in a voice muffled by his smoke mask, wiping his blood soaked hands on his tactical pants and gripping his gun again.

Street lifts you up, carefully draping your injured leg over his forearm, and cradling your concussed head gently against his shoulder.

He flies down the steps, Tan covering his back.

“This is 25-David, Y/N is secured, coming out of the school now.” Tan communicates to the team.

The moment they step out onto the front lawn of the school, their comms crackle again.

“Don’t do it man, don’t!” Hondo yells out. He must have found the bomber.

“Second bomb!” Chris warns, just as another explosion on the far side of the school collapses the roof completely, burying the spot where you were just trapped, and taking the bomber along with it.

“Hondo! Deacon! Chris!” Tan shouts into comms. The two of them shield you from the debris, holding their breath as they wait for a reply.

After a few moments, they hear Hondo coughing into the radio.

“20-David. We’re okay, we’re coming down.”

Street and Tan breathe a sigh of relief, as the EMTs run up to the three of you, carefully putting you on a stretcher.

Streets hurries alongside them, and jumps up into the back of the ambulance, glancing back at Tan.

“Go!” Tan shouts at him. “I got it covered.”

The last thing Street sees as the doors close is Tan standing with his back illuminated by a school on fire, his hands hanging at his sides, bright red with your blood.

…

Bzzt Bzzt Bzzt !

Vision blurry, it takes a few seconds for your eyes to focus and notice the late afternoon sun streaming through plastic blinds in a white-washed room.

A hospital room. That’s right, you were injured in an explosion at the elementary school, and your leg…

You looked down to see a full cast, from thigh to ankle, keeping your leg locked straight. A thin, polyester blanket covers the rest of your body.

Bzzt Bzzt Bzzt !

The insistent vibrating of a phone turns your attention to where a sleeping Jim Street, still in full SWAT gear, rests his head on his folded arms in the empty space on your bedside. One of his hands holds yours gently, even as he dozes.

You slip your hand out from his warm grip and brush his hair back, still flecked with a bit of ash and dust from the rescue mission.

Your gaze softens as you look at his peaceful face. You must have worried him so much with the accident.

Bzzt Bzzt Bzzt !

You see his phone lying on the table and you can just make out what it says.

5 missed calls from Hondo. 2 texts from Chris and Tan saying he missed the debriefing.

And currently, Commander Hicks is ringing, ready to ream his ass for being irresponsible, you’re sure of it.

“Street.” Your voice cracks. Clearing your throat, you try again, louder this time.

“Street!” You shake his shoulder insistently.

He shoots up, awake in an instant. “Y/N! You’re up!”

His eyes dart over your face, checking for any signs of pain.

“You’re in trouble.”

Street takes one look at his phone and mutters “Shit.” Without thinking, he presses a kiss to your clammy forehead and ducks out the door, phone pressed to his ear.

You bring a tentative hand up to your forehead, a lot dazed and a little shocked. The two of you haven’t really discussed the nature of your relationship after that weekend of crazy sex, trying to take it slow.

But it’s not every day that you get gruesomely injured and your hot as fuck roommate rescues you from near death.

As you hear Street’s muffled apologies outside of your hospital room, fuzzy memories start coming back to you.

White letters of a SWAT vest hovering over you as firm hands push down on your weakening heart.

Strong arms holding you up as you feel yourself being carried down a flight of stairs at a ridiculous speed.

The smell of smoke, and the unmistakable smell of Jim Street as he cradles your head into his chest, keeping you safe.

A warm hand never letting go of yours as sirens squeal in the ambulance, your consciousness fading in and out.

A reassuring voice, his voice, telling you that you’re alright, that you're safe.

“I got you, Y/N. I’m right here.”

Fuck taking it slow.

You’re not a girl who normally falls in love with a man in an uniform but damn. You sure as hell get it now.

The door opens with a quiet click and Jim Street steps back inside.

“Hey—“

“I love you.” It comes out a little louder than a whisper. ”I love you, Jim.”

Street's words die in his throat as his eyes widen. He crosses over to you in two strides and simply lifts up your chin so that he can press a kiss to your lips.

A desperate, urgent, love-filled kiss that says just how scared, just how terrified he was to lose you.

And just how much he loves you too.

….

[luveline]

Jade, if you don't mind, I'd love to see more of Spencer with a badass!reader who doesn't want to show much emotion bc it's a bit hard for her :)

Have a nice day<33

thank u!

cw graphic imagery + minor character death 

The gunshot is loud. It's deafening. It's deja vu. 

Spencer watches the body collapse in on itself with ears ringing, a pitching forward, a mess where a head used to be hitting the tiled floor. Barely a teenager, snuffed to nothing. You collapse onto your knees beside it, the sound of your knee caps connecting with the floor the only distinctive sound to his ears. He can't hear Hotch, rarely pissed, and he can't hear the sirens outside. He can't hear any of it. 

Blood spray on your cheek transfers to his hand as he remembers himself, falling onto his knees beside you, gore sinking into his pants. It's hot in its pool, colder where it's painted your face, the spray metallic as he swipes it away from your eyelashes. "Are you okay?" he asks, trying to meet your eyes. 

Your gaze is a thousand miles away. You won't look at him. He forces your chin up and it doesn't matter; you aren't present, no you behind your eyes. 

He applies pressure to your face. Nothing cruel, enough to drag you back to the present as his thumb sets about stroking a soft line, the only softness he can offer right now. "Are you okay?" he asks again. He says your name. 

You barely blink. 

"Take her outside, Reid," Hotch says, pointless EMTs creeping into the room. They're there to confirm death. Nothing else. "Just take her out." 

Spencer hooks you under the arms and drags you up against his chest. You're rigid, dead weight, and he has to plead with you to get you moving. "Come on," he says, his arm behind your back. 

Morgan sees the struggle. He has questions of his own, but all his off-kilter teasing and pet names fall on deaf ears as the two men help you outside and onto a low flower bed wall. You seem to snap back into action, then, breath suddenly quick and hands stretching out to touch your blood slick knees. You visibly fret at the staining of your palms and wipe your hands down your calves, a bundle of harsh movements. 

"It's okay," Spencer says. 

"Does she need a medic?" Morgan asks. He sounds angry, somehow. Spencer knows it to be a manifestation of his worry for you in your reluctant friendship. 

You turn to Spencer, eyes imploring. 

"No," Spencer says, "just give us a minute." 

Morgan squints. A minute, he seems to agree, and not a second longer. You're quick to anger, sure, but quicker to logic, and your shock is catching everyone unprepared. You've never reacted like this. Spencer has never seen you on your knees like that. 

"I'm sorry," you say, touching his thigh. Your voice is barely your own, thready and hoarse. "I tried." 

"I know you tried. I know you did, you have nothing to be sorry for." Spencer's reeling himself. They haven't had a case like this in years, and it hits the same. Another bullied kid failed by the people around him, who could've hurt hundreds of people, who could've killed them, and killed you. It's complicated but remarkably simple. "He was going to hurt you." 

"We could've–" You choke on something, some suggestion of a what-if.

You don't let yourself connect to people on cases. You have sympathy for victims, empathy, but you don't react like this. You're like Emily in that you compartmentalise everything you can. You've never spoken about past cases and what you might change, never even suggested to him that you think about your failings after they've happened, until now. 

"I don't know what happened," you say, your voice near whining, high-pitched and logged with panic as you stare down at your legs and cover your face, as though you don't want him to see you. 

You turn away from him. 

"It's okay," he says. He tries to be soft but his adrenaline is coasting, his reassurance panicked. You sound like you're in pain. 

"I don't know what happened," you insist, covering the back of your head with your hands as you curl in on yourself. 

You don't cry. Spencer wasn't expecting you too. You just panic, tensed, turned away from him, and flinch at his attempts to touch you. "Don't. I'm fine," you force out. 

"You're not fine. You don't have to be fine," he stands up and you flicker, hands pushing down harder. Spencer covers them with his own and sighs. "It's okay. It's okay." He drops to a whisper. "It's okay, you're okay." 

You're hard to comfort, but it's not impossible. Spencer isn't stupid. He knows if this were anyone else touching you, you'd have sprung from your makeshift seat or pushed them away, but he's lucky in that you seem to have this tender spot for him, a sweetness that never wanes. He drifts in closer and hugs your head to his abdomen, one arm covering your hands until they fall, the other across your back. 

Your job is your job, but there is nothing wrong with needing comfort after seeing something horrific. "It's okay if you don't feel how you were expecting," he says, rubbing a half-circle into your back.

"It's hard… for me. This is…" 

You don't finish. It doesn't matter. Spencer paused any action to hold you, his eyes shuttering closed, dumb to any sound beside the strange shudder in your breath as you catch it. You've always had a talent for removing Spencer from his surroundings; you've looked at him and snagged him out of time. He never knew it could happen like this, though. You struggle to fall apart and Spencer doesn't know if he should hold you together or let it hurt. 

Whatever you do… "I'm here," he says, rubbing your back. 

You wrap your arms around his waist. 

[feirceangel]

Imagine | Harassed (Shanks)

Imagine doing some shopping when a strange man won’t leave you alone.

Warnings: some violence, reader is harassed and threatened, reader is a badass

Word Count: 1143

(Not my gif)

You couldn’t remember the last time you stayed on an island this long. It must’ve been years ago, long before you met him.

Traveling had always been a desire of yours. To traverse the world, discovering different cultures and landscapes, that was your dream.

And you’ve been living it gratefully for years.

Of course, it’s always nice to spend more than a few days ashore once you have the opportunity.

Your Captain has business on this tropic island, and you’ve been enjoying the leisure time that this gives you.

Right now, you’re shopping at the local markets, admiring the bright jewelry and clothing that the various vendors offer.

A raucous laugh sounds off behind you. You ignore it, minding your own business, even as you hear a loud whistle.

“Hey, pretty lady,” a man’s voice says.

You continue ignoring it, instead reading the price of a beautiful red jewel.

This apparently aggravates the man trying to get your attention. He grabs your shoulder roughly, expecting it to be easy to turn you towards him.

You remain in place, stronger than the man anticipated.

After he removes his hand, you turn to him with a frown, “May I help you?”

He’s a tall man in a nice suit, not too shabby looking. Too bad his personality is rotten. Behind him are five more men in similar fashion. You take clear note of the weapons strapped to their sides.

“I was talking to you,” he growls. “I don’t like being ignored.”

“I don’t like being hassled,” you retort, crossing your arms.

“I was just saying how gorgeous you are,” he explains with a slimy grin.

You turn on your heel, “Thanks.”

“Hey!” He shouts, getting closer to you so that you can feel his breath. “Don’t you know who I am?”

“Do you know who I am?” You ask pointedly.

“You’re a pretty piece of ass that needs to be taught a lesson,” he scowls, stepping back. “And we’ll gladly be your teachers.”

Disgust washes over you.

“Are you trying to hit on me? Because you’re doing a poor job of it. And you’re wasting your breath- I’m already taken.”

“I could take you better than he ever could,” he tries to argue.

Your laughter is impossible to hold back, “You’re delusional, you aren’t even near his level. You should stop talking now.”

A smirk forms on your lips as you watch the man shake with anger. His eyes are alight with rage at being shot down and humiliated in front of his friends.

Meanwhile, you’ve mentally checked out, comparing the red of the jewel to your man’s hair. He loves seeing you in his colour.

A loud click goes off near your ear, the kiss of cold metal on your temple a warning not to move.

“You’re gonna regret speaking to me like that.”

You step back from the market stall, shooting an apologetic look towards the owner. The poor girl looks terrified.

One of the man’s lackeys has pulled his gun on you, standing much too close for comfort.

Unimpressed, you shake your head, “How immature.”

“I’m going to-“

He stops as a malevolent aura suddenly appears, causing sweat to form on his brow.

“What exactly are you going to do?” A deceptively calm voice speaks out, followed by footsteps as a red-haired man approaches.

The man in front of you has gone paler than a corpse, shaking just like the man holding the gun against your head.

“Red-Haired Shanks,” a man near you whispers in terror.

They seem to be grasping the situation now. Although, you could have handled the situation just fine on your own.

You smile at your man, who raises a quizzical brow.

“These guys bothering you?”

Before you can reply, the hassler interrupts, “Please, sir we had no idea-“

A gunshot rings out and the gun pressed against your head suddenly falls as the man collapses in a display of bright red blood.

Infuriated, you kick out, knocking the guy to the floor next to his dead buddy.

“Shut up. You should have respected me regardless of who I associate with,” you deliver a harsh kick to his side before pressing your foot on top of his chest.

“Scum like you are less than worms to me,” you grit out, adding more pressure until you hear a sickening crack of a broken rib and the man cries out in pain. “You never know when to quit.”

You reach out a hand towards Shanks and he hands you his sword without hesitation. None of this dimwit’s posse do anything to try and help their leader.

They know it’s a battle they could never win.

With a graceful flick of your wrist, the man below you is impaled through the heart. A clear message to anyone watching.

You fix your gaze on the remaining losers, “Don’t harass people, okay?”

They nod profusely, muttering nonstop apologies as they retreat quickly.

You crouch down to wipe the blood off of Shank’s sword, handing it back with a smirk.

“Darling,” he sheathes his weapon, moving closer to you and pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. “That was stunning.”

“Shanks, I was handling it just fine before you showed up,” you say, passing a glance over his shoulder to offer a smile to Benn Beckman. “But thanks for the assist anyways.”

“I know, but you know how I get seeing someone get so close to you,” Shanks says, looping his arm around your shoulders. “Especially when they threaten what’s mine.”

You grin, pressing your lips against his and nipping at him playfully.

“Why didn’t you deal with them sooner?” He inquires once you break away.

“Maybe I wanted to play the part of the damsel for once,” you tease. “Seeing you all protective and possessive gets me riled up.”

“Vixen,” he laughs, “You knew I was watching.”

“I always know, Shanks,” you wink at him. “Just like I know you’ll buy this for me.”

You show him the jewel that perfectly matches the shade of his hair.

He laughs, handing the money over to the shopkeeper, “I could never deny you, Y/n.”

He embraces you again and you lean into his warmth, inhaling the familiar scent of sake and sea breeze.

“I think I’ll have it made into a ring, that way everyone will know you’re mine.”

The grin that breaks onto your face is enough to brighten his whole lifetime.

He hugs you closer and presses a chaste kiss to your head.

He’d never let anyone else touch his treasure, he’d destroy anyone if they tried.

But he also knows you can fend for yourself, one of the many qualities that he adores about you.

You take his hand, leading him down the market, “Now you’re stuck shopping with me~”

He can’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be.

[alloftheimagines]

joel miller | first kill

masterlist | taglist | ko-fi

words: 1.8k

warnings: blood, violence, strong language, angst, hurt/comfort in the best way joel knows how, they/them reader.

synopsis: in which the reader is forced to take a life for the first time in order to save the man they love. not requested just more brain rot from me.

tags: @sweetbabygirlsworld

When the first gunshot sounds, you bite down on your tongue to trap a scream, tasting blood. Joel ushers you and Ellie down behind the truck, and you wrap an arm around her to keep her close. Joel hunches over you, protecting you both. You hate that he has to; hate that he sees it as his job.

But he’s the only one who can keep you safe. 

Your wide-eyed gaze snags on a small opening in the wall. “Ellie. Go hide in there. When Joel says go, you go.”

“Fuck, no. I’m not leaving you guys.”

“Do as you're told,” Joel bites out. He peeks over the top of the truck before returning his focus to you. As he does, a bullet pings off the metal and you all cower. “Shit. There’s two of ‘em.”

Your trembling hand reaches into your waistband for your pistol. You’ve never used it, not once, Joel always making sure you don’t have to. But there’s three of you now, and you’re not sure there’ll be an easy way out this time. 

He looks over the truck again. “Now. Go now. Stay low.”

You urge Ellie away, and she crawls to the hole at the same time Joel returns his attention to the shooters. You breathe a sigh of relief when she vanishes in the shadows. 

“You, too,” he orders, surprising you.

“No,” you reply. “Two against one? I don’t fucking think so. I’m staying.”

He sighs, jaw ticking in frustration, but there isn’t time. Footsteps grow closer. He rises into a crouch, balances his shotgun…

Shoots. 

You flinch as you hear the body hit the floor, and then another round of bullets whistles through the air from the remaining gunman. “Stay there,” Joel says. “Don’t move.”

You wouldn’t know how even if you wanted to, frozen in place. Silence blankets you for a moment, and then Joel’s finger flexes over the trigger.

His second shot rings through the dilapidated building. 

“Gone,” he whispers. “They’re gone.”

But you both know those shots were too loud, and anybody could be coming. Slowly, you rise onto your feet, peering over the truck. You try not to look at the bodies, the blood, as you ready your gun with both hands, just like he taught you.

Nothing. 

And then a figure comes at Joel in a blur from a side door, and the two of them collapse in a writhing heap. 

“Joel!” 

The attacker is armed, and he has Joel pinned down by the shotgun. Joel is grunting, suffocating. You point your gun without thinking, aiming straight for the back of the stranger’s head. Fear spikes through you all at once, and your fingers curl around the trigger in a deathly squeeze. 

The gunfire rents through the air, causing your ears to ring. The attacker slumps on top of Joel, and only as you see the blood blossoming just above his neck do you realise what you’ve done. The gun wavers in your hand like a ship in a tempest. You drop it, imagining that crimson staining your palms as the stench of gunpowder chokes you. 

You’ve killed. Taken a life.

Before you can worry about the bullet going through, Joel pushes the body away, struggling to rise to his feet. His face is splattered in blood. You barely notice him, too busy looking at the attacker’s now visible features. He barely looks eighteen, maybe twenty at most, maybe far younger. 

A kid. 

You shot a kid. Somebody’s son, brother, nephew. 

Joel is saying your name, but you feel like you’re underwater. 

“Don’t look at him, look at me,” he commands, cupping your jaw and tearing your gaze from the lifeless boy on the floor. “It’s okay. You had to. You had to do it. I’m here, okay? I’m here.”

Slowly, you begin to shake your head as tears roll down your cheeks. “What did I do?” A sob falls from you. “What have I done?”

“Shit.” Joel tugs you into his warm, hard chest, and your tears soak into his jacket. 

“He’s dead,” you’re saying, over and over. “I killed him. He’s dead.” And there is so much blood. You peek over his shoulder again and wonder if that speck there is brain matter on the floor or just your own brain torturing you. 

“I’m sorry.” Joel rocks you, his palm hard as stone as his fingers tangle in your hair. “I’m so sorry, darlin'. But we have to go now. We have to hide. People will be coming.”

“There’s a way out through here!” Ellie calls. 

It’s a blur as Joel lets you go, picking up your discarded gun and slipping it into his waistband. You can do nothing but stare at the life you’ve taken. It doesn’t feel right to leave the body, to leave him. Your victim. 

But you’re being pulled away, through a door, a window, into the street and another ruined building, running, hiding, Joel clearing each step along the way as he keeps you tucked beside him. You stagger on numb feet, looking back every now and again to the building where everything changed. The building where you first took a life. 

You have to stop after what feels like years of moving through the city, bile rising up your throat. You vomit all over the sidewalk. Joel’s hand strokes soothing circles across your shoulders — “It’s okay, darlin’. It’s okay.” — and then you’re being pulled away again, again, again. Finally, you find a place to stop. Joel checks every door, every window. You wipe your mouth, your tears, your snotty nose, finding that you’re still shaking uncontrollably. You imagine your freckles are blood stains and have to hide your hands. 

“Look at me.” He’s cupping your jaw again, his face unfocused. You think about wiping away the blood crusting his weathered skin, but you can’t bear to touch it. “It wasn’t your fault, okay? You did what you had to. You saved me. It was my fault, baby. I should’ve seen ‘em coming. I should have known better. I should have been the one protecting you.”

There’s no answer that you can give. No answer that will undo what you’ve just done. You didn’t think it would feel like this, killing someone, especially when you know the attacker would’ve killed Joel if you hadn’t pulled that trigger, but it feels like the life has seeped out of you as well as him. It feels like there is a darkness weighing you down now, and you know for certain you will see that gaunt face every day, every night.

“We’re going to have to settle here for a bit,” he’s saying to Ellie. “Give them time.”

You sink down without taking off your backpack and are unable to keep from looking at your hands again. They won’t stop shaking. You’re certain they’ll never stop again.

Another hand covers yours. Joel’s. He’s knelt in front of you, wearing an expression full of sorrow — of loss. Because he’s lost you. The person he knows, the person who has never taken a life, who has done everything they can not to leave the world worse off or bloodier than it already is. 

He squeezes your fingers tightly. “Listen to me. Are you listenin’?”

Your bottom lip wobbles, but you nod. 

“I know,” he says. “I know what this means. I know that something has changed today. I know how it feels to carry ghosts around. But I need you to stay with me, right here. I need you to focus, just for a little while longer. You hear?”

You swallow. With the rough pad of his thumb, he wipes away your tears. “We can’t stay here. We’re in the open. We need to keep moving, but we can’t do that if you don’t come back to me.”

“I thought… I thought you were going to die,” you whisper. “I thought…”

“I know, baby, and you did so good. You did so fuckin’ good.” He shifts beside you to press his forehead against yours. Both clammy. “You saved me. You kept me alive.”

You took one life for the sake of another. And the worst part is that, even now, when you are breaking on this old carpet, you know you would do it again if it meant keeping Joel safe. Joel and Ellie. It’s the reason you didn’t think twice. 

You can’t lose him. You can’t do this without him. He’s all you have to cling onto, and so you do, knotting your fingers in his shirt as though reminding yourself he’s here, he’s real, he’s worth the guilt and the pain and the fear. 

“I’m a killer,” you breathe. 

“Sometimes, there is no line between killin’ and survivin’. Not in this world. I’m so goddamn sorry I couldn’t stop him. I’m so…” His face crumples, eyes turning glossy. But he sniffs, shakes himself out of it quickly as he places a kiss to your forehead. “It shouldn’t have happened. But it has. And now there’s nothing we can do to change it.”

You close your eyes, and he’s there to catch more tears, more pain. Nausea rolls through you, but you swallow it down, catching a glimpse of Ellie. Though she’s trying to hide it, she’s terrified, and it’s written all over her face. 

Better you than her, you think. Better this world makes you a killer than a fourteen-year-old. 

“Okay. Okay, I’m ready to keep going.”

“You sure?” Joel whispers. 

You nod. 

He kisses you again, this one lingering enough that Ellie fakes a gag, which earns her a dirty look from Joel. 

“I’m going to do everything I can to make sure that this doesn’t happen again,” he vows. "Everything."

You brush your fingertips across his cheek sadly, knowing it shouldn’t have to be him all the time. He shouldn’t be the only one fighting his demons. 

Now, he doesn’t have to be. 

“We have to protect each other,” you say. “Give me my gun.”

He gives you a reluctant grimace. “Darlin’...”

“It’s too late to go back,” you say, and you’re not just talking about the kill, the blood on your hands. You’re talking about the way you love him, the way you can’t stop loving him. The way your love has somehow made you into a fierce, broken, desperate killer. And a survivor, like he said. It’s too late to go back, and even if you could, you wouldn’t. 

You love him. 

He must see it all over your face, because he softens as he tucks a sweat-slick strand of hair behind your ear. So gentle. He’s so rarely this gentle. 

“Give me the gun, Joel,” you ask again. 

He does, dropping it into your outstretched hand. You want to flinch against the cool metal, but you fight that feeling, slipping the gun away quickly. 

You try to compose yourself, moulding your features into something you hope seems reassuring. Joel dips his head before standing, holding his hand out for you. You take it and let him pull you up, and somehow, the world doesn’t crumble beneath your feet. Somehow, the earth keeps turning. 

Somehow, he doesn’t look at you like you’re a monster. So you keep going, keep dragging this new ghost around the city with you in the hopes that one day it will be worth it.

[yellowsugarwords]

Hi! I would love to request a reaction type fic for s2 of twdg. The summary is that the s2 gang react to Clementine killing Carver. She would kill him exactly how Kenny did. Thanks!

okay SO I wrote a request based on Clementine killing Carver but NOT how Kenny did it, but I can't find the request, so instead of just deleting it ima post it here. I can easily write the bat-beating one too (wow that sounds horrible out of context)

these are gonna be long so read under the cut : )

Luke: The ring of the gunshot hung in the air, and for a moment Luke thought everything was in slow-motion. All he could see as he turned around was Clementine, the gun aimed directly at Carver, her finger already pressed on the trigger. She shot him in the knee, wounding him instead of killing him. Carver hit the ground and cursed, attempting to crawl, seething as he started toward the child. “Clem!” Luke yelled, jumping for her. Another shot, right through Carver’s forehead. Luke got to her initially to push her behind him and instead pulled her into his arms. He could feel her shaking as she dropped the gun, weakly gripping his shirt. “He was going to--” “You’re okay, it’s okay.” He hushed, one hand on her back and the other on the back of her head, soothing her, or at least attempting to.

Nick: Nick closed her eyes, his stomach leaping into his throat. As much as he had his fair share of issues with Kenny, this was beyond cruel. This was crippling. Debilitating. Just as he was ready to turn away, despite whatever consequence was to recieve from Carver as punishment for doing so, he heard a pop. A loud pop. Cautiously, as if he was afraid to see what was happening, he turned around and spotted Clementine, her gun lowered, and a bleeding Carver collapsed on the ground in front of her. A pool of crimson began to spread around his head. Clementine turned, and the first person she spotted was Nick. Her eyes were pleading for reassurance. For something. For anything. “I had to.” She said softly. Nick could barely hear her over the shocked ringing in his ears. Nick could only nod. His lack of reassurance caused her eyes to well up. “I had to. He was going to kill him.” “I know,” Nick said, starting forwards toward her, not knowing what else to do. Feeling useless, he placed a hand on her shoulder, rubbing it in circles as she cried. He was horrible at this type of thing but at a loss for words. Clementine had really done that for all of them, not just Kenny. “You did the right thing.” Was all he could think to say, even if it didn’t make Clem feel much better.

Carlos: Carlos could feel himself fighting back a scowl, not wanting Carver to turn around and witness his disdain. He knew, if that happened, he wasn’t the one that would suffer. Carlos could guarantee that Carver would go after Sarah. Just to torture him more so than her. Every fiber of Carlos’ being was to protect Sarah. He couldn’t risk anything. Luckily, he didn’t have to. Just as he was going to turn around, ushering Sarah somewhere else as to avoid the violence. A loud POP caused him to jump. He flipped around, only to see Carver stumble on his feet, a hole directly sent through his forehead. After a brief moment of stumbling, he fell back onto the floor, eyes lifeless and limbs limp. Carlos turned, eyes wide in horror at what he was seeing. Clementine, holding a gun, stared at Carver’s lifeless body on the floor. She slowly lowered her aim, then scanned the room, finally settling her gaze on Carlos. Currently, he was the only one willing to look at her and not the bloody bodies on the floor. Carlos only nodded, as though trying to reassure her. He was mortified that she believed that was the best solution, but he knew she did what she could at the time. Kenny and Clem had a history. She couldn’t let him go. “It’s okay.” He mouthed to her, watching how her shaking hands set the gun on the ground.

Sarah: Sarah was cowering behind her father’s legs, unable to stomach the sight. She could barely stand the sound of the radio cracking against Kenny’s face. Then, suddenly, BANG! Silence. Just as Sarah began to peak, Carlos lower his hand. “Sarah, do--” Before he could stop her, Sarah saw everything. The bloody heap that was Carver on the floor. Kenny, stunned, bleeding profusely from his right eye, Sarita weeping as she started for him. And she saw Clementine, lowering the gun she clutched with both of her hands. Clem turned to her, eyes wide and traumatized. “I,” she started, shaking her head, as though she wasn't aware of what had just happened. “I had no choice.” Sarah stared back at her, eyes wide and stunned, but had no way to respond. She didn’t know Clementine was capable of such things. She didn’t know how to feel. Most importantly, she didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know what any of them were going to do.

Rebecca: Rebecca practically leaped out of her skin when she heard the gunshot go off. He was facing Carver, watching as his face twisted in pure enjoyment as he pummelled Kenny to the ground. But when the bang went off, she saw a shot of blood from his forehead and then watched him collapse in a heap. Her jaw dropped and, glancing past the bloody mess on the floor, she saw Clementine, lowering the arm that wielded the gun. Her breathing was ragged and terrified, even if she tried to downplay it for the group. It was moments like these that Rebecca remembered she was still a child, just attempting to seem strong for a group that she was trying to prove herself to. “He wouldn’t stop,” Clementine said, staring dead ahead at Rebecca as she spoke. “There was no other way.” Rebecca pressed her lips together and nodded, eyes soft and empathetic. “I know.” She said, gently. “You’re right.” Clementine lowered her gaze and dropped the gun to the floor, showcasing how deeply her hands were shaking. Rebecca walked forward without a second thought, kneeling in front of her and blocking her view from the body in front of her. Carefully, Rebecca took one of the child’s shaking hands in hers. “You did the right thing. You saved Kenny. And us.” Clementine nodded, but Rebecca could tell through her gaze that she didn’t believe it. She was petrified.

Alvin: Alvin closed her eyes and held his breath. With every crack of the radio against Kenny’s face, he flinched. If he could, if he knew it wouldn’t jeopardize the safety of his wife or future child, he would’ve body-tackled Carver right then and there, beating him to the bloody pulp that he deserves to be. Just as he was about to open his eyes - to see if Carver was almost done - there was a loud BANG! His eyes snapped open without a second thought. It was just in time to see Carver crumple over, only missing landing on Kenny thanks to Kenny kicking him out of the way. Kenny groaned and attempted to sit upright, Sarita a wreck as she rushed to his side, attempting to assess the damage, then desperately waving Carlos over. All Alvin could look at was Clementine, lowering her gun, but still clutching it between her shaking hands. Alvin was one of the first members of the cabin crew to believe Clementine was genuinely good and deserved a chance. The moment Clementine stared at him, she could her chest ache. She hoped she hadn’t lost that trust. Alvin nodded, giving her a sad smile, then open his hands to her. Clementine set the gun on the ground and darted for him. Alvin knelt down, wrapping her in a hug, holding her close as she shook from fear in his arms. “You did the right thing.” He assured her, holding her close, trying to keep her as calm as possible.

Kenny: Kenny was on the ground in utter agony. He could only pray that the beating was over and done with soon. At least then he would be blind or dead. Given how brutal the attack was, Kenny was beginning to hope for the latter. Just as he was attempting to speak - to yell, or plead, or do anything - he heard a loud pop. Then, he felt something warm on his forehead. When he opened his remaining good eye, it was Carver, a drop of his blood landing on Kenny, before he collapsed and crumpled on the floor beside him. He scrambled to a sitting position, making direct eye contact with Clementine, holding the gun. Her eyes were wide in terror. Before Kenny could speak, Sarita was at his side, attempting to assess the damage his eye had sustained. “It’s okay, Clem.” He reassured. “You did good. You did the right thing.” He called to her, as she seemed too frozen in fear to move. It wasn’t until he waved her close did she abandon the gun and rushed into his open arm, clutching him tightly and desperately. She couldn’t lose him too.

Sarita: Sarita could see Carver start for Kenny, and her gut twisted. Just as she started for her partner, ready to defend him however she needed, she heard a loud pop. She ducked instinctively, flipping around to see where the bullet had come from, and spotted Clementine, hands steady but eyes wavering, holding the smoking gun between both of her small hands. She didn’t move, merely maintained her aim as Carver collapsed, waiting to ensure he was dead. “Clementine?” Sarita managed out, voice shaking. Clementine’s eyes snapped to her, her hands slowly beginning to shake. “I couldn’t let him keep hurting him.” Her voice sounded fragile and terrified. Only then was Sarita reminded that Clementine, despite her bravery in their world, was still a child. “Oh, Clementine,” her heart was breaking in a slew of ways. Clementine just set the gun on the ground, fingers shaking and eyes watering, before slowly backing up and away. She couldn't make eye contact with anyone. Instead, Sarita drew closer, kneeling down, and giving her a gentle hug. She could feel Clementine’s silent tears.

Bonnie: Bonnie could feel her heart crash into her stomach at the sight before her, but she didn’t have the strength to fight it. Her stomach clenched with every punch Carver laid onto Kenny. She closed her eyes, wanting to turn away, but knowing she too would be punished if she did. Suddenly, BANG! Bonnie’s eyes shot open to see Carver crumple to the ground. She felt as though her legs would buckle out from underneath her as she turned around, spotting Clementine. Her eyes were wide, as if she was also stunned as to what she had just done, and dropped the gun to the ground. “I--” She cut herself off, staring at her hands, then her eyes darted around the room in a panic. “I couldn’t let him keep going.” She said, pleading with Bonnie. Without thinking, as though she was on auto-pilot, she knelt forward and hushed Clementine, holding her shaking hands. “It’s okay, you did the right thing.” Urgently, as though looking for backup, she turned to Luke, eyeing him nervously, hoping he would come through to comfort the child as well.

𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘮 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 💌☕️♡

[runequeen69]

We Deserve to Die

Sunlight began to poke through the thick leaves, replacing the blood red moonlight that had just been there. At a small forest with a large wooden mansion set in its clearing, mechanical parts, blood, guts, and corpses littered the place. Torn off eyes, dismembered arms, and broken probe drones surrounded a woman breathing heavily. She was drenched in blood similar to her environment, but she also wore black metallic armor and a platinum crown, both dirtied by the blood. In her hands was a black shotgun with a purple glow that she held with a tight shaky grip. It looked as if the gun were about to be crushed from her strength alone.

She looked around her, checking for any more enemies that lingered in the forest. Upon making sure none remained, she began to stumble into the mansion.

The inside of the mansion was large and spacious, with numerous doors that had nameplates over them to indicate whose room was whose. A small section of the main hall had crafting stations the woman used the night before to gear herself up. Now, she could only look in horror as blood was smeared all over the walls and floors. She noticed a large hole in the ceiling and floor, as if a giant worm had just run through the mansion.

She looked down near the hole, noticing a body by it. Unlike the numerous zombies which all shared an appearance, she recognized whose body this was. The orange hair, maroon fur, and dog ears were hard to mistake. Her green shirt had turned an ugly color from the dirt it was absorbing.

She tried her hardest not to start throwing up at seeing Astra's corpse.

She ran back outside, letting out whimpers and unintelligible noises as she did so. Collapsing onto the grass, she could only stay on all fours as the world began to spin around her. She could remember everything that had happened vividly. She could remember the screams that followed with the low roar and rumbling of the ground. She could remember the banging of doors as zombies began to pour into their supposedly-safe space. She could remember each gunshot sending a ringing to her ear as she tried to get the undead off of her friends.

It must have been painful for them. She'd been in their position before, after all.

That thought alone left her mouth agape, but she let out no noise. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't let anything out.

"Howdy neighbor!"

The all-too familiar voice had broken her out of her panic. Looking up, she looked at the brown-haired man with a gray shirt and blue jeans.

"Name's Logan. I'll be here to tell you anything you need about this world," he said, stretching a hand out to her. "If you need anything, come to me."

"L-Logan..." she whimpered. "T-t-they're all...I-I-I...t-they--!"

Immediately, Logan was on his knees and wrapping his arms around her, pulling her in.

"I know," he said. "I know. I still remember. It wasn't your fault."

"I--!" She let out a choked noise before continuing to speak. "I didn't see...the blood moon...I thought...."

"It all happened too fast, there wasn't anything you could do, Maria. You need to calm down."

"The D-D-Destroyer got Astra...i-i-if I hadn't s-s-summoned it, I c-could have..."

"It's okay. We die everyday, it's part of our lives."

"BUT THEY DON'T KNOW THAT!"

Maria held onto Logan tightly, her nails beginning to scratch into his back as she did so. She finally began to let out loud ugly sobs that she'd been holding onto.

"IT WON'T BE THEM!" she cried out. "THE ONES WHO COME BACK WON'T BE THEM! THEY'LL FORGET EVERYTHING! I DON'T WANT THEM TO FORGET EVERYTHING!"

Logan stayed silent as she continued to sniffle, sob, and scream her lungs out. Throughout his many lives and many names, he'd never seen Maria like this before. Even when she died hundreds of times, she got back up as if nothing happened.

"It's for the better," he said. "They need to continue living as if they only had one life. Otherwise--"

"BUT I WANT THEM!" Maria continued to scream. "PLEASE, DON'T LET ME LOSE EVERYTHING THAT WE HAD WITH THEM! DON'T YOU CARE ABOUT THEM!?"

Logan took a sharp breath as she said that. He could feel his heart ache as her grip on him tightened.

"I do. You have no idea how many times I've had to watch this happen to them in so many different worlds."

He broke the embrace, taking Maria's hands in his own and squeezing them tightly.

"Even as we speak, I'm watching these people that I love lose their lives," he said. "Every day, I have to act as if I'm not currently listening to their screams while goblins don't massacre them. I have to act as if I don't hear the bullets tearing through them. You don't know this, but I can feel my body burning. I can feel my whole body being dunked in lava, but I have to pretend everything is fine like I always do."

Maria's heavy sobbing had turned into a calmer crying, but the tears still didn't stop. Her voice remained shaky as she asked.

"Why can't we die? Why can't we die like they do? Why the fuck do we have to go through all of this and still keep living?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Logan said. "But for me, I want to believe it's because we're the only ones who can prevent something like this from happening again."

He looked around at the bloodshed around them. He noticed familiar weapons and bodies mangled from combat. He sighed as he noticed one particular body with blue mushrooms, though it now looked to be withered and void of any life.

"It sucks so much, but there's nothing we can change about it. What we can change is what happens to them."

He stood up, pulling Maria up with him. He could feel her tight grip on his hands, as if letting go of him would cause him to disappear too.

"We can do better," he said. "We'll double our defenses and gather more resources. We'll make sure this will never happen again. You hear me?"

Maria let out a sniffle before nodding her head and wiping her eyes.

"Good. Now c'mon, time to get yourself cleaned up. We need to make a good first impression for when everyone's back."

"O-okay," Maria whimpered, still rubbing her eyes. Logan only gave her a sad smile as he held her hand and guided her back to the mansion.

[set-phasers-to-whump]

save a little light for me

prompt: gunshot wound

whumpee: sakari nurmi

fandom: karppi/deadwind

hi here's a fic for an anon, hope you like it! it's pre-ship ish and i had a pretty good time writing it :) (title from unbelievers by vampire weekend)

The bullet tears into the skin and muscle of his leg and he collapses to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. For a second the only pain he feels is that of his impact with the ground, and then comes the real pain, sharp and hot like a knife digging into his skin, except that it’s not a knife, it’s a bullet, and blood is soaking through the fabric of his pants, horribly warm and damp, and footsteps echo on the concrete and he raises his eyes to look up into the face of the man that is going to kill him. 

Another gunshot, louder than the first, or maybe it only sounds louder because he’d been expecting it. His leg still burns and blood still pulses out of the wound, but no other epicenter of pain emerges in his body. Had the shot missed?

But no. That’s not right, because if it had missed then the man simply would have shot again. Sakari props himself up on his palms and opens his eyes. He doesn’t remember closing them. 

There’s a body on the floor in front of him. The blood stains the concrete a dark crimson. Sakari’s blood does the same beneath his leg. 

Someone touches his shoulders and then there are legs in front of him and Karppi’s voice is loud in the silence but quiet after the gunshots. 

“Fuck. How bad is it?”

He blinks. Tries to measure the badness of this against the badness of something else but comes up empty. He shakes his head and lies back down on the ground. 

A fresh, pressing pain erupts over top of the hot, pulsing pain in his leg. He gasps and tries to get away from it but the pain is too great and he isn’t able to move. 

He raises his head and looks down the length of his body and sees her hands pressing a jacket - her jacket, the one she wears more often than not - into his leg. There is blood streaked across the back of one of her hands. She isn’t bleeding, though, and apart from the distress on her face and her lack of jacket, she looks completely normal. It must be his blood, he decides, letting his head sink back down to rest against the cool, hard concrete. The red of it is shocking against her skin. 

She says something to him, and he can’t figure out what it is. He feels like a boat bobbing on the waves, moving in and out of awareness. Only the pain is constant. His head spins and there is a faint, persistent ringing in his ears. He’s tired. He wishes he knew what his partner was saying. If he focuses very hard, he can make out a few words. Hold. Help. Minutes. Stay. 

In the back of his mind, he understands what they mean. But he’s tired. The lightness of his head feels far away from the sharp pain of his body. The floor is too cold and his blood is too hot. She is right there but indescribably far away. 

He lets his eyes close and slips under the waves. 

--

Sakari wakes up with a raw and aching throat. His head feels like it has been stuffed full of cotton. He doesn’t know where he is, or why he is here. 

The smell is the most dominant sensation. It’s unpleasant. Sterile. Impersonal. Something is beeping, steady and rhythmic, but it sounds like it is coming from under water. He feels the vague, cold sensation of something in his arm. 

He must be in the hospital. His surroundings are blurry with sleep and dulled by the feeling in his head, so he can’t say for certain, but he can’t very well be anywhere else. He tries to think of why he’s here, but he falls back asleep before anything comes into focus.

--

He wakes up a second time and the ache in his throat is more insistent. His mind feels clearer. 

The smell is still here, still dominating. The beeping is closer to him. There is nothing in his arm. 

Instead, there is a dull pain in his leg, the kind of pain that warns against the slightest movement. 

And he remembers. The shot. The pain, hot and intense. Hands on his shoulders and a jacket soaked in blood. Words he could not make out. 

Karppi. 

He looks around, like he is expecting her to be there. But the room is empty. There is no light coming through the window. He wonders what time it is. Whether someone will come to get him, or whether he will need to make his way home alone. 

The door opens. His senses spring into complete alertness, and only at the last second does he stop himself from sitting bolt upright and surely tearing his stitches. 

It’s only a nurse. There is no danger. He relaxes, and she apologizes for startling him, asks how he feels, and is the pain manageable, and does he need anything.  

He asks for water, inquires whether they’ve given him any serious drugs. 

“Morphine. We’ve taken you off of it for now, but what you’ve been given shouldn’t wear off for another two to four hours. You can call if the pain worsens and you need more.”

He shakes his head. He can’t. Already he feels the pull of the drug, knows how easy it would be to sink fully into its embrace. 

The nurse nods her acknowledgement, then brings him a paper cup of water. 

It’s the nicest thing he has ever had, crisp and cold and soothing against his throat. He drinks it all, slowly, savoring it. 

“Thank you.”

Another nod. “There’s a call button next to the bed. Let us know if you need anything else. Otherwise, someone will be back to check up on you in a few hours.”

“Thank you,” he says again, and then he is alone. 

He falls back asleep. 

--

The pain is more insistent when he wakes up the next time. The last dulled edges of the world have disappeared. The room is brighter now - sunlight slowly streams through the window, pale and early. 

“Hey, sleepyhead.”

He turns his head, careful not to jostle the rest of his body. 

Karppi is sitting next to him, her hair a mess, her usual jacket replaced by one he hasn’t seen before. He remembers that her usual jacket is missing, probably forever, because it is covered in his blood. 

“I’m sorry.”

“What? Why?”

“I ruined your jacket.”

She stares at him. He can’t read the emotion on her face. 

“I don’t care about the jacket.”

“Oh.”

She shifts in her seat, coughs awkwardly. “So. How are you feeling?”

He shrugs one of his shoulders, feels the pull all the way down in his leg. “Okay.”

“How’s the pain? I know…”

“Not so bad. I think the drugs have worn off.”

She nods. “The doctor told me you can go home tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“She said you need someone to stay with you for a few days.”

Oh. He doesn’t really - he can’t ask her to abandon her regular life, but there isn’t anyone else. Maybe - 

“So I told her you’d stay with me.”

“What?”

“Unless there’s someone else in your life who I’ve never heard of?”

He shakes his head. “But…I don’t want to disrupt your life. Emil, you know, your house.”

“I’m inviting you. Plus, you can’t say no. The doctor said.”

“Okay.” 

She reaches out and squeezes his hand, lightning quick but gentle all the same. “I have to go to work. I’ll be back tomorrow. Don’t go anywhere.”

He watches her leave, admiring the way the morning sun makes her messy hair glow, the shadow it casts on the back of her unfamiliar jacket. “See you tomorrow,” he calls after her, and she turns back in the doorway and smiles. 

thanks for reading! hope you liked it <3<3

[sambvcks]

redefined, b.b. x reader

summary: just because those ten words no longer wreak havoc on his mind does not mean they are gone. just redefined.

warnings: mentions of food, blood, gunshot wound

word count: 3.7k....whoops

author’s note: first standalone! i’m also itching to work on a sam story next. the last episode still lives in my mind rent free and this is a reworking of that which diverges from civil war and we get one big happy avenging family that aren’t dead :)

[ read on ao3 | masterlist | inbox | join my taglist! ]

Longing

An Avenger.

The concept was still so foreign to Bucky, despite dozens of successful missions under his belt and a permanent residence in the tower. Still, every morning he sprung up in bed expecting to still be in some run-down apartment halfway across the world, on the run.

Instead, he would awake on a plush mattress that offered little back support. He would shuck on the first shirt his bleary eyes could see and pad into the hallway, the smell of fresh coffee overtaking his superhuman sense of smell. You would be perched at the kitchen counter, pouring over mission files stained with coffee rings that Tony would later complain about.

Steve and Sam would have already come through on their way to their morning run, the coffee pot running dangerously low. You’d already placed his favorite mug nearby, two packets of sugar emptied into the bottom. A routine.

Bucky didn’t think he’d ever have a routine again.

His hand would press against your shoulder in a familiar greeting as he passed, you’d grin up at him with sleepy eyes and a lazy smile before returning to your work. Your cereal sat forgotten beside you, the overly sweetened kid’s choice growing soggy.

It was a silent and comfortable interaction. Neither worked to fill the quiet or felt the need to. Even with Steve, there was always talking and planning and ‘what about this’. With you, it was so natural to just exist how he was in that moment. No excuses, no whispered apologies.

He pushed his back against the sink as he sipped at his coffee, eyes immediately settling on your distracted figure. Your pajamas were wrinkled, mouth formed into a perfect concentrated from as you hunched uncomfortably, hand scribbling furiously. He swallowed and decided you were the most beautiful person he had ever seen, especially with your coffee breath and fingernails chewed to nubs.

He wanted so desperately to move across the kitchen and press himself perfectly against you, to push aside your paperwork and demand your sole attention. His hand clenched into a fist as he longed to feel your soft, round cheeks in his hands, how warm you would feel against the cool metal of his left and how you’d nuzzle closer still.

He hadn’t heard the dragging footsteps of Steve and Sam returning from their run and didn’t even notice them until they were settled at the doorway, watching him watch you.

“Morning.” Steve grinned, all knowing. Bucky cleared his throat and refocused on his mug.

“Morning.” Bucky replied with a look that said ‘don’t say anything’.

Rusted

Bucky learned that if you weren’t cooped up in your room or camped out on the kitchen island, you were tucked away in Tony’s garage. On slow days where it seemed everyone was off in their own little world, Bucky would know to find you under the hood of one of Tony’s vintage cars, each kept in pristine condition, but you claimed that ‘there’s always something to work on’.

Bucky was never a car guy. His family was too poor to even think of ever owning his own car. He didn’t even have his own license and technically couldn’t legally ride his bike either. He found out quickly that being an Avenger meant the term legal could be bent a bit. So, he wasn’t a car guy. But the sight of you with streaks of grease across your face and your raggedy workshop clothes would have him buying one just to see you work on it.

You were notoriously protective of your little hideaway, the music loud and the sound of metal ringing as you fixed and fiddled with every little thing. Steve nearly got a wrench to the face when he tried to distract you from Tony’s antique Chevy.

Bucky was different, though. He was always different.

He would sit himself on a tall stool positioned next to one of Tony’s many rolling tool chests. You’d call out a tool and he’d rifle through the collection until he found what he thought was the right one and only slightly tease him when he’d emerge with the wrong one. Typically, you’d spend these afternoons in silence, the thumping of the heavy base of whatever crazy metal album you picked the only soundtrack to your work.

Sometimes, though, you’d play gentle rock music. Bucky would ask questions on what you were doing, how you learned to do all of this, why you did it when Tony worked on these cars enough for the both of you.

You’d fish your rag from your pocket, concentrating on scrubbing the grease from under your fingernails as you answered.

“I like using my hands. I like fixing things. For every car that Tony has in this garage, there are hundreds just like it sitting in junkyards gathering cobwebs and rust.” You looked up at him from under eyelashes and Bucky knew you were speaking about much more than just hunks of metal. “They’re worthy of love and care.”

You were talking about him, too.

Seventeen

Bucky didn’t think this superhero business would have so many parties. There seemed to be a celebration for everything. Galas, fundraisers, full on parades whenever Tony happened to wake up in a good mood.

At least this one is a holiday, he thought to himself as he nursed his third beer of the hour. Not that it did anything other than keep his hands occupied.

The year was coming to a close, and the top floor of the Avengers Tower was decked in golden confetti and banners to ensure no one forgot. The music was obnoxiously loud, and the lyrics made little sense, but everyone seemed to be having a good time mingling and even venturing to the dance floor.

No matter how many times Sam tried to drag him in with an invisible rope, Bucky was not going to dance. Well. Maybe he would if you asked.

The party had been in full swing for hours now, with only ten minutes until the ball a few blocks up finally dropped and he could sneak away to his room without a teasing ‘bedtime already, old timer?’ from Nat.

Still, the party raged on and he eyed the glass door to the balcony. He downed the last of his beer, brushing past enthusiastic partygoers with his shoulders hunched forward in some attempt to minimize the space he took up in the room that only seemed to be getting smaller. He caught Steve’s eye on the way out and plastered on a smile in response to his disappointed look.

He let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding as soon as the glass door slid closed behind him. His eyes closed as he leaned back against it, the chill of the December New York air blew his hair in every direction.

“Fancy meeting you here.” You were sat in the far corner, so well hidden he hadn’t even noticed you, though he had been on the lookout for you all night. “Tired of the festivities?”

“And Tony’s music.” He grumbled as he fell into the seat beside you.

“Been waiting for you for the past thirty minutes. Honestly, you made it a lot longer than I could’ve in there.”

You were waiting for him. You wanted him to be there, with you, tucked away from everyone else’s prying eyes. He wanted that, too. Sometimes he wanted it so much it scared him.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, doll. It’s not polite for a gentleman to make a girl wait.”

“Hmm, I think I’ll find it in myself to forgive you.” Your shoulder pressed against his, eyes focused on the smattering of buildings surrounding you. Identical parties were happening in each of them, you were sure. “Can you believe another year is gone?”

“I can’t believe I’m about to make it to 2017 and my back hasn’t given out yet.”

You laughed, loud and unabashedly in a way only Bucky could make you laugh. Head thrown back and eyes glittering from the city lights, Bucky wanted to spend every new year you would allow him to by your side, trying his best to make you laugh again.

“Well,” You stood to peer over the glass railing, Bucky close behind you. You could hear the drunken cries inside as the countdown begun. “I’m glad you did.”

“Me too.” Bucky offered his hand to you. You took it easily.

5, 4, 3…

He wanted nothing more than to pull you close, to finally press a kiss on the lips that had thrown teasing remarks at him during missions. To once and for all end this little dance you both loved so much. But you looked so perfect.

Bucky wasn’t ready to ruin that perfection with everything wrong with him quite yet.

“Happy 2017, Bucky.” You whispered as the fireworks started, but Bucky couldn’t pull his eyes from you.

“Happy 2017, doll.”

Daybreak

The mission had been long and grueling. The week-long stakeout turned into two and quickly turned into a month away. You can’t remember the last time you’d had a good night of sleep that wasn’t interrupted with Bucky’s hand on your shoulder, telling you it was your turn to keep watch.

It wasn’t a horrible mission, more of an exercise in patience and restraint than anything. Bucky’s stories kept you entertained enough, and he was a good partner. Which is why you were paired together more often than not.

Still, it was nice to finally collapse into your familiar bed, not even bothering to kick of shoes or take a much-needed shower. Your sleeping schedule was all out of whack and you tossed and turned, despite the exhaustion seeping through your bones.

After fifteen minutes, you finally huffed a sigh of defeat and stumbled back to your feet. You showered, which was a few good days overdue, and dressed in your largest, most comfortable pajamas.

You weren’t surprised to see Bucky up as well, sitting at the dining table with a mug of fresh coffee.

“Couldn’t sleep?” His foot kicked out the seat beside him as an invitation.

“Sleeps overrated, anyways.” You shrugged, slumping into the seat and pressing your face into the cool glass of the table.

“Sleep is good for you.” He insisted, reaching forward to brush aside the hair that had curtained over your face. “You deserve a good night’s rest.”

“So do you, Buck.”

He stayed silent for a while, just sipping at his coffee and stealing glances at you, face trained out the floor to ceiling windows. He really didn’t know what he deserved, anymore. Sure, he had made some semblance of peace with what the Winter Soldier had done with his body. He was better, that was certain.

Worthy of you and all your unwavering sweetness? He wasn’t so sure.

You idly chatted about nothing for hours, filling comfortable silence with talks of the mission and the food poisoning he had given you when he tried to make dinner two weeks in. You sat side by side until day broke the next morning, eyes squinting at the sun peeking over skyscrapers and finally finding the need to fall shut in rest.

“I guess I should say ‘good morning’ instead of ‘good night’.” You were the first to stand, shuffling towards the hallway that led to your bedroom.

“Good morning.” He answered as you padded away, deciding he would be just fine losing sleep every night if it meant he could watch the sunrise by your side.

Furnace

“Doesn’t Tony make enough money to keep this place at least habitable?” You grumbled as you fell into the couch beside Bucky.

“I’m fine.”

Bucky sat in his patent jeans and t-shirt, unphased by the temperature that practically had your teeth chattering. You were bundled in multiple layers, including one of the many sweatshirts he’d wear jogging on cold mornings and blankets you had stolen off his bed. Your glare from under your cocoon of warmth rivaled even his.

“I’m not a muscle-y super soldier-”

“You think I’m muscle-y?”

“-that runs so hot you’re basically a personal furnace.”

“Oh, so now I’m hot.”

“I would strangle you to death right now, but I’m about to lose my fingers to hypothermia.” You burrowed further into your smattering of blankets with a violent chill running down your spine. Bucky simply rolled his eyes and marked the spot in the book he had been reading before you stormed in.

“C’mere.”

He balled up a fistful of one of your blankets, tugging you even closer to him. You opened your arms to allow for direct contact, sighing contently as your face pressed into his shoulder and legs tangled with his. You sighed contently as you welcomed his warmth, shimmying as close as you could get.

“Better?”

“The best.”

Nine

“Do you ever think what your life would be like? If you’d gotten to go home?”

Even a year ago, this question would have turned Bucky into a brooding mess. He would have delved into every little moment he had missed, every plan that had been turned upside down when he fell from that train all those years ago. But he was better now, more contemplative. He wouldn’t drown in the idea of what could have been because he knows what it’s like to be on the other side.

“I like to think I would’ve gone to college.”

“Really?”

“You calling me dumb, doll?”

“No! You’re the smartest person I know. I’m just picturing you at college. Carrying textbooks and wooing all the dames.” You fell into him at the thought, a fake swoon overtaking your face.

“I’d be too busy studying for dames.”

“Studying what?”

“I always liked math. Maybe engineering or something. Wanted to be a teacher before the draft.” He shrugged like the information was no big deal, but to you it was everything.

“Professor Barnes. Kind of sexy.”

“Oh, shut up.” But his words held no malice. Instead, he was grinning that cheeky grin that pulled his cheeks into perfect rosy apples and his eyes crinkled in joy. “I wanted to have ten kids.”

“Ten?!”

“So we’d be a dozen. My own little army of mini-Buckys to take over the world. Couple sets of twins, maybe. Definitely as many girls as I could manage.”

Of course Bucky would be a girl-dad. Playing dress-up for fake tea parties and scaring off boys when they’d come ‘round for first dates. You could imagine how he’d learn how to take care of their hair and plait intricate braids when they asked. He would make breakfast for the whole bunch, kiss his wife goodbye before escorting them to the bus stop and taking off for a day of teaching classes. Bucky would be an amazing father.

An amazing husband, too.

“I think ten may be pushing it, Barnes.”

Bucky pictured it, too. A little more modern than maybe the image you conjured up. Teaching was replaced with small missions. The gaggle of kids were smaller, and he wouldn’t have to kiss his wife goodbye. You’d be in the car next to him, headed to the tower for your morning briefings together.

“I’ll settle for nine.”

Benign

If you were to ask any New Yorker what they think the Avengers do on Friday afternoons, they would probably say something like ‘kicking ass!’. None would get even close to what your actual routine looked like.

None would imagine The Winter Soldier lounging in a bathrobe, hair knotted into a bun at the top of his head as his fellow world-saving Avenger spread some green goop over his face. Chinese takeout boxes littered the living room coffee table, his feet were bubbling in warm foot spa.

“To keep your youthful complexion!” You had promised him. He didn’t comment on the obvious sound of your phone’s camera clicking.

He knew he must have looked completely ridiculous. But as you sunk into the couch next to him with identical spa treatments covering you, he couldn’t find it in himself to really care.

He never thought in a million years that he would have the chance of boring, completely benign afternoons. He thought he would be sidelined to violent missions for the rest of his life, to being thawed out like a microwave meal every time he was deemed useful. Sure, he felt a bit ridiculous when you reached over to adjust the slices of cucumber placed over his eyelids, but he also felt so relaxed.

As you settled even closer to him, head tilting to rest on his shoulder, he would happily take the teasing remarks from Sam when you showed him the pictures.

Homecoming

Peter wasn’t crazy about the idea of getting ready for his senior year homecoming dance at the tower. But Aunt May was upstate on vacation with Happy and he still didn’t know how to tie a tie.

“Oh, you look so handsome, Peter!” You gushed as your fingers worked on his tie. Bucky stood to the side, holding MJ’s corsage in a delicate plastic container. Peter had been careful to find the perfect color, with a little guidance from you. The white dahlias matched perfectly with Peter’s light green tie.

“Thanks, Ms. (Y/L/N).”

Peter, ever the polite kid.

“Be safe, kid. Have her home at a reasonable time and no wandering hands.” Bucky handed over the corsage with a supportive slap to Peter’s shoulder. He was quick to promise that he would follow all the rules before making a dash to the door, just as you were about to ask for pictures.

“Don’t wait up!” He called as the elevator dinged behind him.

“They grow up so fast.” You sniffled. “I didn’t even go to my homecoming dances.”

“Why not?”

“Nobody ever asked me.” You shrugged, collecting the other ties Peter had picked from and hanging them carefully over your arm. Tony didn’t have to know that Peter was taking one of his priceless Versace neckties to a homecoming dance.

“To be fair, I would’ve been scared shitless to ask you to a dance.” Bucky followed close behind. “And I fought a war.”

“That’s sweet, Buck.” You brushed him off as you retreated into Tony’s closet.

“No, really.” His hand caught your elbow. “I would’ve been the luckiest guy in town if I had you on my arm.”

You fell asleep that night imagining you and Bucky twirling around a dance hall without a care in the world.

One

Steve’s hand was firm against your shoulder, his tactical glove soaked and dripping with your blood. Your eyes were unfocused, head lulling every so often when the fight to keep it steady just seemed too difficult. Sam was at your other side, cracking jokes to try to keep your attention on him and not of the literal bullet lodged in your shoulder.

You were escorted from the jet in a flurry, doctor’s hands replacing Steve’s. You barely winced when you were administered painkillers and the ache begun to subside. Before you could blink, you were lifted onto a gurney in the medical bay and the clink of the bullet that had been dug from your flesh rang through the room as it clattered into a metal dish.

Bucky ran in just as the doctor finished maneuvering a long roll of gaze around your shoulder, scheduling a time for you to return to have it cleaned and reapplied again.

“What happened?” He brushed past the doctor without a second glance, eyes trained on your figure pressed against the sterile hospital bed. “Steve said-”

“It’s nothing. Steve likes to be dramatic.”

“-that you were shot!”

“Oh, well. Yeah, that happened.�� You moved to sit up, your arm immediately giving out under the weight. Bucky moved even closer to help you, hand careful on your back like you were made of glass. “But just the one time.”

“As far as I’m concerned, one is too many.” He watched the gauze turn darker against your skin; your eyes screwed shut in pain as your knuckles turned white against the sheets. “And you’re never going on a mission without me again.”

Freight Car

“You’re free.”

He remembers those worlds so clearly, it’s like him and Ayo are still sat next to that crackling fire in Wakanda. He thought that had been it. He would never again worry about those ten phrases that erased Bucky Barnes and allowed a machine to emerge from his memory.

As he stole glances of you from the corner of his eye, shadowed by his unruly hair, he knew those words still very much existed in his mind.

They weren’t a means to an end, anymore. He didn’t have to grit his teeth and clench his fists to fight them off. They were new, now. He saw each of those words in you and realized just how important they are now they they’ve found a new meaning.

His love for you came easy.

One second, he was looking at his friend. She was looking back at him and he felt safe.

Your fingers brushed over his shoulder, where flesh turned to metal, and you looked away as though you hadn’t just made him fall in love with you with a single touch.

It took three years for Bucky to make a move. Another party, another escape plan to the balcony where you were waiting for him, like always. The last time you had found yourselves in that position, he had been too unsure. Too wary of what it would mean and if it was too soon.

Now, he didn’t care. He just wanted you and to be selfish and not think about consequences when he leaned forward and finally pressed his lips to yours.

You pulled back, but not far.

Something clicked.

Your love for him hit you like a freight car. Swooping in from nowhere but really, you should have felt the rattling of the tracks beneath your feet. You should have seen all the signs that you loved him and he loved you back. In stolen glances and easy afternoons, in hard missions and bloodshed. He was there, and he looked at you like that. Like everything his body had done was to finally make it to you in this moment.

He waited, patient. He had waited this long, what was another few seconds as the realization washed over your features?

“Oh.” Was your clever whisper.

“Yeah.” Bucky’s hands cradled your face, “Took you long enough.”

taglist: @bibliophilewednesday @teti-menchon0604​ @thiswasnevermylifefromtony​ @spid3rgwen​ @beautyandthebleh​ @victoriabaker112213​ @orthellqs @phasma-trash​

[mercury-lurks]

Mercury's Backstory

Trigger Warnings: Extreme violence, blood, gore, death, starvation, emetophobia, suicidal ideation, etc etc

Word Count: 3,156

@eldritchdemonfox you wanted this you got it my friend.

'+'

He heard explosions. They sounded distant, but that could just be the ringing in her ears.

There was yelling and screaming. Mercury hated loud noises, he always had. Loud noises hurt their ears. She decided to hide under her couch, still small enough to fit under it comfortably. Closed spaces made him feel safe.

Mercury heard their parents moving frantically around their dwelling, shoving things in boxes and shouting at each other in their native tongue. The once pleasant clicks and trills of their language sounded grating and horrible. She shrank further under the couch.

"Where is Mercury?" His mother shouted, crying desperately for her baby. "Mercury! Merc, please come out! Mercury!"

"There's no time, Lumini!" Their father barked, voice strained with panic. "We have Neptune and Shad'r, we can't keep searching. They'll be fine here."

"My baby.. Oh, my baby!" Lumini cried, her caterwauls growing fainter as Mercury heard a door slam shut.

Mercury knew he must keep quiet as the spirit-death. They have been preparing for this moment, they all have. The soldiers will come in and desecrate their monuments and statues, erase their culture from history. They will stake flags in fertile soil and gun down any Grea'esi that stood in their way.

But as the door haphazardly clicked shut, she realized he was truly alone. They could've gone with their family. If they hadn't been such a coward, he'd be safe.

Another explosion sounded, and it seemed infinitely closer. Mercury heard gunshots. The "brrraapapa" of their machine guns shook the ground beneath her, forcing her to bury his head in their hands. She whimpered, tail curling around her calf like her mother used to do when he was upset.

Mercury's breaths came labored as the fighting drew nearer. The screams of his dying brethren caressed his ears, each accompanied by a hurried prayer under her breath.

"May the stars guide you on your way to Loscheda. May the fruit be plentiful and the water drunk gold. Green days wait under an eternal Star." They repeated, the prayers quickening as more and more spirits left this plane.

The sounds of war rang a cacophony in his down-turned ears, a crescendo of pain-fire and glory-death.

She heard the barbarians speaking in their crude tongue, barking orders to the sniveling foot-soldiers. Mercury had always been a bit better at speaking English than the others of her class, however not even they could understand everything.

"Tear this god-forsaken village down! I want all of those filthy Floaters shot to the ground! I want to see blood stain this miserable planet red! Take all valuables. No pathetic creature left alive, do you understand me!?" The order was muffled by the walls of the dwelling, and Mercury wasn't sure what 'god-forsaken' or 'valuables' or 'miserable' or 'Floater' meant, but he understood the gist of it.

She was to be slaughtered like cattle if they were found. Immediately, Mercury shut their mouth and calmed their breathing the way she was taught to at school. Mercury had always had a wonderful memory, which really came in handy during times like these.

The door crashed open with a "thrap", footsteps pounding in through the vacancy. Mercury stilled, eyes wide open in case blinking was too loud a noise.

"Clear!" One of the soldiers shouted from another room. "No pests in here."

He heard furniture being upturned, glass shattering, walls collapsing.

"Aha! I found one!" Mercury's blood ran cold, stifling a sob as she feared they had been found. His fingers dug into the shag carpet beneath her.

A gunshot. A second. A third. Deep purple blood ran across the floor, soaking deep into the carpet. A hollow thunk, and lifeless pink eyes stared into Mercury's soul.

Quine. They- they killed Quine. Their eyes drew in Mercury like a moth to a flame.

Bright, golden tears escaped her eyes. He was next, he was sure of it. She mouthed prayer once again, both for Quine and themself.

After time bent inwards, outwards, down sideways- the soldiers heralded the building clear of pests.

Their boots stomping, what sounded to childish ears as bombs exploding and their people dying, they left the building.

A less fortunate family, one who hadn't been able to desert this apocalypse, cried out from the next house over. Mercury heard their bodies fall heavy to the floor, like Quine's, like Quine's.

Once they deemed it safe to speak, Mercury began whispering to the corpse in front of them.

"Quinnie… Quine. Quine, can you hear me?" Pink turned gray turned dead stared. "The dogs took you. They boot-stepped into this place and desecrated you. Our holy places. Our people. The dance of Loscheda is full to the brim. Is this what they were speaking of when they told of retribution? When they said the Star Kingdom would claim our spirits, surely they didn't mean this unholy war."

The blue of Quine's perfect skin was turning purple as the blood rushed to their extremities.

"We knew it was coming, didn't we Quine? The space-shakers have been in the air for many cycles. We knew it was over when we started doing sign-ups and drills. You told me your sibling signed up for the U.N.S.C. right, Quine? He's dead. They're all dead, Quinnie. It's just you and me now."

Mercury sniffled. Another bomb dropped in the distance, gunfire ringing out. The hell-fire flames of Loscheda rose from villages, planted by heathen barbarians. Thick smoke choked Mercury until their breaths came slow, but he wasn't worried.

His planet, Arieala, was a very hot planet. It routinely went to 680° in American units. Grea'esi were no strangers to smoke and ash, and certainly not fire. Her lungs were built to withstand choking gray and blazing embers, and their skin was toughened with ash.

Mercury knew the soldiers were not as strong in the flames as they were, so there was not much time left before they would leave the area. He would wait eons and infinity until then, talking to her dearest friend.

"I know you're in Loscheda, Quine. I know you're not here with me now. I am not an idiot. But, as the Stars decreed, your body and flesh can't be at rest until you're in the ground. So I'll keep you company until the debris puts you safe. I can sing you a song? My momma taught songs to me when I was younger."

Deeply unnerved by the fresh void of silence, Mercury kept talking.

"The bombs were really loud, I hope they didn't scare you. I know you liked the practice drills, but I think it would be different in real life. It was different. I can still hear them, you know? I don't think noises are gonna be the same as they were before. I don't think I'm gonna be the same as I was. My family's probably dead. There's no coming back from that."

Mercury coughed harshly. The burn of chemicals in her throat made her eyes water. The bombs must be made with Earth things.

"Quine, I'm scared. I don't know what to do. Loscheda help me, I'm lost. Where do I go? My home is a wasteland now. My people are dead. Our people are dead." She blinked back tears, swallowing a sob. The burn made him stifle a cry. They couldn't know he was here.

The sounds of unbridled horror eventually faded out of their ears, and Mercury thought it safe to exit her hide. He crawled shakily out of the couch's cave, their bare feet squelching in the blood-soaked carpet. Mercury fell to their knees, cradling Quine's face in her hands.

He sobbed, much louder than he was hoping for. Golden streams mixed with ash and dust, dropping onto the floor as she cried. "I don't know what to do. I-i'm sorry. I can't do this alone, Quine, you said we would get out of here together. Quine, you promised! You said we would get Neptune and Shad'r and find our own home, you said! But they left me! And you left me!" They shrieked, uncaring of who would hear. "What's the point of being here if I'm not with you! Beinasku! Beinasku!" The nickname rolled easily off his tongue, pressing his forehead to theirs. In English, the name figuratively translates to "my dear" or "darling". Of course, it isn't perfect. The much more accurate, more literal iteration would be "my soul" or "the one who cradles my spirit".

Mercury pressed a soft kiss to Quine's forehead, brushing their rose quartz hair back. They tried to ignore the gaping bullet wounds littering their stomach.

She coughed something ugly, wheezing. "I need to go. I pray the Stars guide you safely to Loscheda, Quine. Beinasku." He shut Quine's eyes with her fingers, pausing to stare. They both were barely of age, having completed school much too early in order to provide for the war effort. Quine had worked in weapons manufacturing, putting together rifles and shotguns with ruthless efficiency. It used to be just a fun party trick.

Mercury herself had been on track to getting an interplanetary scholarship. He had to, for it was the only way they could afford to get their family off Arieala. Unfortunately all Grea'esi youth had to quit school as threats of planetary genocide grew imminent. He ended up working next to Quine, and she was godawful at it. Quine, beinasku, was so patient with them. They guided her hands when they got too shaky to put delicate pieces together.

And they had promised themselves to each other. Maybe not by the Star Kingdom, or by Arieala law, but by hushed whispers in an empty factory and wiping grease away and counting and recounting funds.

But it didn't matter. Nothing they had done together mattered, because the U.N.S.C. blew it all up and stomped on it and shot it once, twice, thrice-

Mercury undid both of their bowties- something the ANC Weapons Division had given them as a semblance of uniform. He did not want Quine's body to be choked by the physical as well as the chemical. She held Quine's red bowtie, almost visually indistinguishable from their own, in his hand, placing her own over Quine's closed eyes.

Standing up, she tied Quine's tie around his own neck, swallowing against the fabric. Mercury trilled in mourning before he finally turned away. He needed a way out. They needed to survive, not just for herself but for Quine and Neptune and Shad'r.

Exiting the dwelling, Mercury surveyed his surroundings. Many buildings were ashed completely, flames dancing in the streets. The smell of chemicals burned into Mercury's nostrils, making her gag.

They looked up, immediately crying out in terror. The escape ships, full of his brethren.

The reds and oranges glinted off of her golden eyes, the echoing sounds of missiles playing over and over again in their head.

She choked on a sob, bringing their hands to his face. All of her people, all the ones left.

Gone.

Gone.

Mercury ran.

He didn't know where he was going, but they were running.

The last.

She was the last of her kind.

When they gunned him down, his kind would be dead.

They were the last to carry the legacy of the Star Kingdom, of Loscheda, of Arieala, of Quine and every Grea'esi that had ever lived.

Gunshots echoed behind them, or maybe it was just Mercury pretending.

Soldiers boot-stomped behind him, or maybe it was just the pounding of Mercury's own feet, breathless in pattern.

She was sloshing in Quine, their beinasku's, deep purple blood, or maybe Mercury's feet were just bleeding.

His soul ached, breaking through his skin in the form of shimmering, ash-filled tears.

She didn't know how long she ran, but eventually they skidded to a stop, falling on their face weeping.

Mercury let out a series of distressed clicks and trills, their tail laid limp behind them.

Another explosion shook the ground, but he didn't bother to get up and run. She was tired. They wished they had simply curled up with Quine and waited for the soldiers to shoot them. She could've been in Loscheda with his family, dancing endlessly with gold-water and star-fruit.

Instead he was covered head to toe in ash and the memories of his kin.

"Momma…" They cried, bringing their knees to his chest. Her tail curled around their calf again. "I want my mom.. I want to go home.."

She breathed in, coughing miserably and wet. The warmth radiating from the dirt beneath him almost felt like Quine. Quine was softer, Quine was beautiful. Laying here, surrounded by empty dirt and scorched earth, Mercury thought himself quite ugly.

Nevertheless, she started praying.

"Ruler of the Stars, hear my cry." They choked out, tone choked with tear-chemicals. "Guide my feet in this cruel period, walk me forward with your destination, shine brilliantly in my dreams and terribly in my nightmares. I pray and I beg you, take me home. Bring me peace, and let vengeance ruin those who murdered your legacy. Let the weary rest in your song, in your Loscheda, and take care of my beinasku while I'm away."

With the reassurance that the Star Kingdom was watching over him, Mercury stood to their disgraced feet. She was tired, too tired to waste energy floating. He walked.

Their feet were bleeding. He was hurting. It felt almost deserved, the burning, ash-hot a cruel reminder of the hell-flames charing their kin and killing their spirits.

She wrapped her arms around his stomach, squeezing his eyes shut. The pathetic attempt of comfort almost worked, but the trembling of their arms shattered the illusion like hope.

Another explosion rang out, garnering a small flinch, but Mercury didn't care. Mercury didn't care about anything anymore. Not this stupid planet, not the invaders, not his parents or their school or the burning-fire-hot of the new atmosphere.

Her tail drug limp on the ground like a corpse. The rocks hurt his skin like bullets. They didn't like the rocks, not anymore. Rocks dug into his heels and tangled in her tail.

Gunfire was surely firing, but Mercury couldn't hear it anymore. Their world turned gray-steel-fuzz and her hearing dimmed. He moved purely out of soul-push, stumbling across the barren wasteland their once beautiful planet had morphed into.

Only Stars know how long Mercury walked, but eventually she found a single, smoldering tree. Weary from his journey, he climbed the tree swiftly, hissing as the sturdy wood singed his battered and bruised form.

Stomach growling, Mercury settled down into the boiling wood, whimpering.

What did he do to deserve this wretched fate? Cursed to walk the endless stretch of nothing-nothing until they were slaughtered like an animal.

Bitterly, but not with much surprise, they came to the conclusion that the name "Floater" was in fact the animalistic name those dirty killers gave them. Their floating was a gift from the Star Kingdom and these heathens mocked and scorned the people of Loscheda without remorse.

Mercury laughed. A scratchy, raw feeling burned in their chemical throat. "I hope the Ruler of the Stars carries more just mercy in her vessel than they, for I will not be providing these barbarians with any such forgiveness." Their insides burned with both agony and righteous fury.

Shivering, she laid down and tried to sleep. It was a small victory that she managed to slip into the black.

'+'

Miraculously, no nightmares greeted him at slumber. He awoke rested and miserably whole, flexing his toes and fingers.

The memories of yesterday hit them like a missilebombgunfireoncetwicethrice- but she wasn't affected anymore. Surely once the realities of the situation hit, they would cease to be as apathetic. But she needed to make the most of this gracious time.

Mercury clambered down the tree, almost wincing at how hot the dirt was. It seemed as if it got hotter than before. Perhaps the flames spread across the world and engulfed him in his sleep.

Perhaps Mercury needed to find a way off world before they succumbed to their rage.

Growling low, aggravating chemical burns, Mercury walked.

Burning dirt stained their clothes, fire raged inside and out. When had he started crying? When had he started to live again?

And walked.

This desert went on for miles. Very few trees remained standing, all wildlife was burned beyond recognition. The Stars burned hot on her back.

And scavenged for supplies.

A gun, bullets lay in a crate. Medical supplies under buried wreckage. Photos of families clutched in rotten hands, faces to be burned both in body and memory.

And drank soiled water.

Washing his clothes felt like a mercy. Her stomach hurt. Dirt had never tasted so good. The heat was unbearable. When had Mercury become so weak?

And starved.

Their stomach hurt. Passing desecrated animals felt like sin, burned trees had never looked so edible. Mercury ate dirt to fill their stomach, only to end up vomiting it back up.

And starved.

She caved and ate the burned remains of beasts. He sobbed as he stuffed rotten meat into his mouth. Their body wasn't built to handle meat, but Mercury kept the vomit down, and ate what came back up.

And ate worms.

His hands dug in the dirt, cool soil underneath housing the last hope he had for survival. Shrimpy, starved worms came up in her hands. She ate, and ate, and ate, and ate, until their sobs could be mistaken for laughter. They could never keep it down for long.

And went mad.

Mercury carved their name into rocks with their teeth. He wanted to be remembered. She wanted to live and be free. Nothing mattered he was alone he was alone he was alone he was alone he was alone he was alo-

And cried and sobbed and wept.

They brought the gun to their stomach, fingers shaking. Breathy, wet sobs masked the fear in her eyes. She was tired. She was so, so tired. But he could never bring themself to pull the trigger.

He was the last, after all.

Until Mercury could no more.

Exhausted and battered, stones lodged in open wounds, tattered bandages littering her skin, he looked to the sky. The red sky, of course, because of the stifling-ugly smoke and red-orange fire. The space-shakers were long gone, having deemed the planet a waste.

They decimated their peaceful Arieala just to leave it in ruins. It was unfair. Unfair was a familiar word to Mercury now.

He was the only one left on this planet, the last steward of the world.

Mercury's feet left the ground.

The last remains of the Grea'esi fell behind her as she reached heights she had never gone before.

Smoke cloud-cover hazed the planet over, and the air rapidly drained from her battered lungs.

A crescendo.

"Take me home..."

The Stars obeyed and Mercury's universe went black.

[cazimagines]

Hi Cazzy 🥺💞 first off congratulations on 900 followers!! You deserve it honey! :)

As for that celebration! I’m in such an angsty mood so I was wondering if I may please request a drabble with this prompt form the angst list “having to watch your lover die, as you’re restrained by the antagonist, unable to fight your way out of their grip, yet your eyes are glued on your lover’s” & with Helmut Zemo. Thanks!! :) 💛

Thank you so much! You were one of the first friends I made on here and so I am so happy to still hear from you, and of course I just adore your writing! Thank you for the request, I've been looking forward to writing angst for a while now 😊💞

You smiled in contentment as you felt the warm embrace, how his arms snaked around your waist, the sweet smell of his cologne washing over you and the gentle kiss he places upon the side of your face.

"I love thee with a love that shall not die, till the sun grows cold and the stars grow old"

You hmmm in thought at Zemo's words, your eyes closed to appreciate the moment of it all.

"Shakespeare?" you say, trying to place where you had heard it before.

"Alas not, it is from 'Bedouin love song' by one Bayard Taylor. You shouldn't assume simply because it as 'thee' in it, that it is Shakespeare"

You pull away from Zemo's embrace, playfully slapping him on the chest as you giggled.

"That's not fair!" you remark, "How am I supposed to know where every little quote comes from, I don't read obscure things just to make myself seem better than everyone else"

Zemo grips the hand you had slapped his chest with and held it tightly, tugging you back to him so you were only inches away from his smirking face.

"But we are better than everyone"

With that, he pushes his lips onto yours and you melt into his embrace. Your hands reach up to clutch the fur collar of his coat, pulling his body as close to yours as you could manage. His hands trail down to your ass, cupping them and giving a little squeeze.

You squeak into the kiss making a chuckle rumble in Zemo's throat.

Eventually, when you two have to pull back for breath, you lean your forehead upon his, both your eyes closed as you pant.

"I've missed you all these years Zemo" you whisper to him, and as he opened his eyes again, you can see the sorrow and pain that was within them.

"I'm never leaving you again y/n"

"Do you promise?"

He lets out a little huff of laughter, "I pinky promise"

You smile at him look into his bright eyes, but slowly they darken before you, a paid expression coming over his face.

"Zemo?" you question, confused at the sudden change.

Something upon your arms tighten, like hands holding you yet you couldn't see anything. It hurt though, the pressure was painful upon you. Glancing back from your arms Zemo had turned deathly pale, and a trail of blood had started to fall from his nose.

"Zemo!?" you screamed out as sudden light started to surround your vision. A buzzing noise surrounded you, making you cringe in pain, your eyes shut momentarily.

When you opened them again, the surrounding had changed. People in suits swarmed you, all shouting at each other commands, laughing maniacally. You could feel clearly now a pair of hands at twisted your arms, holding them behind your back in a painful position that you were sure if you attempted to struggle, you would dislocate your arm. The person's warm breath was upon your neck, making you shiver in disgust.

"Come back to the living have we darling?" the voice growled, and it made you shiver due to how it was a woman's voice.

"Who knew with one blow you would collapse so easily"

The ringing sound in your ear, the dull ache on the side of your face suddenly makes a lot more sense to you, but still, your memory of what was happened and what had happened was completely fuzzy.

"Don't hurt her!" you hear a voice yell, and instantly your voice snapped up, recognising it straight away.

Your eyes focused on Zemo who was being forced down onto his knees, his arms, similar to you, were pulled behind him. His coat was torn, gashes of ripped open fabric on the back, part of the fur collar were pulled off and the part that remained was soaked in blood. His face was white, but blood dripped out of his nose, running down his face and he had a bruise forming by his eye. Still, he was thrashing in their grip, trying to fight his way out of it.

"She has nothing to do with this!" he yelled, teeth bare, seething.

The woman behind you tutted at him, her grip on you getting stronger making you whimper.

"Well now Zemo, you were the one who brought her along with you and your little friends, thinking you could fool me out of information"

"It wasn't a lie Selby" he tried to say but as he claimed it, one of the men holding him down on his knees lifted his fist as collided it with Zemo's face, instantly making his face snap to the side with a sickening crunch.

Zemo groaned in pain as you cried out for him, and slowly he spat out from blood and a tooth that had been knocked out of his mouth.

Now tears were streaming down your cheeks as you desperately tried to get out of Selby's grasp to rescue him, to help him, to do something. Your heart was breaking to see him so much in pain and you not being able to do anything.

"Don't lie to me Zemo" she says harshly, and then one of her hands leaves your arm to grasp your hair, pulling it was a force making you scream out in pain. "You wouldn't want to see your lovely bird in pain now would you?"

"Stop, stop" he murmured, his brain aching from the pain but in hearing your screams his voice picked up.

"Stop!" he yelled, tears swarming in his eyes as he looked back at you, antagonized to see you in pain.

"We run a very strict business here Zemo, and you broke the rules"

One of the men holding Zemo's arms behind him, raised his boot and placed it upon his back, slowly adding pressure forcing Zemo to be pushed to the ground while the man still held his arms up. Zemo yelled at the strain put upon his arms, his face scrunching up as he tried to steady himself. Yet the man continued to push down on Zemo and pull onto his arms until there was a loud pop, and Zemo's screams echoed across the room loudly.

His body spasmed from the overwhelming pain, his mouth opened wide as he screamed, blood-stained spit coming out of it, his eyes almost rolling into the back of his head because of it, how his arms now hung loosely within the man's grip till his body slummed as he passed out.

That wasn't any fun to Selby however, who frowned at the Baron's limp form and the way your sobs make your body rack in her arm. Nodding to her men, they pulled Zemo's body up again, holding it so now he faced you, his head rolled forward but as they put some salts under his nose, it slowly pulled him out of his unconscious form.

One man grasped Zemo's hair and pulled his face up again, so he could do nothing but stare at you as you cried out for him, and though, in a daze, his heart was breaking at the sight.

Another man pulled up his gun and placed it upon the side of the Baron's head, pushing harshly into his clammy skin.

"No!" you screamed, desperately trying to pull yourself out of Selby's grasp. "Please! Don't! I'll do anything, anything, please"

Zemo desperately tried to shake his head at you, tears within his eyes from the pain but trying to warn you not to say something like that, but Shelby chuckled, gripping your jaw to force you to stop talking.

"You think you have a choice in what happens to you little bird. Look at your husband, he can't help you any longer, and your 'friends' are long gone. You are at the mercy of us, and we will force you to do anything, whether you want to or not"

Your eyes latch onto Zemo's again, and they were swarmed by pain, but most of all defeat.

"Execute him" Selby orders and you scream out one last time in panic, fear, heartbreak.

His eyes held yours, desperate to tell you all the things he couldn't say to you, how much he loved you, how much he had missed you and was thankful he had these last few days to be with you one last time, how worried he was for you. How much he adored you.

"I'm never leaving you again y/n"

"Do you promise?"

"I pinky promise"

You tried to close your eyes as you heard the gunshot out, but as Selby pulled your hair again you were forced to open them, forced to see his body slump to the floor, forced to see the blood pool out onto the floor and he laid motionless. You could hardly tell it was him from the way his head was now, covered in skin and blood. The face you had once loved, the lips that had kissed you passionately only a few hours ago, gone, ruined.

You screamed, you cried, your thrashed out as your heart was destroyed.

Selby held you there for a few minutes, wanting to get the dead body of your husband ingrained in your mind before she finally had you pulled away from his body, never to see him again.

The sun had grown cold and the stars had become old.

A/N: Might have gone a bit overboard with this one, but I just love angst so uh, sorry everyone, have a cookie 🍪

[penpatronuswhump]

The Ambush

(Peter Three Whump)

Peter Two popped out of bed, Jack-in-the-box style, stripped off his gray sweatpants and stepped into his red and blue Spider-Man suit. His ex-wife and current girlfriend, the red-haired Mary Jane Watson, peeked out from under their blankets. “What’s wrong?” she asked with sleep heavy in her voice. “Peter? Are you ok?”

The elder Parker wasn’t as quick as he was in his prime, but his senses had sharpened with age. Even in his sleep - even from inside one of his nightmares - even from universes away - he sensed it. “Peter Three needs me,” he said. “I can feel it. I gotta go.”

Arm around her swollen stomach, MJ inched her way to the side of the bed, opened the bedside drawer and fished out one of the three gold rings Doctor Strange had gifted the three spider men. She tossed it at Peter, and he slid it onto his right forefinger, over his glove. Peter pivoted, aimed his right palm at their bedroom wall and counted out loud as he swung his hand clockwise three times. A sparkling gold circle appeared and, through it, Peter Three’s dark apartment.

“Ahem!” MJ cleared her throat. Smiling, amused, Peter ran around the bed, gave her a kiss, kissed her pregnant stomach, and then sprinted through the portal. It closed behind him, leaving the room mute.

Peter Three’s apartment was slightly better than Peter One’s, whose place was about a half step down from what Peter Two had at his young age. It was one room, one small bed, and a refrigerator older than him. Two tried to dodge the piles of dirty clothes and stacks of pizza boxes as he made his way toward the window. Peter Three was even messier than Peter Two’s son, Benny. Two shook his head and chuckled. It was no wonder they got along so well.

Just then the palm of a gloved hand slapped against the outside of the bed-area glass window. The hand tried and failed to open the window, but Peter Two tossed his mask onto the bed and lifted it with his pinky. Two hands reached for him, and Peter grabbed the wrists and pulled. A burst of snow preceded a trembling, bloody, masked Peter Three. He planted his feet on the wood floor once he was inside, and started to stand, but his body failed him. With a weak grunt, Three collapsed forward and landed in Two’s arms.

“Easy, take it easy, brother,” said Two as he lowered Three to the floor. He settled Three on his butt, then helped him lean back against the wall beneath the windowsill. More snow drifted inside. Peter Two, who was on his knees in front of his brother, reached up past him and pulled the window shut.

“How did you know?” Peter Three’s whispered voice, slightly muffled by the mask, sounded as weak as his body. “You… You can sense me across the multiverse?”

Peter Two shrugged. “The tingle never fails. Let me take a look at you.” Careful not to pull his brother’s longer hair, Two peeled off the Spider-Man mask and set it at Three’s feet. When he looked back up, and saw Three’s bloodied, bruised, dirty, tear-stained face for the first time, he gasped.

“You knew I was this handsome,” Peter Three joked around his swollen bottom lip. He black eyes followed Peter Two’s as they surveyed the rest of his body — the ripped suit, the blood leaking through the fabric, the curious twist in his right ankle, the visible bruises. and the bullet wound in the lower right quadrant of his stomach.

Peter Two’s cheeks flushed. Angry water flooded his eyes. “Who did this to you?” he demanded, voice soft and made of steel.

Peter Three winced when his brother ripped the suit further to get a better look at the gunshot wound, and then pressed the mask against it. “Group of off-duty cops ambushed me,” he sighed. “Recognized them all. I’ve saved a couple of them! But… They don’t like vigilantes… Said it makes them look bad… Said — Said if they ever see me again, they’ll kill me.”

“They’ll have to go through me first,” Two growled.

Peter Three smiled. “Well, when they try to ‘go through’ you, could you ask for my web shooters back? Bastards took them right off my wrists.”

Two froze, then his eyes moved up to meet Three’s gaze. “I figured they hit you with a car after they shot you but… Peter, how did they get that close to you?”

Three’s face relaxed, expressionless. “I let them,” he whispered. “I… I didn’t put up a fight. Didn’t throw one punch. Didn’t shoot a single web… Didn’t want to hurt them. They already hate – hate me, and I didn’t want to give them another reason to.” Water peeked out of Three’s swollen eyes. “I just… Laid there. They had knives and bats and…” One tear toppled over the edge and landed on his dirty cheek. His hands and lower lip trembled. “I didn’t want to hurt them…”

Peter Two’s bottom lip shook. He shut his blue eyes and took three slow breaths. Once he calmed down, he cupped Three’s swelling, bruising cheeks with both palms - gently - and told him, “I’m proud of you.”

Three grinned. He leaned forward — leaned so far forward that his face landed right in the middle of the black spider logo on Peter Two’s chest. Two put one hand in Three’s hair, the other around the back of his neck. Then he rested his chin on the crown of Three’s head and said again, in a whisper, “So, so proud.”

Sizzling behind him. Peter Two looked up at the reflection in the window and saw gold. Peter One had arrived. His gold ring shimmered on his finger. “Guys! I felt—” One froze. He absorbed the scene, then tiptoed over. Silent, he sat cross-legged on the floor and wrapped both arms around Peter Three, so very gently. The three brothers might have sat there longer, but the blood from the gunshot wound had already seeped through the mask. At Peter Two’s direction, he and Peter One lifted Three up and sat him on the edge of the bed. They wiped his tears. They stripped off his torn uniform. They applied gauze and bandages and band-aids along with cold compresses and ice packs. Peter Two, who had long ago learned how to stitch up his own wounds, got out the needle and thread.

Peter Three protested at first. But then he surrendered himself to their gentle hands, closing his eyes and just sitting there, allowing them to take care of him.

The End

Check out PenPatronusAooO on AOOO for more spider family stories!

[iwaslut]

— a moment

warning: season four, episode eight spoilers, angst, character death, blood.

sequel: silence

it happens faster than you can even blink.

one moment, you have an arm lazily hooked around your sister’s shoulder as you both, along with connie, tease jean about his inability to properly grow facial hair. after an intense, but successful battle, you are more than happy to indulge in such a trivial and mundane conversation. among some of your closest friends and your sister, a swell of gratefulness blooms within your chest that you all have once again survived to live another day.

the next, a loud bang rings out through the air.

your eyes are immediately drawn to the origin of the sound to assess if there’s a potential threat, but before you can pinpoint the cause of the noise, your grip on sasha is forcibly loosened as she falls back onto the ground.

your head immediately jerks in the direction of your sister.

redness clouds your vision.

blood.

you fall to your knees as connie loudly cries out, “sasha!”

your mind is hazy, people are shouting and another gunshot goes off, but your eyes remain transfixed on the bullet wound that tears straight through sasha’s chest.

no, no, no.

“sasha, fuck, hold on.” you don’t have any bandages on you so you clumsily place your hand on top of her wound, desperate to stem the seemingly never-ending stream of blood leaking from there.

her normally vibrant brown eyes are glassy and out of focus when jean and connie harshly drop down onto the ground beside you.

“sasha, i’ll kill you if you die on me,” you threaten, voice cracking in the middle of the sentence. your hand remains steady on her chest, but with each passing second, more blood coats your fingers.

“stay with us,” connie demands, placing a gentle touch on your sister’s cheek to which she doesn’t respond to.

a horrifyingly long moment of silence passes before sasha says something.

her voice is so uncharacteristically soft, and paralyzing fear quickly crawls up your spine because in all of her years of living, your sister has never been this quiet.

“sasha, i need you so you can’t die, you hear me?” you plead. wetness coats your eyelashes, but you refuse to tear your eyes away from sasha’s paling face.

“cover the wound, hurry!” jean barks out at a nearby soldier as connie urges sasha to just hold on until you get back to paradis.

you’re forced aside by two of your fellow soldiers so they can bandage sasha’s bullet wound. connie’s kneeled down by your side as jean stands somewhere behind you. your gaze remains on sasha’s face, desperately searching for something as you tightly clasp her hand with your own. redness coats her lips and spills from the side of her mouth, staining the wooden floor beneath her.

she’ll be fine, you tell yourself, she has to be.

“these two got up here using lobov’s vertical maneuvering equipment.”

your head twists to the side at the sound of floch’s voice, intent on seeing who is responsible for your sister’s injury. your eyes widen an imperceptible amount when they land on two children - neither of which can be older than thirteen. you quickly assess them, looking them over before diverting your attention back to sasha once more.

her eyes are nearly shut and she’s considerably paler than she was only a few moments prior. the blood that’s spilt from the corner of her slightly agape mouth is a stark contrast against her skin. it almost looks like she’s sleeping, you think. all that’s missing is her incessant snoring that you’ve been forced to deal with all your life.

one of the children, the girl, is screaming now, going on about how you’re devils and how they plan on carrying on zeke’s will. you mentally scoff, children can be so stupid. you tune her out, trusting jean to take care of the situation at hand.

connie’s moved closer to you, his shoulder nearly brushing against yours, as you both watch sasha’s form. her hand still remains firmly clasped in yours as if you can force sasha to stay with you that way. you disregard the fact that her blood coats your joined hands. neither of you dare to speak as jean leads the captives to where eren and the rest of your close comrades are in the other room.

a few moments pass before armin and mikasa bolt through the door with sasha’s name on each of their lips. they collapse onto to the floor near you and connie, and you relinquish your hold on your sister when mikasa moves to gently turn sasha onto her back.

tears cloud your vision and begin to steadily drip down your cheeks - sasha’s chest is no longer moving. sasha’s not breathing, her chest isn’t moving up and down as it should. there’s no rise and fall, and before you allow yourself to break down right then and there, you remind yourself that you are a soldier and you have a duty to carry out.

you force yourself onto your feet and place a palm on connie’s shoulder. words aren’t needed between the two of you and connie stands up to follow you.

the door opens with a creak, drawing the attention of its occupants to you. connie lingers behind you before crossing the threshold to stand by your side.

you look at your palms, which are coated with a distinct crimson that doesn’t belong to you, before looking up with blurry eyes.

you take a shallow breath in order to say the next two words.

“sasha’s dead.”

all it took was a moment.

[deareddie]

fell through the floor

buck/eddie, angst, 2.1k

Some nights are worse than others. 

Tonight, it seems, is no exception. 

Buck wakes up gasping, the cold air of the room rushing into his lungs only to be forced back out in a cough. He tries a few times, lying on his back, taking carefully measured breaths until he feels like he’s regained control. Only then does he sit up and take in the darkness that surrounds him. Glancing at his alarm clock, he blinks a few times to focus on the glowing numbers that read 3:04am.

He throws the covers away from his body and sets his feet down on the cold hardwood floor, letting the chill seep into his heels and toes and remind him where he is; at home, on dry land. No fiery explosions or huge waves. Just a dark, empty apartment in the middle of the night.

He sighs and rubs a hand over his face, stands, and drags himself to the bathroom. He leans on the sink for a moment, drumming his fingers against the porcelain, before switching on the tap and splashing water into his face. The small light plugged in beneath the mirror illuminates his body, and he stares as each droplet slowly trails down his cheeks, meeting at the base of his chin before falling onto his bare chest. He tries to keep his focus on that. Drive away any lingering thoughts that had come to him in his sleep. 

It doesn’t take long for them to rear their head again, and the cold water is quickly replaced with hot tears. He blinks them away, turns on the tap, and rinses them off. Does it again. And again. And again.

Eventually, it seems the tears forfeit the battle, and he’s left staring into his own blank, red rimmed eyes.

I’m fine, he tells himself, and pretends that it’s true.

He pushes himself off the basin, turning and stopping in the doorway to stare at his bed. He doesn’t see himself getting much more sleep tonight, so he heads for the stairs instead. Walks to the kitchen, crossing the room in his bare feet to grab a glass from the cupboard. 

He fills it. Raises it to his mouth in a trembling grip, but before he can take a sip, a car backfires in the street below his apartment, a loud bang coming in through the open window. The sound is harsh, and far too familiar. It bounces off each empty corner of the apartment; pierces through every wall of distraction that he’d put up between himself and the events of the evening.

The glass slips from his hand and shatters on the ground. He stares at it as the pieces fly across the floor, tries to watch as each tiny sliver spreads itself out across the room to keep his mind from reeling him back to the last call of his shift. It doesn’t work this time. The sounds dig into him, unburying every image he'd been trying to ignore.

His vision goes blurry. He blinks, a tear falls and bounces against the black tile of the floor.

He tries to stop it -looks around the room with blurry eyes and tries to grasp the ghosts of the people who often make it feel so warm- but the tears come anyway. He stumbles backwards, his back hitting the edge of the counter before he sinks down onto the floor, pulling his knees to his chest as the tears flow freely from his eyes. 

Out with them pours every image in his mind he'd been trying to ignore since he woke up, until all those memories are sitting right in front of him. Filling the happy, useful room with nothing but dread. 

He doesn't try to blink the tears away. Every time he closes his eyes, the pictures are more vivid. The darkness isn’t darkness -it’s bright flashing explosions; blood burning the inside of his throat; a huge blue wave washing over him -consuming him. 

It’s the barrel of a gun pointed right between his eyes.

It’s a ridiculous thing to set him off, he knows it. Of all the things that have happened to him in the last year and a half, this is the most mundane. He hadn't gotten hurt. A call went wrong. A man pulled out a gun. He didn’t shoot anything except the doorframe above Buck’s head. 

But there was a moment -the moment between the gunshot going off and the realisation that the bullet hadn’t hit him- where he couldn’t help but think, after everything, this is how I die? 

It was a paralyzing thought, and it pulled him back into every moment of his life that he’d been working tirelessly to move past. Placed him right back in the middle of them. Right back under that truck, right back on that pier. Every horrible thing that had ever happened to him replayed in the back of his mind like a slideshow, flashing before his eyes like some cliché movie trope. 

It’s happening again, and he desperately needs to get away from it. Buck grabs his phone off the floor from where it had fallen from his pocket. Takes a shuddery breath and stares up at the ceiling as the dial tone sounds in his ear, willing the tears to stop falling. He counts; Eddie picks up after only three rings. 

“Buck?” He sounds tired. Buck feels a tiny twinge of guilt, but it’s swallowed by everything else swimming around in his head. “It’s late. Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

He tries to speak, but the only sound that leaves his mouth is a quiet sob. 

“Buck?” He sounds fully awake now. "Talk to me. What’s going on?” 

“Eddie, I-” He chokes out. It doesn’t go any farther than that.

“Stay right where you are, okay? I’m coming to you.”

Buck tries to speak again; beg him not to hang up and leave him alone with his thoughts, but Eddie is gone before he gets the chance. And with nothing left to ground him in the present, the memories crawl right back under his skin.

He shuts his eyes and feels the searing pain in his leg; the weight of the truck on top of him; the heat of the orange flames licking at his feet.

He feels the blood fill his lungs and come sputtering out. Sees the wide-eyed looks of every party guest as they watch him collapse onto the grass. Hears a faint shout of somebody call 911! before he’s consumed by darkness. 

He feels the pressure of a huge wave slamming him back into the wall of the game stand. Feels the burn of salt water -cold, cold water, a contrast to the warm blood- filling his lungs. Feels a tiny hand slipping from his grasp, and the bone deep dread that comes with the realisation that the boy who had been in his arms just a few seconds earlier was nowhere to be seen. 

He’s finally pulled back to earlier this very evening, to the moment everything went sideways. 

It all plays on a loop, over and over and over again.

Hot explosion, blood in his lungs, a huge wave, a gun. Hot explosion, blood in his lungs, a huge wave -a presence by his side- hot explosion, blood in his lungs, a huge wave -a hand on his face- explosion, blood, wave -”Buck.”- explosion, blood, wave -”Buck!”

-Eddie. 

His face seems out of place. A very kind thing in a sea of ugliness.

But Eddie’s not supposed to be here. No, Eddie is supposed to be far, far away from all of this mess. Buck shakes his head. Tries to push Eddie away, but his arms feel very weak, and he can’t seem to find enough air in the room to breathe.

“Buck.” Eddie says, not moving an inch. He places both hands on Buck’s face. “Look at me.”

Buck shakes his head. Doesn’t want to look -to associate something so good with all the terrible things in his head. He tries to wrench himself from Eddie’s grasp, but Eddie doesn’t budge.

“Look around, Buck. You’re here. You’re right here in the kitchen. I don't know if your brain has convinced you that you're somewhere else, but you’re not. You're here, at home, with me. Can you focus on that?"

Buck blinks. Looks around the room, and tries to follow Eddie's advice. Catalogues everything he sees -the coffee mug he left on the counter this morning, no time to wash it before work. The bottle of wine from his dinner with Maddie a few nights ago, sitting on the table. The slow drip of water from the tap he hasn't had time to fix. 

He looks at Eddie, finally, and is met with wide, concerned eyes. He stares, blinks away each tear that obscures his view, and keeps his gaze there. 

“Just breathe. In and out." 

Buck swallows. Takes a deep breath in through his nose. It’s shaky, but it reaches his lungs this time.

Eddie nods. He tries again. And again. And again.

He keeps his eyes focused on Eddie’s. Takes note of the warm hands against his cheeks and the cool tile floor beneath him. He can smell the brand of soap that he used to mop the floor last week -It was lemon scented, he remembers that. It’s a funny thing to think about, right here as he falls to pieces in front of his best friend, but his brain focuses on it, along with every other sensation he can name, and it brings him back to the present.

“Eddie.”

“I’m here. Are you with me?”

He looks at Eddie for a moment, then nods. 

“Good.” Eddie’s eyes sweep over him, stopping at Buck’s hand, lying palm up beside him on the floor. “You’re hurt.”

He sniffles. “What? No, I-” He looks down at his hand. There’s a gash in his palm, blood smeared all over it. He doesn't know where it came from. “Oh." He stares. "I don’t- I don’t remember doing that.”

Eddie glances at the broken glass on the floor. “Must’ve cut yourself when you sat down. One second.” He stands, and Buck misses his warmth immediately. Eddie arrives back a moment later with a wet cloth, gauze, and a rolled up bandage in his hand. Crouching back down in front of Buck, he comments; “Good thing I know where you keep your first aid kit, huh?”

Buck tries to smile. He figures it comes out as more of a wince.

Eddie takes his hand, cleans and dresses the wound, and wraps the bandage around it gently. Buck watches. The small point of contact keeps him grounded in the moment. Eddie finishes and lays Buck’s hand down onto his knee, taking the uninjured one and squeezing. “Better,” he says. Buck’s not sure he feels it.

“I’m sorry,” Buck says, meeting Eddie’s eye after the silence stretches for too long. “I was doing better, I am doing better, I just-”

“Hey, these things take time. One setback doesn’t throw away all the progress you’ve made.”

Buck looks away, towards the window where the sound of the city is still coming in. “It kinda feels like it does.” He wipes the tears from his cheeks. Another small one escapes. He lets it fall. “It’s not even about what happened tonight, it’s just… everything it reminded me of.”

Eddie nods. “Lots of things can set us off.” 

“I just want to be over it. All of it.”

Eddie hums. “I get it. But there are some things, I’ve found, that you just have to learn to live with.”

Buck swallows, nods. 

Eddie stands, holding out a hand for Buck to take. 

“It’s late,” He says. “Let’s try and get some more sleep.”

Buck is struck with a realisation. “Chris-”

“Is at my aunt’s. Always is when I work a late shift.” Eddie reminds him.

“You don’t have to stay,” Buck says.

“I know.”

He does anyway. 

When Buck wakes up a few hours later, the sun is just starting to creep over the horizon. It comes in through the windows, painting the apartment in a much different light than it had appeared in the night before. He feels calmer, in the light of day. Lying in a warm bed, with a strong arm around him, keeping him in place. 

He takes it all in, and is reminded that some days are better than others too.

[peachypizzicato]

"horror movie but the protagonist smooches the monster and everything is okay :)"

Run as fast, as you can. Do not stop, do not pause for breath, it can appear at any second, and get you. It's so damn dark, the walls of the hotel are the only thing you can hold onto to comprehend where you're going. You just wanted to have fun at a party with your friends, why did the power have to shut off, why did you volunteer to check what was going on, and look for help, why did you stop when you heard its roaring, why did you have to watch that... Thing... Stumble out of one of the apartments? You barely saw anything but bloodied limbs and fangs, as well as two dots darting around, possibly in search of prey.

Don't even think of turning back now. You've seen what happened to the guy that slammed the door on the opposite end of the hallway open, you've seen him shooting at it. You've seen the creature pounce him, you've seen it raise a clawed hand, before your legs instinctively started moving on their own, dragging you away from the scene. Despite being unable to look away, you didn't really see what actually happened. There was another shot, and the creature let out a deafening roar. Then the man below it screamed, and fell dead silent. That's when you stopped walking, and began to run up the stairs to the floor where you think everyone else was.

When you came to look for help, did you go up or down?

Within seconds, you heard loud stomping in the distance, making the steps below you rattle. That thing was big. You had to hold onto the railing, trying not to collapse, as its weight and the darkness all worked against you, making you miss some steps, trip, you almost hit your head against the railing, trying to get up. You heard it approach, and then you remembered you had a flashlight. Pulling it out of your pocket, you shone a ray of light into the thing's eyes, causing it to let out a strange yelp. There it was, six feet away, jaw hanging just lower than humanly possible, dark red coating its claws and mouth, bite and claw marks on the areas of skin seen rarely between its torn clothes, like rather than ripping people open, it was hurting itself for some reason, something streaming down it's face and upper lip. A part of you couldn't help but wonder for a hot second. Was this creature a human once too?

It covered its face, trying to back away from the unpleasant sudden light source, and let out another screech, tumbling down the stairs. Go. Don't listen to the gurgling noises, don't try to decipher words our of its growls, don't be a fool. You need to warn others, make sure everyone locks their doors, and barricades away, call for help, go, go, go! Most doors on your way were locked anyway, you chose not to bang on them, in case some unfortunate Soul would open it too late, and the creature would be right in the doorway. At least get back to the apartment with the gang, they have some sort of way to-

Wrong floor. You should have ran down. This is the rooftop. The warm wind of an early Autumn washes over over you, you didn't even consider that slamming this door open would have led you here. Shit. You quickly close it, and look around for a way out. You can't jump off, there's at least twelve floors in this building. The nearest roof you could jump over to was so much lower your legs would snap like twigs. Probably would make it easier for that thing to catch you. You hear it battering the door. There has to be a way out. Maybe lead it over to the edge, maybe shine a light in its face again? You frantically search your pockets. No. No, you didn't drop it, you couldn't have- No. Nononononono, dear God, please no.

You shut your eyes, hearing the door fly open and slam on the ground. This is it. It approaches... Carefully. It must be playing with its food. It must want to prolong your suffering, like you prolonged the chase. You pray that this thing makes it quick. And then you hear it whimper. Its stomping turns into steps. Quiet and soft, as if it's trying not to scare you away. Like you've got anywhere to run. You feel heavy breathing on your face, a distinct smell of human blood from its teeth. Without any other option, you turn your head to face down, so that even if it forces your eyes open, you won't have to watch its face.

- Please make it quick, - Your voice sounds much more wet than you expected. Of course you'd be crying. You're gonna die. It lets out a much quieter growl. Sounds almost like an apology. It takes a step back. Is it preparing to pounce on you too? You peel one of your eyes open, and notice a hole in its hand, as if a bullet went through it, while it tried shielding itself. It stands still. Gathering your courage, you look up, and see its face again. There is something that was once distinctly human about it in the Moon's light. Its eyes are not hungry, or enraged, no, it... They... They look as horrified as you are. He seems lost.

* * *

It hurts. What's going on? Is this the punishment? You feel like something grabbed at every muscle in your body, and tried stretching it far beyond its limits, it hurts so bad. Something grows inside you, you feel like someone rowed your mouth with knives, they poke your tongue, you grab at your own head, trying to subdue the ache within. There is something moving in your flesh, like a hunch of snakes slithered in there, you see your own skin bubble up and want to tear out whatever is in there. You claw at your own arms, throat, chest and legs, ripping away pieces of yourself, hurting yourself, hoping that whatever is happening to you stops. You scream so much your throat feels like someone shoved a blender in your mouth, your own blood, tears and snot born from crying from pain mix into a taste you never wanted to know. You can barely hear what you sound like.

You stumble out, hoping to find someone in the building who could call for an ambulance, even during this blackout. A door opened. Help? Help, finally! A gunshot rings in your ears, as a bullet cuts through your shoulder. The man that shot you aims for you again. Without thinking, you jump farther than you knew you could, and try to hold him down, you swing to knock the gun out of his hand, but barely cover up your face with it as another bullet meets your palm. This is getting annoying. When you finally look into the guy's eyes, he stares at you for a second, and yells so loudly your sight falls dark. And then he's out. Do you really look that bad...? You hear footsteps. Someone else is here. They need to listen, they have to help you too, they must, please, you are in so much pain, you don't know what's happening, please, wait!

* * *

He must have seen his reflection in your glasses. Did he not know what he looked like? Was this form new and unfamiliar to him? Was he a bloodthirsty monster or an unfortunate person? Are you sure you want to help him? You reach out, and he carefully, terrified of hurting another stranger, takes your hand, yours almost slipping out of his, now soaked in his blood too. You try not to think about it.

- Can you speak?, - He lets out a groan, which doesn't sound too close to English, - ... That's alright. We'll figure something out, - He grimaces. Or, maybe, that's just how he smiles.

Waga baba bobo.

- Evil Anon.

… the jailor has decided to execute you

god this is so fucking GOOD i know i say it every time but this is HIGH QUALITY CONTENT got DAMB!!!

also… my take on (somewhat) communicating with The Beast :)

[rk1kheadcanons]

Angst? Human AU? Connor temporarily flat lines

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. 

The words would not stop circling in Markus’ head - ringing melancholic, incredulous, resigned with each repetition - as his eyes, burning with lack of sleep, stayed fixed on the man laying in the hospital bed. On the unsteady rise and fall of his chest, on the too still face as pale as the bed sheets covering him.

Markus was the one with the dangerous job - the loud and “cocky” (as the media so lovingly put it) politician, who openly sneered at Mega Corporation’s desperate attempts at bribery, who denounced his fiercest political opponents and the kowtowers to the status quo of his own party alike. He received death threats for breakfast every morning. His team had thwarted two assasination attempts these last few months alone, and he had every expectation that more would come in the near future.

So why then, Markus thought heavily, taking the man’s limp hand gently into his own. Why was his husband laying there in the hospital bed? Why was Connor the one suffering, struggling to stay alive?

Connor’s closed eyelids started to twitch. Markus braced himself. He’d awakened several times in the last couple of hours, disoriented and highly distressed until Markus broke past whatever demons he was reliving and was able to sooth him. This all usually only lasted for a few moments at most, and then he’d drop back off to sleep.

When Connor opened his eyes fully this time, there was that confusion, yes, but a clarity shining in the deep brown depths that made Markus sit up straighter and clasp his hand a little tighter. He stayed quiet though - as much as he wanted to ask a thousand questions about how he was feeling and if he needed anything in a single breath - and let Connor slowly look around as he oriented himself. The doctor had been stern about not startling him. She had gone at length about the “why’s” using a great deal of medical jargon that Markus would have a hard time understanding even if he wasn’t high strung and sleep deprived, but he understood the gist of it. Some old heart problems had been exacerbated by the injury, and it was imperative that Connor remained in a calm environment until he was more stable.

Several moments passed, with only the whirring of medical machines and the steady beep of the heart monitor as background noise, until Connor’s gaze finally found him. Something taught and painful, that Markus hadn’t even realized was inside him, let loose when recognition lit up in his eyes.

He parted his lips, but when only a pathetic croak came out (and a disgruntled brow furrow that Markus had to hold back a laugh at) Markus was quick to bring a small paper cup filled with ice chips to his mouth and gently guiding him into swallowing a few.

“Hi,” Connor murmured, after some amusing moments of him trying to hurry the ice chips into melting before giving up.

But as annoyed as he looked at all of these hindrances, all Markus could feel was a wave of relief so strong it was almost euphoric. Connor was awake, he was talking, he was coherent. Those were good signs, he was sure. It meant Connor had gotten past the worst of the injury. That recovery was over the hill and not across the ocean. 

“Hey yourself,” Markus said, the words caught in his sigh as if all of his worries had been let out in that breath.

“Wha’ happened?”

Markus felt panic surge through him like lightning, fearing a sudden case of amnesia or some other issues with the brain (and goddamn all of his knowledge about surgeries stemming from media and hearsay!), but Connor weakly gesturing at himself immediately settled his nerves.

“You were...shot,” Markus said carefully. Connor showed no signs of being disturbed by the news, as Markus expected - what with him being ex-Military and all - but he would err on the side of caution until Connor was completely healed and not a second later. He made a noise for him to go on - he wanted the “how” he got shot. Markus grimaced. The entire incident had been insane, borderline ridiculous in it’s circumstantial, impossible nature. He was still trying to wrap his head around the situation, how something that started out so benign could end so catastrophically.

Connor had been making a follow up housecall for one of his clients at his veterinarian practice, Markus explained. It was just a simple check up on young Emma Phillips’ rabbit, Snowball, who had recently gotten some stitches on his hindleg. Everything was proceeding smoothly. Connor reassured Emma that Snowball would be a-ok, gave Mrs. Phillips’ the instructions on the ins and outs of post- surgery aftercare, and fed Snowball some treats for being a good bunny in general.

He was shaking Mrs. Phillips’ hand and giving Snowball a goodbye pet when all hell literally and figuratively exploded.

There was screaming, the sound of a gunshot, and then Mr. Phillips was stumbling out of the master bedroom - clutching his chest with blood pouring all over his front - where he collapsed face first onto the livingroom floor.

Emma was screaming and running towards Mr. Phillips before either Connor or Mrs. Phillips could move to stop her. Not long after Emma fell to her knees next to her dad’s body, another man came rushing out of the bedroom - Daniel, the Phillips’ long time babysitter - wild eyed and holding a gun.

From there the police report, news stations, and Mrs. Phillips’ own words all varied in detail, but from what Markus could gather out of all of that information (and he had hunted as much information as possible in those few hours when he’d seen his news and social media feed flooded with his husband’s face and received that awful call from the hospital. It was all he could do in those moments where he didn’t know if Connor was dead or not), Daniel had snatched up the little girl and, with the gun pressed to her head, headed out to the edge of their fenceless patio and threatened to hurl the both of them off of the roof.

Connor, miraculously, had managed to keep Daniel from making good on that threat by talking to him, while Mrs. Philips called the police. At some point during their back and forth Connor convinced him to let Emma go, but had gotten shot in the process.

Connor remained quiet at the end of his explanation, but he had his brow furrowed and was biting his lip in that way Markus knew he was over analyzing all of his previous actions, and finding himself wanting.

“God what a mess,” Connor finally said, voice soft from worry and exhaustion alike. “Do you...think I did the right thing?”

The police had arrived 30 minutes after the 911 call and, from what Mrs. Phillips had told him (voice thick, clutching her daughter close and unable to look him in the eye), Daniel had no intention of waiting for them.

“Yes,” Markus said easily, brushing back some stray curls that had fallen into Connor’s face. “I hate that it had to be you, but I know you did everything that you could.”

“But Mr. Phillips...I didn’t - ”

“There was nothing you could have done for him, Connor. You were there to see a client and nothing else - are you going to tell me that you had even an inkling that all of that...insanity was going to happen?”

“No b-but,” Connor’s voice broke, and there were shadows and an old pain in his eyes that Markus hadn’t seen in years. “I’m trained for this Markus…”

‘No! That isn’t your job anymore! You’re not just a human meat shield for everybody else!’ Markus wanted to snap, but the heart monitor beeping out of sync, as if in warning, the slight hitching of Connor’s breath, and the tears leaking unchecked from his eyes stayed his tongue. He swallowed back his rising anger, the target of which wasn’t even truly aimed at his ailing husband, but those horrible Child Soldier programs that Connor had been subjected to, and that the government liked to pretend didn’t exist.

(Every nightmare, every flashback, every incident where Connor questioned his worth as a human being that he suffered fueled Markus’ resolve to shut every one of them down.

And the more often it happened, the more Markus wondered if he should bother to do it legally.)

“You were operating on what information you had at the time,” Markus said, voice measured. Cold and factual. He didn’t particularly like speaking this way, like one of Connor’s old handlers, but this was the best method to reach him when he was in one of his guilt spirals.

Connor’s eyes were bright and attentive, almost fervent in his need to know how he could be better, which...God Markus hated that (he didn’t need to be better. He was so kind and just wanted to help and those monsters at the academy had done everything in their power to crush his spirit), but at least he was paying attention. He cupped his hand on his cheek and wiped another stray tear away with his thumb.

“You were not sent there to investigate the Phillips’. The only contractual obligation you had to them was taking care of their pet, which you did. There was nothing within those parameters that would allow you to foresee what happened. You did everything that you could,” Markus repeated. “And I’m so proud of you.”

Connor gave him a tremulous smile. His breathing finally evened out, and he looked a great deal calmer, if not like the last of his strength had been drained out of him. It seemed Markus had gotten through to him, for now at least.

Banging and clattering sounded outside the room. Both of them startled badly. Markus shot to his feet, instantly alert and moving between Connor’s bed and the door before he realized what he was doing. Connor sucked in air painfully between his teeth as he - Markus saw from his peripherals - tried to scramble into a sitting position. He was about to yell at Connor to lie back down, but the door slammed open.

In the doorway stood a man, a patient, judging by the hospital gown that exposed bandages - newly stained with blood - wrapped around his torso. The man’s chest was heaving and his teeth were bared. His hand was clutching the doorframe in a white knuckled grip, to keep him from falling over or lunging into the room was hard to say.

Markus recognized this man. It was impossible not to, with video clips from his standoff with Connor had dominated every newsfeed for the past 24 hours.

Daniel Park; in home nanny to the Phillips for six years, John Phillips’ murderer, the cause of some likely long term trauma to young Emma Phillips, and the one who had almost killed Markus’ husband.

“You bastard,” Daniel snarled. His eyes burned with fury, cutting past Markus to Connor like a homing device. “You said everything would be okay! You promised! You said - John isn’t - ” He choked back a sob. His face twisted - a mess of grief and desperation and rage, the feelings warring for dominance. It steadied on rage, as Daniel scowled fiercely and took a step forward.

Markus took his own step forward, getting in front of him so that the slightly shorter man would have to make an effort to see past him. He didn’t know what he was doing, squaring up against a known murderer like this. But it seemed that all of the pent up fear and horror and frustration had finally found an outlet, and it wasn’t about to start listening to reason.

“You need to leave, now.”

Daniel visibly flinched. Markus didn’t know that his voice could get that low and emit such a barely restrained promise of violence, but it did, and it put Daniel’s full attention on him now, which was what he wanted.

Daniel opened his mouth - Markus had no care of what he was about to say, because he was mentally giving him about ten seconds to comply with his demand before he lunged at the fucker - when two security guards and several orderlies finally arrived and grabbed him.

“LET ME GO!” Daniel screeched as they, and it did take every one of them to keep hold of the flailing man, dragged him away. “He has to pay! IT’S ALL HIS FAULT!! You lied to me Connor! YOU LIED TO ME YOU MONSTER...”

Markus intended to keep his eyes on the now empty doorway in case Daniel got free again (and he would be speaking to the Hospital or the DPD or whoever the fuck was responsible for letting an actual killer get within several miles of his husband so easily), but the pained gasping had him rushing back to Connor’s bed side.

Connor’s eyes were wide and glued to the spot where Daniel once was. Markus guided him back down into a laying position but no amount of soothing gestures could get him to calm down and ease his breathing. The heart monitor was beeping louder and faster as the seconds and minutes went on. Markus frantically pressed the emergency button over and over as his panic rose and the other machines started blaring with alarms and flashing red lights. He yelled for a nurse or a doctor, shifting in his seat as he felt torn between staying with Connor and searching for help.

He felt a hand grasp onto his weakly and looked back down at his husband, irrationally hoping that he would have some answers on what Markus should do. Instead, Connor’s breathing was slowing down, but in a horrible way, as if each gasp were a struggle, and all the machinery was still blaring as if nothing had changed, and was staring up at Markus with deep brown eyes that were slightly glazed.

And with a knowing resignation that terrified Markus to his core.

“I love you...so much,” he said, quietly, past hitching breaths.

“I love you too,” Markus said back quickly, as if he could run past his fear, the mounting dread of what was happening, if he spoke fast enough. “I love you. You’re fine. Someone’s coming right now, okay? Don’t worry.”

Connor just stared back him (like he was trying to memorize what he looked like no no no this wasn’t happening), no matter how many times he repeated that the doctor was coming and that he would be fine, it was going to be fine, it was going to be fine  -

And then a little breath escaped Connor’s lips, and everything just stopped.

He stopped breathing. The machines stopped ringing. Markus stopped his mantra. The only sound left was the tone of the heart monitor. No longer beeping, just a long, monotonous drone, like someone was holding down one key on a piano. Going on and on and on…

There were people in the room now, doctors and nurses talking. They might have been shouting, but it sounded muffled over the loud one note drone of the heart monitor to Markus’ ears. He was shuffled out of his seat, or maybe he moved himself. He didn’t know. He felt heavy and coiled tight with tension at the same time. He caught a glimpse of a doctor using a defibrillator, and the green line on the monitor spiking a few times before straightening out again, and then he was suddenly sitting somewhere else. The waiting room, judging by the seats speckled with people, visiting loved ones, making appointments themselves. 

Markus didn’t know how he got there. Or how much time had passed. He could have been in that seat, head in his hands and staring at the cracked linoleum floor - as it blurred and focused and blurred - for hours, days. The only thing he could hear, the only thing he could think about was that long drone, that one piano key. Nothing else. He couldn’t think of anything else. He couldn’t.

“...’cuse me? Excuse me, are you Markus Manfred?”

Somehow, the words penetrated through the drone. Somehow, Markus lifted his head up through the heavy gravity holding him down. A nurse stood before him, clipboard in hand and a neutral expression on her face. He cleared his throat, wincing at how raw it felt (had he been screaming?), but suddenly found that he had no energy to speak, so he nodded at her instead.

“It’s about your husband, Connor.”