#apocalyptic fic

[avayarising]

Batfam time travel fic idea: Dick is sent back in time to his younger body, around his early Nightwing era. But the younger body he’s sent back into at that particular moment happens to be concussed or sick or poisoned or something, so Dick (who wasn’t expecting the time travel in any case) is completely disoriented. Ten-year-old Stalker Tim sees him shivering/throwing up and goes to help out – and Dick just sees his little brother.

Tim has to deal with a confused, rambling Nightwing who is calling him by name and trusting him to help him and saying all sorts of concerning things.

(Maybe this is in New York, and Tim manages to call the rest of the New Teen Titans, who turn up and have to deal with this kid Nightwing has latched on to and won’t let go of, who apparently knows their identities. At least he seems as confused as they are about why this is happening.)

[artficlly]

sweetpea [one-shot]

post-apocalyptic marvel au

retired!hero!bucky x fem!reader After the Riftborn War, Bucky Barnes seeks to retire from his past as a hero and settle down, you might just be the peace he’s been looking for all along.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fem reader, p in v, against tree sex, outdoor sex, no protection, vague primal vibes, very consensual, kissing, underwear ripping, if you squint, there's some plot, teeth-rotting fluff, it's so cute, bucky barnes is the sweetest, beefy bucky, yelena meddles, steve rogers is horrified, spring festivals, paganism, masks, drinking, mentions of past violence, death and war, mentions of readers previous relationships, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 8.9k

A/N: hello! it's nearly my birthday so heres a treat for you all. i've been sitting on this idea for AGES. i've been working hard on the daughter of the rotsál first draft, so i decided to take a break from the angst for some fluffy, cute smut!! please let me know if you enjoy and your thoughts! sorry for any typos - not proof read. permanent tag list: @globetrotter28

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Being fucked over the table was not unwelcome but rather surprisingly pleasant, even if it derailed your breakfast plans. 

Leif had always been a rather attentive lover, skilled at pulling orgasm after orgasm out of your needy cunt. He possessed stamina and a hint of roughness that stirred warmth within you, yet something still felt absent. This elusive quality lingered throughout your year together—an unexpressed awareness that simmered between you. Leif was kind, diligent, attractive, and strong. He was considerate, often surprising you with gifts and regularly praising your looks and cooking. Your friends approved of him.

So even if that brief and passionate session had been perfect, him thrusting into you from behind so intensely that your toes curled and you had to press your face against the wooden surface to keep from screaming—you realised it was all somewhat melancholic. The thing that was missing between you and your Springbond was that fabled spark.

The decision to part ways had hurt, but you both knew it was right. A week before you had made the decision, on Mayflame he would move out, and the both of you would be single once more. The morning sex had been a goodbye of sorts, in typical Leif style. Even if you aligned perfectly, you inevitably amassed a long list of differences that broke the perfect illusion. You desired to settle down, concentrate on your work and home, and build connections with those nearby.

In contrast, Leif craved adventure and excitement—obviously, the Bleeding Age hadn’t brought enough danger and activity into his life. He later confessed that he was eager to sleep around more, as he was still a young man exploring his possibilities. This revelation didn’t necessarily shock or hurt you; you had captured his attention for the entire year, far beyond your predictions. Yet, you couldn’t help but wonder... were you boring?

After years of undue stress, survival, and several near-death experiences, you were eager to take advantage of the calm that followed the defeat of the Riftborn and the end of the Bleeding Age. You had to remind yourself—somewhat bitterly—that Leif was not the first and would not be the last. 

“Did you see who that was?” Yelena exclaimed from beside you, her hand gripping your forearm tightly. You nearly leapt in surprise, abruptly pulled from your thoughts. Your head turned as you looked back, tracking Yelena’s gaze. “I swear to the fucking gods that was Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes—”

You squinted at the backs of the two men who had passed you by. 

They walked like soldiers—steady, assured, their movements streamlined but commanding. No hesitation, no wasted motion, just the certainty of men who had spent years on battlefields, who had fought and bled and survived when others hadn’t. They were massive, even under their coats, their broad shoulders and thick arms unmistakable beneath the heavy fabric. Towering over the people around them, they carried themselves with the kind of presence that didn’t demand attention but took it anyway.

“The captain and the sergeant?” You shot back, doubt curling around your words as your brow furrowed. “I thought they were stationed in Stonebrook until the village was built.”

“They were… but last I heard, Stonebrook’s finished.” Yelena’s voice had an eager edge; her gaze locked onto the two figures even as they disappeared around a street corner, swallowed by the cobbled streets. “They were invited back for the Mayflame celebrations. The word is that they want to retire from the soldier business now the war is over.”

You rolled your eyes, tugging at her arm with a huff. “Come on, we’re going to be late—”

“But do you think they’ll run in Mayflame?” Yelena pressed, barely budging under your pull. 

“I mean, gods, can you imagine if Steve Rogers was your Springbond?” She exhaled, almost breathless at the thought, her fingers tightening around your sleeve as if the mere idea was enough to set her heart racing.

You grit your teeth, heat rising in your face—not from excitement but from secondhand embarrassment. A group of older women lingered outside your destination, snickering between themselves at Yelena’s loud ponderings. With a sharp yank, you pulled her off the street and into the village hall, the heavy wooden doors thudding shut behind you, sealing away the crisp morning air and her starry-eyed ramblings.

“There you two are! I need all the hands I can get!”

A flustered-looking Pepper Potts intercepted you and Yelena before you could fully step inside, already ushering you towards a large pile of decorations. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows, auburn hair pinned haphazardly at the nape of her neck, a sure sign that she had been running herself ragged in preparation for the festival.

“I’ve got half the boys working on the course and the bonfire,” she said, exhaling sharply. “Can you please cart these down and get started on the flowers?”

“Of course,” you replied with a quick nod, already sizing up the pile, considering how best to carry everything down in as few trips as possible.

Yelena, however, had other priorities. “Pepper, are the captain and sergeant joining the Mayflame?” She asked shamelessly, barely masking the anticipation in her tone.

But Pepper had already turned, swept away by the tide of arriving villagers, barking orders as she moved—clearly too busy to entertain Yelena’s curiosity.

You scoffed, sinking your hands into a collection of freshly cut flowers, their stems already bundled neatly for easy transport. You had grown and picked them yourself, much to Pepper’s praise. In recent years, you found comfort in your gardens and flowerbeds. The scent of wild blooms filled your nose, the petals soft against your fingers as you began sorting through them. “Yelena, stop meddling and help me.”

“Fine, but you are no fun!” Yelena groaned, throwing herself down beside you with dramatic flair. Then, as if compelled by some unseen force, she added with a wistful sigh, “I know you’re upset about Leif, but at least let me dream of a raunchy, hero-filled Mayflame.”

Her voice carried farther than she likely intended. Several nearby villagers—some heaving chairs, others hauling tables—stopped mid-task, casting curious glances in your direction. 

Mortified, you didn’t dignify her with a response. 

—

“I mean, you keep saying you’re not upset about Leif, but you’re obviously upset.”

Yelena’s voice drifted up from below, thick with scepticism. She was not taking her duty of stabilising the ladder very seriously. The wooden rungs wobbled beneath your feet, shifting with every careless movement she made. A quick glance down confirmed your suspicions. She was barely gripping the beams, more occupied with craning her neck up the hill, no doubt hoping for another glimpse of the fabled Steve Rogers or Bucky Barnes.

You sighed, your arms burning from the strain. You had foolishly volunteered for the painstaking task of weaving flowers through the towering wooden archways that framed the festival’s entrances. The Mayflame decorations were meant to be intricate and beautiful—braided vines, bundles of wildflowers, bright ribbons fluttering in the evening breeze—but at this rate, you’d be lucky if you made it out of this task without breaking a limb.

“I’m not upset,” you grumbled, though your voice lacked conviction. You worked the soft stems of sweetpeas and baby’s breath into a sturdy braid, securing them with twine against the wooden frame. “We made a mutual decision. It wasn’t working. Just a Mayflame fling...”

Yelena snorted from below, unimpressed. The ladder swayed as she shifted, and you tightened your grip, heart stuttering. “You two lived together for a year. I think it was a little more than a fling.”

You exhaled sharply, your fingers tightening around the flowers. “If he wants to run off, sleep around, and travel, who am I to hold him back, Lena? He wanted something different than I did. It never would have worked.”

“I just…” Yelena hesitated. “I just don’t like thinking about you living up on that farm by yourself.”

You huffed, rolling your eyes as you reached for another bundle of flowers. “Then come visit me more often instead of spending all your nights at the tavern, bothering Nat. I need all the help I can get wrangling those weeds—”

The words barely left your mouth before the ladder jerked violently beneath you.

Your stomach lurched as you wobbled. You instinctively reached for the wooden arch to steady yourself but overcorrected. The shift in weight sent the ladder tilting dangerously, its legs twisting beneath you. The basket of flowers on your hip slipped free, tumbling towards the grass below in a flurry of petals.

“Yelena! The ladder—!”

“There’s a bee in my hair!” Yelena shrieked, her grip altogether abandoning the wooden beams as she flailed wildly. “Gods, if it stings me, I swear—”

You had no time to process her nonsense. The world lurched violently as the ladder lost its precarious balance, tipping sideways with terrifying speed.

Air whipped at your cheeks as you plunged downward. Your arms shot up in a feeble attempt to protect your head, your entire body bracing for the inevitable collision with the earth below.

But the pain never came.

Instead, you collided with something solid—something warm.

A pair of strong arms locked tightly around your middle, yanking you against a broad, muscled chest. The force of your fall sent both of you toppling over; your breath knocked from your lungs as your saviour twisted to absorb the impact. The two of you crashed into the grass in a tangled heap.

A startled squeak escaped your lips as you landed atop them, hands splayed flat against their chest. Their sheer size was dizzying—hard muscle beneath the thin fabric. The steady rise and fall of their breathing made you acutely aware of how firmly you were pressed against them.

For a long second, neither of you moved, your heart pounding as you processed what had just happened. Then, slowly, the arms around your waist loosened. A deep, low voice rumbled beneath you, quieter than you expected yet laced with a restrained amusement.

“Careful, angel. Keep this up, and people will talk.”

Your breath hitched, pulse stuttering as you realised who lay beneath you. Bucky Barnes.

A cold rush of realisation hit like a shock to the system. Your eyes widened in alarm as you took in the situation. Your hands braced against the solid plane of his chest, his body beneath yours, broad and unmoving. Worse, your legs were hooked around his hips, the warmth of him seeping through your clothes—oh gods, were you sitting on his—?

Panic jolted through you. Without a second thought, you scrambled off him in a flurry of movement, heat rushing to your face. Your hands shot up instinctively as if you could wave away the mortifying situation.

“I—I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

Bucky didn’t move immediately. He remained where he was, lying on the ground, one arm bent behind his head. The dappled sunlight filtering through the trees cast shadows on his face, highlighting the defined angles of his cheekbones and the depth of his blue eyes. There was no teasing smirk, no cocky remark—just a quiet, lingering patience.

Finally, with a slow, fluid motion, he pushed himself upright, his expression unreadable. 

“It’s fine,” he assured, his voice smooth but low, edged with something thoughtful. Just a quiet confidence that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine.

You took a hurried step back, trying to regain some semblance of composure, but the erratic beat of your heart refused to settle. You’d always known of Bucky Barnes—the colder one, the quiet one. The man whose name carried a reputation as cutting as winter’s first frost. Yet now, looking at him, the weight of that reputation felt at odds with how he carried himself.

There was something measured about his movements, deliberate and careful, as though he were wary of taking up too much space.

The silence stretched between you until his voice, softer this time, broke through. “You’ve got a little something…”

His hand shot up before you could reply—quick yet remarkably gentle. His fingers delicately moved through your hair, his careful touch igniting a familiar warmth in your gut.

You froze.

He plucked something from your hair and turned it over in his fingers. A single sweetpea, its delicate petals trembling in the breeze. Bucky studied it with quiet intensity, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. 

“Sweetpea,” he murmured, as if the word carried weight, his gaze flicking back to meet yours. How he looked at you—calm yet piercing—made your breath catch. For a fleeting moment, the world felt impossibly still.

Your cheeks burned. You didn’t even know why.

“I—I’m sorry,” you stammered, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

Something flickered across his face, subtle but there. Not quite a smile, but something close, something softer than you would have expected from a man with his reputation.

“You don’t have to apologise,” he said simply. Then, after a beat, quieter: “You could’ve hurt yourself.”

It was such a small thing. Barely even a kindness. You were glad the hero couldn’t sense the throbbing between your legs. Maybe this break-up with Leif had indeed done a number on you, lusting after the first man who showed you kindness... but there was something rather magnetic about the sergeant you couldn’t quite understand. 

You swallowed, forcing yourself to focus and gather the scattered remnants of your pride. Your gaze turned to the abandoned basket of flowers at your feet, a welcome distraction.

 "Right, well, thank you,” you muttered. “I should probably—” 

You motioned vaguely toward the half-finished floral arch, eager to redirect the moment into something less intense. But before Bucky could respond, a sharp, frantic voice shattered the moment.

“Oh, gods! I’m so sorry, there was a bee, and I just—are you okay?” You barely had time to brace before Yelena was upon you, hands gripping your shoulders, her wide green eyes scanning your face as if she expected to find a gaping wound. You squirmed under her touch, cheeks still burning.

“I’m fine, Lena,” you mumbled, trying to pry her hands off you. “Really.”

“Yes, of course! This gentleman saved you—” Yelena cut herself off mid-sentence, her entire body freezing as she finally got a good look at him. Her eyes widened, her mouth dropping open in unfiltered shock. “Wait. You’re Bucky Barnes.”

Bucky’s expression shifted, barely, but you caught it. A flicker of something. Not quite discomfort, but something close. His posture stiffened, his fingers flexing once before settling back into stillness.

He didn’t confirm or deny it. He just gave a slow, short nod. You saw the way his throat bobbed slightly as he swallowed, the way he held himself—not defensive, exactly, but closed off as if he had already braced for whatever reaction was coming next.

Yelena’s gaze darted between you, her sharp mind working fast. Too fast. There was a feral glint in her eyes, one you knew well. You could practically see the cogs turning in her mind, a meddling scheme already in action. You held back a groan.

Before she could say something truly insufferable, a sharp, shrill voice rang out from across the unlit bonfire.

“There you are! I need more flowers—can you believe it? I thought we’d have enough with all that you grew. Please tell me you have more in that garden of yours!” You blinked, grateful for the interruption, and immediately turned towards the sound of Pepper’s voice. 

“Yes, of course,” you called back, relief flooding through you. “I grew extra just in case. I had a feeling this might happen.” 

“Wonderful! Oh, you’re a lifesaver today,” Pepper’s voice rose in excitement. “Leave the floral arches for now. I’ll have one of the girls help finish them up. If you could just run up to your garden—” 

You didn’t need to hear the rest. 

“Of course!” You cut her off a little too eagerly, desperate to get away from Yelena’s looming interrogation. It was almost like an escape route had opened, and you weren’t about to hesitate. Pepper barely seemed to notice your enthusiasm as she continued.

“Oh, but you won’t be able to carry them all alone, will you? Yelena, you’ll help her, won’t you? And, oh, Bucky, I didn’t realise you were down here already. If I send you and Steve up as well, can you help these lovely ladies?”

You turned towards him instinctively, almost uncertain of what to expect. Bucky, who had been silent throughout the exchange, lifted his head slightly. His eyes jumped towards Pepper, then towards you. His blue eyes were unreadable, his expression impossible to decipher.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“Yeah.”

That was it. No unnecessary words, no wasted breath. Just a quiet, steady answer, the same way he seemed to carry himself, like a man who only spoke when it was worth speaking.

Yelena, on the other hand, was already on you like a hawk, latched onto your arm, nails digging through even your clothing as she grinned in excitement. Instead, you held back any protest that wanted to bubble to the surface, donning a hesitant smile. You couldn’t shake the feeling that the afternoon was about to take a turn for the absurd.

There was no way out of this now. 

—

The sun sat high in the sky as the four of you climbed the hill towards the garden. The path was uneven, the dirt packed down from years of footsteps, the scent of wildflowers and earth thick in the warm air. You focused ahead, gripping the empty basket, determined not to meet anyone’s gaze—especially not Bucky’s.

Of course, Yelena had no such reservations. She walked beside Steve, hands clasped behind her back, the picture of feigned innocence. You could feel the question brewing before she even opened her mouth.

“So,” she began, her tone laced with a familiar mischief. “You two were some of the great heroes of the Blooded Age.”

Steve huffed a small, almost bashful laugh. “I wouldn’t call us heroes.”

“Really?” Yelena raised a brow. “Because I’ve heard plenty of stories that say otherwise. You fought monsters, saved villages, built armies—sounds pretty heroic to me.”

Steve glanced at Bucky as if expecting him to jump in, but the other man remained quiet, his eyes fixed on the path ahead. Steve sighed and shrugged. “We did what needed to be done. It wasn’t about being heroes. People were dying, and the world was falling apart. We just... fought to keep it together.”

Yelena hummed, unimpressed with his humility. “And now you’re here. Retired.”

“That’s the plan.”

“You must be very tired.” She smirked. “All that fighting. Saving the world. Carrying such a heavy burden on those broad, broad shoulders.”

You choked on absolutely nothing, coughing into your hand as warmth flared in your cheeks.

Steve cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “It was time to put the war behind us.”

Yelena turned to Bucky, who had been walking a step behind, silent as ever. “And what about you, Barnes? Tired of fighting too?”

Bucky finally glanced her way, his expression unreadable. 

“War doesn’t leave much room for a future.” His voice was low, quiet, but firm. “Figured it was time to start thinking about one.”

Yelena tilted her head, studying him like a puzzle she was determined to solve. “And New Fernwick is the place to do that?”

Bucky didn’t answer immediately. His attention turned to you—brief and mysterious—before he looked back at the trail. “Seems as good a place as any.”

Yelena smirked, but you reached the garden before she could push further.

“Here we are!” You announced, a little too brightly, desperate to change the subject.

You set your basket down and knelt to gather the flowers, focusing intently on the task. Yelena crouched beside you, plucking a few stems with ease. Steve busied himself as well, his hands surprisingly gentle as he worked.

Bucky, however, remained standing with his arms crossed as he surveyed the field of blooms. After a brief pause, he crouched, reaching for a flower near your basket. You watched as his fingers brushed over the petals carefully and deliberately.

Yelena noticed too. “Didn’t peg you for a flower guy, Barnes.”

Bucky plucked the stem and twirled it between his fingers, his expression unreadable. “You learn to appreciate the small things when you don’t see ‘em for a long time.”

The words were simple, but they settled in your chest, something unspoken lingering beneath them.

Yelena, for once, said nothing.

The silence stretched as the four of you worked, the baskets gradually filling, until until Yelena, as always, shattered it with a single sentence—one that made your stomach drop the moment it left her mouth.

“So, are you two going to do the Mayflame Run?”

Your fingers tightened around the delicate stems of the flowers in your hands, nearly crushing them. Heat flared up your neck, and you snapped your head towards her. “Yelena.”

She only grinned, tilting her head in mock innocence. “What?”

 She batted her lashes. “It’s a fair question.”

Bucky and Steve glanced up from where they were crouched, picking through the wildflowers. The question had caught them off guard. Steve’s brow furrowed, curiosity laced with hesitation.

“What exactly is the Mayflame Run?” he asked.

You parted your lips, scrambling for a way to downplay it, but Yelena was already launching into her favourite pastime—oversharing.

“It’s a spring festival all about welcoming in the new season... new life... fertility and all that.” She wiggled her fingers for emphasis, an impish smirk tugging at her lips.

Steve blinked, his expression shifting into one of wary understanding. “Right…”

The mischief in Yelena’s eyes deepened as she continued.

“The main event is the run. We call it the Springbond Run, but let’s be honest—everyone knows what it’s really about. See, after the Blooded Age, people kind of… forgot how to date. Or just didn’t bother.” She waved a hand as if brushing aside years of devastation. “War, famine, monsters—it put a real damper on romance. And, well, people aren’t exactly repopulating at the rate they should be, so...” 

She shot Steve a pointed look. “The elders decided to encourage things.”

Steve still looked uncertain. "And how does it work?”

You exhaled through your nose, adjusting your basket.

“The women carry torches and run through the dark forest,” you explained, keeping your voice even as possible. “The goal is to reach the clearing on the other side and light the bonfire.” 

You hesitated, dreading the next part. “The men chase them.”

Steve’s brows lifted. “They chase them?”

You nodded stiffly, but Yelena was the one who answered.

“If you get caught,” she said breezily, “you have to date the guy who caught you for a week. You’re now each other’s Springbond. After that, you decide if you want to keep seeing each other or go your separate ways. Most end up sticking it out. Either for marriage or, at the very least, some fun.”

Your stomach twisted as Bucky’s gaze flickered towards you. He hadn’t spoken yet or reacted outwardly, but you felt the weight of his attention pressing against your skin like an unspoken question.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, clearly processing the information. “And what happens to the women who manage to light the bonfire?”

“Oh, then they get to choose who they spend the week with,” Yelena said. "Which honestly makes the whole thing even more exciting. It’s so dark, you don’t always know who’s chasing you until they’re right on top of you, pinning you to the ground—”

Steve choked on his own breath, shifting awkwardly. You clamped your eyes shut, pressing your fingers to your temples.

“Yelena.”

“What?” she said, all false innocence. 

“It’s true. And let’s be real, some people don’t even wait until after the run to start celebrating.” She smirked. “All that adrenaline, all that tension, out there all alone in the woods—”

Steve made another strangled sound, and you wished, for the first time in your life, that you had the power to smite Yelena where she stood.

“And this is normal?” he asked weakly.

You let out a long breath. “Yes. It’s… tradition.”

Yelena’s smirk stretched wider, and a pit of dread opened in your stomach just before she delivered the final blow.

“Oh, she would know,” she said airily. “She’s done it three times.”

Silence.

You felt the shift in the air before you even looked up. Steve was already glancing away politely, but Bucky—Bucky’s gaze was steady, unyielding, waiting. His expression was unreadable, but there was something sharp beneath it, something that made your pulse stutter.

Your mouth went dry. “I—uh—yeah.”

Yelena cackled, delighted. “And she had quite the reputation for it, too. She and Leif turned it into a year-long one-night stand."

Your stomach dropped. Heat flared at your ears, mortification wrapping around your ribs like a vice. Steve coughed into his fist, visibly uncomfortable, but Bucky—Bucky still hadn’t looked away. The weight of his silence pressed against you, heavier than any words could be. He didn’t flinch, didn’t frown, didn’t even raise a damn eyebrow. He just watched as if waiting for you to offer something. An explanation. A reaction.

You swallowed hard.

Yelena, meanwhile, had absolutely no shame.

“Some people take the week actually to get to know each other,” she continued with a smirk. “Others treat it like a festival fling. A week-long one-night stand, if you will.” 

She turned to Bucky then, eyes glinting. “You seem like the type who’d do a Mayflame run.”

Bucky finally exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. “You get that from watching me pick flowers?”

Yelena leant in. “No, I got it from watching you look at her.”

Your breath hitched.

Bucky didn’t flinch. Didn’t react at all. He just held her gaze for a long moment before standing, dusting the dirt from his hands with deliberate ease.

“We should get these back,” he said.

That was it. No denial.

Your pulse thrummed in your ears as Yelena shot you a triumphant look, nudging your arm with her elbow. You shoved her back harder than necessary, grabbing your basket with too much force.

—

You had braided sweetpeas into your hair, their delicate petals—a cascade of soft pinks, purples, and whites—woven carefully through your strands. The fragrance clung to you, sweet and fleeting, barely noticeable except when the wind stirred just right. You didn’t know why you had done it. Maybe it was a whim, an idle distraction while you got ready for the Mayflame. Maybe it was some quiet hope you refused to name, a foolish sentiment born from the strange afternoon. Or maybe, worse than all of that, it was the loneliness of returning to an empty house.

Leif had left while you were gone. You hadn’t seen him pack or even heard the door shut behind him. Just silence, so much silence. His absence had been waiting for you like a ghost when you stepped inside. No trace of him remained, save for a few scuff marks on the wooden floor and a half-finished bottle of cider in the kitchen. You had stared at it for a long time before scrubbing the house clean in a fit of confused energy as if sweeping away the dust might sweep away the ache in your chest.

Did you even want to run tonight? If it always turned out this way?

Leif had been inevitable—his leaving, even more so. The one before him barely lasted the week. And the first... gods, the first. You didn’t let yourself think about that one.

Yet here you were, standing in the dark forest, a burning torch in your hand.

The other women huddled together, whispering in excited clusters, their laughter soft and secretive beneath the trees. The firelight flickered over their masked faces, catching on the gilded edges and painted symbols of the goddess of spring. Yelena was causing trouble somewhere in the throng, as always, her voice carrying through the dark.

“I swear, I can pick them out. I just need a second,” she was saying.

You sighed, already knowing exactly what she was up to.

“It’s a useless pursuit,” you had reminded her earlier. “They’ll be masked, everyone will. That’s the whole point.”

And yet, she was determined. You caught a glimpse of her through the shifting bodies, her blonde hair twisted into an elaborate crown braid behind her fox mask, taunting the gathered men. They stood on the opposite side of the clearing, a sea of darkened figures illuminated only by flickering torchlight. The line between hunter and hunted might have blurred if not for their masks.

You fiddled with the edges of your own mask, adjusting it once more against your face. Each mask bore the likeness of a creature of the forest—the women had prey animals: deer, rabbits, and foxes. You had chosen a wide-eyed doe, its carved wooden surface smooth against your fingertips. The men, in contrast, wore the guises of predators: wolves, bears, and great hunting birds.

A shiver trailed down your spine as you scanned their ranks, the shadows swallowing their bodies.

This was fate, they said. A tradition older than the Blooded Age. The goddess of spring would take the helm, guiding her children together. 

Destiny, not choice.

You weren’t sure you believed in fate anymore.

Still, you craned your neck, searching for Yelena again before the race began. Some women had already lined up at the start, their torches raised, waiting for the signal. You pushed through the crowd, weaving past a group of masked rabbits, your torch casting long, twisting shadows over the forest floor.

Yelena stood at the edge of the men’s group, utterly unbothered, her fox mask tilted slightly as she studied them. The smirk you couldn’t see was undoubtedly plastered across her face.

“Lena,” you called lightly.

She turned towards you, still distracted. “You’d think we’d be able to recognise them even with the masks, right? They should be massive, but it’s so hard to tell in the dark—”

You grabbed her wrist, pulling her away. “Come on.”

The hairs on the back of your neck prickled.

As you turned, your torchlight swept over a lone figure standing at the edge of the men’s group. Half-shrouded in shadow, his wolf mask glinted in the firelight. His posture was relaxed, almost lazy, yet there was an unmistakable intensity in his standing and watching.

You swallowed hard and averted your gaze.

Tugging Yelena along, you stepped towards the start line.

The time was near.

You gathered your skirts with one hand, feeling the rough fabric in your fist. The cool night air licked at your skin, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine. Around you, the other women shifted in anticipation, their torches flickering like stars in the dark. Somewhere beyond the trees, the men waited. Watching.

A hush fell over the gathered crowd. Then—

The drum sounded.

The tension snapped, and you ran.

Flames bobbed wildly as the women surged forward, feet pounding against the forest floor. Laughter rang through the night, breathless and high, voices calling to one another before being swallowed by the trees.

Yelena was gone in an instant, lost in the chaos.

You barely had time to register it before you were weaving between trunks, torchlight bouncing wildly in your periphery. Your skirts whipped around your legs, the rough fabric catching on twigs and undergrowth, but you didn’t slow. The forest stretched wide before you, vast and shrouded in shadows.

Adrenaline surged through your veins, heart hammering against your ribs.

It was exhilarating.

You could hear the others somewhere to your left, their laughter spilling through the trees, echoing their footfalls blending with your own. And behind you, somewhere in the dark, the men had begun their pursuit.

The sound of movement grew. Leaves rustled, and twigs snapped. 

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t dare look back.

Instead, you pushed forward, your torchlight slicing through the thick night. The distant hum of music reached your ears, the festival, just beyond the treeline. You were close. So close.

Then—impact.

A weight slammed into you from the side, knocking the air from your lungs. Your torch flew from your grasp, landing somewhere in the brush, its flame sputtering but not extinguished.

You hit the ground hard, back pressing into the cool earth, the scent of moss and crushed leaves filling your senses. Above you, a broad figure loomed, breathing heavily from the chase.

The dim torchlight barely illuminated him, casting jagged shadows across the carved wolf mask that stared down at you. The smooth, wooden surface gave away nothing—no expression, no hint of who was beneath it.

Your pulse thundered.

Around you, the chase still roared on. Footsteps pounded the earth, laughter echoing as others darted past, unseen but near.

You swallowed hard, your breath coming fast, your chest rising and falling. You had been caught.

But gods, it was thrilling.

The figure above you didn’t move, as if waiting—for what, you weren’t sure. His hands were braced on either side of you, caging you in, his breath still heavy from the chase. Yet he didn’t press his advantage or seize you like the others would have. Instead, he lingered, watching.

Then, in the flickering torchlight, he reached for your hair.

You barely breathed as his fingers tangled into the strands, the movement deliberate, almost reverent. Slowly, he plucked one of the deep violet sweetpeas from your braid, twirling it between his fingers before your masked face. The petals fluttered slightly with the motion, fragile between the ridges of his calloused fingertips.

A beat of silence stretched between you. Then, finally, his voice, low, deep, rough with exertion.

“Hey, sweetpea.”

The nickname sent a shock through you, something warm curling in your chest even as your breath hitched. Recognition dawned, sharp and sudden.

“Bucky?” You murmured, stunned.

Even if surprise coursed through you, it made sense. The sheer size of the body hovering above yours, the weight of him pressing into the earth, the controlled stillness…it was him. A reversed echo of your earlier position that day.

“How did you—”

“Your hair,” he interrupted, his voice quieter now, rougher. “You put flowers in your hair. I recognised it.”

He reached up, fingers catching the edge of his mask, and in a smooth motion, he pulled it free. The last flickers of the torch beside you cast just enough light to reveal the sweat beading on his brow, the shadows cutting across his sharp features—and the unmistakable, almost feral gleam in his eye.

Something deep inside you clenched at the sight.

You exhaled a breathless laugh, your hands instinctively sliding up his broad shoulders, fingers curling around the back of his neck. Beneath your palms, his skin was hot, his pulse hammering. “I didn’t think you were running.”

“I wasn’t going to.” He hesitated, head tilting slightly as footsteps dashed past, followed by an excited shriek from one of the other women. The sound faded into the trees, leaving you in perfect darkness, only the two of you remaining in the silence. “But—”

He trailed off, his voice thick with something unspoken. His weight above you was solid, immovable, and gods, you liked it.

“Do you want this?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Instead of answering, you twisted your arm, pulling your mask off. You weren’t sure he could see the grin curling your lips in the dark, so you let your actions speak for you. Tugging him closer, your chests collided, heat blooming between you.

“Yes,” you breathed.

And then his lips crashed into yours.

The kiss was molten, searing through your veins like wildfire. He wasn’t hesitant, wasn’t uncertain—he kissed you like he had been holding himself back for far too long, like the chase had only wound him tighter, and now he was unravelling against you.

You gasped into his mouth as he shifted, his weight pressing down on you, one hand sliding to your waist, fingers digging in, anchoring you to him. His other hand tangled in your hair, gripping just enough to make your head tilt back, giving him full access. He took it eagerly, deepening the kiss, his tongue sweeping against yours in a slow, devastating stroke.

Heat pooled in your stomach, your legs shifting beneath him, but then—

With shocking ease, he moved.

For a brief second, you were weightless, a startled sound escaping your lips as he lifted you effortlessly from the ground. You barely had time to react before your back hit rough bark, the solid tree trunk now bracing you. His hands were firm as they guided your legs around his waist, pinning you in place. You could already feel his cock growing hard, pressed into one of your thighs as you squirmed beneath him.

A shudder wracked through you at his sheer strength, the way he handled you like you weighed nothing. The last remnants of your composure shattered when his lips found your throat, the scrape of his teeth ghosting over sensitive skin. You gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders, the sensation overwhelming and utterly intoxicating.

"You run fast, angel," he murmured against your skin, his voice dark and teasing. His lips trailed lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your jaw. "But not fast enough."

A breathless laugh escaped you, your fingers threading into his hair, pulling just enough to make him look at you. In the darkness, his blue eyes burned.

“I didn’t want to get away.”

Bucky’s breath hitched, and he just looked at you for a moment. Then, his grip on your waist loosened, fingers slipping beneath your skirts. He let out a deep groan as his digits navigated past your underwear, sweeping through the wetness already gathered. “You’re so wet already.”

You threw your head back at the small act of friction, your skull pressing hard into the rough bark as your chest heaved. He did one final pass, stroking through your folds. In the close distance between your faces, you could see a smirk lingering as your hips rocked involuntarily, begging for more. 

Bucky brought his fingers to his lips, his gaze never leaving yours as he pressed them flat against his tongue, dragging them slowly past his lips. His eyelids fluttered briefly, his breath coming heavier as he tasted you, a low, guttural sound rumbling in his chest. “Mmm.”

Heat coiled in your stomach at the sound, something deep and electric winding tight inside you. 

“Bucky—” The whine clawed unexpectedly from your throat, raw with desperation.

He smirked, his expression both teasing and dark, his hand slipping between your bodies.

“I know, sweetpea,” he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. His fingers fumbled blindly with his belt, metal clinking softly in the hush of the forest. You could feel his hunger in the way his body pressed against yours, restless, taut with restraint he was barely clinging to.

You rolled your hips against his hand, a breathless sigh spilling from your lips as friction sent a fresh wave of heat pooling between your thighs. He inhaled sharply, his head tilting slightly as if savouring the way you reacted to him.

“Tell me,” he coaxed, his voice lower now, almost commanding.

Your fingers curled against his shoulders, nails digging in. Your head tipped back against the tree's rough bark, your chest rising and falling rapidly as your lips parted around the words.

“I need you,” you whispered. “Now.”

Something snapped in his expression.

Bucky didn’t hesitate.

A sharp gasp tore from your throat as his fingers hooked into the delicate fabric of your underwear. His patience was fraying. No careful undressing, no gentle peeling away. His grip was rough and decisive, a growl slipping from his throat as he gave one sharp tug. The fabric tore effortlessly beneath his fast fingers, the sound lost beneath the hammering of your pulse in your ears. He didn’t even bother pulling them down—too impatient, too consumed by need.

You could practically feel your wetness dripping down to your thighs as he blindly lined himself up, cock pushing into your needy heat. Your head dipped, your mouth finding the top of his shoulder as you bit down lightly with a soft cry. The world beyond this moment—the festival, the music, the laughter—blurred into nothingness. The only thing that existed was the feverish press of his body, the way his fingers dug into your skin, anchoring you to him as if he never wanted to let go.

“Fuck.” He hummed low in your ear. His voice strained as he slowly rocked in and out of you. You could tell he was restraining himself, his muscles taut along his back. You hooked your legs around his waist tighter, pulling your bodies flush. 

Bucky tilted his head, his lips ghosting over your jaw before finally finding your mouth, desperate and all-consuming. His pace faltered for a moment, a quiet groan slipping from his throat as you tightened around him.

“Gods, you’re so fuckin’ tight, so fuckin’ perfect—” he murmured against your lips, his voice thick.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer. Your breath was hot against his neck and ear as you whispered. “Then don’t stop.”

Any type of restraint the hero had been holding snapped, his hips immediately jerking into action, beginning a relentless pace, withdrawing from you only to slam back inside. Each thrust sent sparks through your body, pleasure coiling tighter, overwhelming in its intensity. One of his hands roamed, sliding down your thigh to where you connected.

You let out a gasping moan into his shoulder as his thumb found your clit, the added circling motion sending a spike of pleasure up your spine. You felt your cunt tighten around him again as you jolted from the sensation, back arching inward. 

“Bucky—” You groaned into his ear, head tilting as you laid hot, sloppy kisses that were all lips and tongue along his neck. You could taste salt on his skin, sweat beginning to mist both of you. The squelching and slapping sounds of your connected bodies echoed through the dark forest,  the both of you barely holding back the pleasured moans and gasps. 

“You gonna cum for me, angel?” Bucky growled against your throat. Your toes curled in delight. His strokes were already growing frantic and sloppy. You pushed yourself back against the trunk, chest heaving as you used your grip around his waist to grind yourself upon his thumb further. A coiling sensation grew in your gut, a knot beginning to tighten. You closed your eyes with a gasp, chasing the sensation. 

“Y-Yes.” You stammered through your pants, nails digging into his shoulders as your body began to shudder around him. Bucky let out a dark chuckle, straining through his grit teeth as he continued to plough into you. His thumb circled once more, gentle but practiced. You felt your back arch involuntarily—

You moan his name as every wave of pleasure washes over you. Your hips buck and your thighs shake, but he doesn’t let up. His cock strokes inside of you at a continued relentless pace, and he moans right along with you. Bucky’s hand began to roam along your legs, gripping your flesh tighter as he chased his own release. There would be finger-shaped bruises all over your hips and thighs by the time this was over. 

You’re panting above him. Eyes closed, the grip on his shoulders slackening as ropes of thick, hot cum fill you. His cock throbs, each pump releasing even more, only stopping as his hips stutter and his heated moans in your ear fade. 

The two of you panted in the aftermath. Bodies still pressed together as the sounds of the forest slowly filtered back into your ears—the distant thrum of festival music, the rustling leaves overhead, the occasional laughter of those still running through the trees. Your heart hammered against your ribs.

Bucky shifted first, pressing a lingering kiss to the base of your throat, his lips warm and soft against your sweat-dampened skin. His breath fanned over your collarbone as he slowly and carefully lowered you to your feet. Your knees nearly buckled when they touched the earth, your legs trembling with exhaustion. A startled gasp left you as you clung to him for support, fingers curling into his shirt.

“Easy, sweetpea,” he murmured, a quiet chuckle rumbling in his chest as he steadied you, one strong arm wrapping around your waist. His touch was grounding and reassuring, though the heat in his gaze told you he wasn’t entirely done with you yet.

You huffed a breathless laugh, tilting your head to look at him. 

“You know we have to go to the dance now, right?” Though amusement laced your tone, you could already picture the knowing smirks Yelena and the others would shoot you when you finally emerged.

Bucky smirked, eyes dark with satisfaction.

“Even better,” he murmured, leaning in until his lips brushed the shell of your ear. “All I’ll be able to think about is those little noises you make... and that mess between your legs.”

Your breath hitched, a shiver rolling down your spine despite the lingering warmth in your limbs. You swallowed hard, heat pooling low in your belly once more at the thought of his hands on you again, the way he had unravelled you so easily.

He tilted your chin up with a single finger, pressing a teasing kiss to your lips before stepping back slightly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

 “Come on, sweetpea,” he murmured, his eyes flickering with mischief as he laced his fingers with yours. “Let’s go dance.”

—

By the time you and Bucky arrived, the festival was in full swing, the air thick with the scent of roasted meats, spiced cider, and the smoky tang of bonfires. Laughter and music filled the clearing, the rhythmic beat of drums and the sweet hum of strings carrying through the night. Couples swayed to the music, feet shuffling against the packed earth as villagers danced in loose circles, the warmth of drink and celebration evident in every movement.

You barely had time to take it all in before a chorus of knowing smirks and raised brows greeted your arrival. Yelena, seated at a long wooden table with a tankard of something strong in hand, nearly choked on her drink when she spotted you—your slightly dishevelled hair, the flush still clinging to your skin, and Bucky’s possessive grip on your waist.

“About time,” she called with a grin, eyes flicking between the two of you. “Did you get lost?”

Bucky, unbothered, merely smirked and tugged you towards the dancing. “Something like that.”

You shot her a look, but it was impossible to ignore the amused glances and hushed whispers behind you. You tried not to think about the wet mess—a combination of both your fluids nesting between your thighs. Bucky had offered you a handkerchief to clean up, but the small square of fabric had done little against the wetness dripping down your thigh. What didn’t help was the thought of that handkerchief he casually tucked back into his pocket before you could protest. Your lips parted, ready with some half-hearted excuse, but Bucky spun you into his arms before you could respond.

The moment he pulled you into the dance, the rest of the festival seemed to fade into the background. His hands found your waist, guiding you through the steps with ease, music thrumming beneath your skin. Everything was intoxicating, with the warmth of his palm against the small of your back and the gentle pressure of his fingers as he led you.

His lips dipped close to your ear as you moved, swaying to the rhythm. “So, who is this Leif guy?”

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard, but then sighed, your fingers tightening slightly against his shoulder. “Oh—just… my last Springbond.” 

The words felt foreign on your tongue now, distant. “It didn’t really work out in the end.”

Bucky hummed, his thumb brushing slow, lazy circles over your hip. “Why not? Sounded like you lasted longer than a week.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, tilting your head back slightly to meet his gaze.

“Well… we just had different paths. He wanted to explore, adventure, sleep around…” You trailed off, gaze flickering to the firelight dancing in his blue eyes. “I was looking to settle. I’m just tired after everything. I feel you would understand that.”

His grip on you tightened ever so slightly, his gaze dark and steady as he murmured, “I understand you completely, angel.”

Something in the way he said it made your chest ache, warmth curling in your stomach in a way that had nothing to do with the fire or the wine or the exhilaration of the chase. He understood.

You held his gaze, the firelight dancing over his face. There was something ancient in his eyes, something heavy, worn by time and battle. You had known, of course, what he and Steve were before they arrived in New Fernwick—everyone did.

And yet, when the war ended, when the Riftborn were vanquished and peace finally settled over the world, they had simply walked away. But peace was a fickle thing, and you often wondered if it had truly found them in return.

Bucky’s fingers flexed against your waist, grounding you back in the present.

“You ever think about it?” you asked softly.

He tilted his head slightly, the movement curious. “Think about what?”

You hesitated for only a moment before speaking. “The way things used to be. Before.”

His jaw tensed, but he didn’t look away.

“Sometimes.” His voice was quieter now, thoughtful. “I don’t miss it. But it’s hard to let go of something that shaped you.”

You nodded, understanding. The past had a way of clinging to people, no matter how far they ran.

He exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. 

“Steve took to peace like it was always meant for him. I think he’s been waiting for it his whole life. Me…” He trailed off, his lips pressing into a faint line. “I think I’m still figuring it out.”

Your heart squeezed in your chest. He deserved peace just as much as anyone else.

As the music slowed, your hands slid from his shoulders, fingers tracing the length of his arms before settling over his. His grip tightened instinctively like he knew what you were about to say.

“Come home with me.” The words were quiet, tentative, but certain.

Bucky stilled for half a beat, and then his lips parted, his breath warm against your cheek.

“Yes.”

No hesitation. No doubt. Just certainty, as if he had been waiting for you to ask.

—

The door creaked softly as you pushed it open, stepping inside with Bucky close behind you. You moved awkwardly through the space, glancing at the walls, the furniture, anything but him, as though it could distract from the knot forming in your stomach. The house felt both too small and too big now, the empty rooms amplifying the tension in the air.

Bucky stepped in after you, his boots echoing softly on the wooden floor as he glanced around. His gaze lingered on the fire's warm glow in the hearth, he seemed at ease. His eyes scanned every corner of the space, taking in the simple comforts of home. A slight smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

You shifted nervously, breaking the silence with an anxious laugh. “You don’t actually have to do the full week if you don’t want to... I mean, most people just use it as an excuse to get off work—” Your words stumbled out, and you cut yourself off, realising how ridiculous you probably sounded.

Bucky turned toward you, his eyes dark with amusement but softened with something else, a quiet intensity. He was silent for a long moment, focusing entirely on you. Finally, his lips quirked up, and his voice was low and deliberate.

“Sweetpea, I love the sound of your beautiful voice, but just shut up... and kiss me.”

Before you could respond, his hands were already pulling you close, his mouth slanting over yours in a searing kiss that left no room for hesitation. You melted against him, your body pressing into his with a soft urgency, both of you stumbling as you navigated the space towards the bed. His grip on you was firm and reassuring, yet there was a rawness to it, an unspoken need that made your heart race faster.

You fumbled through the room together, bumping into furniture. Your hands sought purchase on his broad chest or tangled in his hair as you kissed desperately, blindly. The dim light from the hearth barely illuminated the path ahead. His lips were warm and hungry, pulling at yours with an intensity that made your pulse spike.

There was a quiet reassurance in how his hands roamed over your body, the steady pressure of his touch as though he wanted to anchor you in the here and now. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t treating this like a fleeting moment. You laughed softly against his lips as you stumbled into the bed, falling together in a tangled heap of limbs and tangled sheets. For a moment, all that mattered was the warmth of his skin against yours, the unspoken understanding that this was something different, something real. 

Something that could last.

[dumbfrenchname]

Gentle reminder that leo was still in donnie´s hand when he was carrying casey in @somerandomdudelmao ´s last uptades… now go cry about it

[thessaralka]

solas is a bastard but he's a tactical bastard. he's a bastard because he had to be to survive, it's all he has known since taking a body. mythal convinced him to manifest physically and used him as a weapon of war. wisdom twisted into pride. without his conniving plotting, he would have just been another casualty of the evanuris. he still lives only because of his ability to get his hands bloody.

how awful did the evanuris have to be to create solas, a man who in an act of desperation to win a war, committed war crimes so atrocious it caused the world state we see in thedas today (abominations, blights, dwarves severed from their dreams, the titans gone)? the creation of the veil was an act so ruinous to thedas that it rendered the elves mortal. solas basically apocalypsed the planet, and the years since the creation of the veil have been a tattered tapestry of mortals trying to peice together some kind of life, some kind of faith, to make some kind of sense of it all.

solas being so ruthless and calculating is of course the only logical thing he could be, as someone who did what he did. former spirit of wisdom, his purpose twisted against his nature, used for the purposes of winning a war. him and mythal won. at the cost of everything.

[kiaxet]

HOW ABOUT THAT @somerandomdudelmao DISASTER TWIN REUNION, HUH

Went a little feral to the tune of 2.2K words of self-indulgence. What else is new?

~~~~~~~

Donnie can't sleep. More accurately, he won't sleep. Not until he's done. He'd never been one to leave a project unfinished; death and resurrection hadn't changed that.

He taps incessantly, repetitively, on a keyboard and screen, the motions long since past inputting data and now only serving to keep him awake. The repetition is soothing, easy, and - counterintuitively - he finds his head drooping forward into sleep-

And he snaps back upright. No. Not until he can confirm Leo is okay.

Leo is behind him, he knows. Breathing. In bed. Asleep. Very much alive. And-

He jumps and whips around as a thud sounds behind him. "What the-"

Leo is on the floor.

Well, that answers the question as to whether his twin is awake.

For a fraction of a second, part of him wavers uncertainly. He loves his idiot twin. The question he hasn't been able to answer is whether his reaction to Leo waking up will fall on love or idiot twin-

"Leo!"

He can hear the exasperation in his voice, and yep, it's the latter. He takes a knee next to Leo and hauls him into his arms, lecturing him all the while, and if he can hear the annoyance in his voice then Leo sure as hell can. Sleep deprivation for the purposes of keeping his brother's soul alight had done nothing for his temper. "I swear to God, all you had to do was make a sound! Why are you such a difficult patient?"

He deposits Leo carefully on the bed - "Sit still!" - and checks him over, running every scan he can think of and making sure his brother's new body really is in good working order, spouting increasingly irritated commentary all the while. Of course the fall didn't hurt him - Leo is tougher than that, and Donnie does better work than that - but he still can't help the rising anxiety in his throat.

This almost didn't happen.

"-stupid, stupid selfless idiot!"

Donnie almost couldn't save him.

"Grrhh-"

Leo nearly died for real. Permanently beyond Donnie's reach. Well and truly gone-

"Do you have any idea how close you were to having nothing left to save?"

And now here Leo is, in perfect health, sitting on Donnie's bed with a big dopey grin on his face as Donnie chokes on his anxiety and damn near shakes himself apart-

Oh for fuck's sake.

"Hey. Are you even listening?"

Leo speaks up for the first time since he's woken up, voice shaky from disuse. "D-Donnie?"

And that is not a goddamn answer to anything Donnie has been saying, because of course it isn't. It's Leo. He's always had his own priorities. "Yeah. No. You're not fucking listening." Donnie heaves a long-suffering sigh, sinking back into the routine comfort that irritation at his twin provides. "At least you're talking." Small favors. "Although I'm surprised you're not throwing your stupid jokes at me." Even smaller favors.

He stops short as Leo's hand closes around his wrist, drawing Donnie's arm to Leo's plastron. "You're real," his brother breathes, looking from Donnie's hand to Donnie himself with tears streaming down his face. "You're real!"

And then, in the space of a thought, Leo's joy breaks, his smile turning desperate. "Are you?"

For a moment, Donnie stares at his twin, wondering at the sudden change in expression. He takes a breath-

And the part of him that had lain dormant for so long after he'd woken up - the part of him that had been screaming for his twin's safety ever since they'd recovered the few scattered embers of Leo's soul - gasps to life, blooming like a time-lapse video of a flower and reaching to the edges of Donnie's soul. Leo had called it their twin sense, and Donnie hadn't had it in him to argue after a while. Whatever it is, it's back, connected to Leo's renewed presence, and-

Donnie's heart floods with emotions. Relief and joy sprout quickly and are nearly swept away in a tide of exhaustionanxietyfearfearfearfearFEAR-

But down beneath it all, steady against the rising wall of terror, is the little blue spark of hope that his brother always carried. His core. The thing that let him continue on in the face of insurmountable odds, and lent that same strength to everyone around him. A ninja's greatest weapon.

It's Leo. It's Leo-

And Donnie can't leave him alone in his fear. Not when there's no need for it. Not when they're safe.

He lets that breath out, and sits next to Leo on the bed. "Mhm. I'm alive. And you're alive. We're safe. The Krang are gone." That's all the news that's fit to print, or at least the most important parts. What else does he have to say?

Oh.

"I'm sorry I..uh…"

He's sorry he what? Died? Left a mess for Leo to deal with? Didn't do enough while he was alive to keep everyone else alive in turn after he was gone? Kept his brother's soul in a fucking mug, because that was the only way he could ensure he wouldn't break it while Leo was still fragile? All of the above?

…yeah, it's all of the above.

He owes Leo one hell of an apology, and he's never been good at any of this, so instead he shrugs haplessly and leans forward, pulling Leo into his arms and hanging on tight.

It's a matter of moments before Leo has him flat on his shell on the bed and is sobbing into his arms. Normally he'd hate seeing his twin cry, but it's proof of life - proof that Leo made it, that his soul is intact enough for him to still be Leo, that he's alive and awake and here - and Donnie will take it.

And if he's squeezing Leo back pretty hard himself, well, that's fine too. Nobody else needs to know.

~~~~~~~

Donnie is yelling at him.

Donnie is strong enough to have picked Leo up off the ground, well enough to be on his feet without support, running tests and reading Leo the riot act over his latest boneheaded maneuver - in this case, forgetting he was missing an arm and falling out of bed.

Donnie is yelling at him, because Donnie is here to yell at him.

And Leo is smiling, because he couldn't be happier. He lets the words wash over him, draping over his shoulders like a favorite cozy blanket that he'd lost so many years ago, and he basks in the warmth that is his brother's voice and smiles.

It's enough to interrupt the yelling for a question, though he doesn't really hear it - just keeps smiling, and says Donnie's name, and it's so nice to be able to say it with a smile now, because Donnie is here-

-he is, right? This isn't just a dying hallucination on Leo's part, right?

(It couldn't be- he remembers his death, remembers breathing his last, remembers being trapped- but this-)

He reaches out, taking Donnie's wrist in hand, and pulls his brother closer to him. "You're…real…" It certainly feels real - skin and scales, softer than his own, and his fingers barely fit all the way around the wrist instead of encircling them with room to spare - and he stares down at it, tears rolling down his face as he finally looks back up at his twin. "You're real!"

The Krang show you what you want to see.

The thought strikes him unbidden, turning his joy and relief to ice. It's a well-known fact: a Krang infection can show its host what they want to see, visions of comfort and family and home, and extract intel from the host's reactions. He knows that- he knows that, and-

And he'd died surrounded by Krang- and even if he couldn't see or hear or feel, he knows he'd been held captive-

But it's Donnie- he wants this to be real- he needs this to be real- he wants his twin back so badly he can't think, and the idea that this could be a Krang hallucination is almost too much to bear-

"Are you?" He can hear how choked the words are as they leave his lips, but he needs to know-

And Donnie stops, and sits down next to him, and tells him everything he wants to hear - everything he could've ever wished for. They're alive. They're safe. The Krang are gone. It all sounds too good to be true.

And then Donnie offers him an apology and a sad half-smile, pulling him into a strong hug-

And the ice in Leo's mind shatters in a flood of warmth as his twin sense opens for the first time since Donnie's death. He feels his twin's irritation, and deep-seated exhaustion, and a choking wave of guiltguiltguiltguiltguilt-

And beneath it all, steady and strong as ever, the thrum of unending determination, powered by an unfathomably deep well of love. It's the backbeat to the melody of Leo's life, the point-counterpoint to his own heartbeat- it's something he'd never had to live without until he did, but it's back, rushing in to fill the silence he'd known with the strength to go on and the knowledge that he is loved loved loved, strong and overwhelming and all-encompassing in the way only Donnie can love-

It's something the Krang could never imitate.

This is real. This is all real-

He throws himself against his twin, toppling them both over on the bed as he clings to Donnie, unable to stand even a fraction of an inch of space between them, as though he could push their hearts together through their plastrons, and he cries, sobbing out worry and terror and grief and the slow, crushing exhaustion of a losing battle finally lost. He cries as though the world was ending - and it had, once when the Krang had invaded and again every time he'd lost a member of his family, over and over until he'd sent his last hope through a portal that had cost his littlest brother his life and succumbed to death himself.

And now he's alive. Here, wherever here is, with Donnie. Clinging to his twin, and being held in turn as Donnie gently sits them both up, never letting go as Leo cries himself out.

It takes a while - long enough for Leo's gaze to settle into a stare and his thoughts to settle into a comfortable static. He's alive, Donnie is alive, and he has no fucking idea what else is going on, but he's just going to be okay with that for now.

His thoughts rouse enough to inform him of something wrong - the line of tension Donnie is carrying down his neck and over his shoulders. That won't do. Leo could try to massage it out with one hand, maybe try to get Donnie to talk about it, but Donnie never likes to talk about it, and Leo isn't one for slowly soothing away tension when he can just take an axe to the release valve instead. Plus, it gives him something definite to focus on, instead of…this whole situation. Whatever 'this whole situation' actually is.

Donnie had mentioned his stupid jokes, right?

"H-hey Dee?" His voice wavers from disuse, thick with tears, but he pushes through. "Why did- why did the tree buy a camera?"

"What?" Oh, Donnie is not going to see this coming. Excellent.

"To do a photosynthesis." It's nowhere near the level of pizazz he normally uses for a punchline delivery - he's still too tired and frazzled and clinging to Donnie entirely too hard for that - but that beautiful pause of a terrible joke sinking in tells him it had hit home nonetheless. Donnie moves - he can hear the telltale slap of face meeting palm - and then breaks down into helpless laughter, smacking the back of Leo's shell as the tension Leo had felt in his twin's shoulders abruptly relaxes. Good. It worked.

"This is so fucking stupid," is all Donnie manages as his laughter fades, and he slumps fully against Leo with a murmur. That's...abrupt. Sure, Leo had felt Donnie's exhaustion, but he hadn't realized it'd been that bad. He takes hold of Donnie, gently laying him down on the bed to rest-

Remember what happened last time Donnie fell asleep next to you.

He gasps sharply at the thought - not again NEVER again - and keeps his hand steady as he moves, laying both fingers gently against Donnie's neck and feeling for his pulse. It's easy to find, strong and steady and even, like it had been before the infection had taken Donnie's vitality and then his life.

But he's alive, and healthy, and sleeping. He's okay. And Leo-

Leo moves his hand to the side of his own neck. His pulse is also easy to find, quickened with the adrenaline of an unknown situation and multiple consecutive shocks to his system.

Okay. Take stock. Assess. Figure out a plan from there.

He's alive. Donnie's alive. The Krang are gone. And everything else…is a big fat question mark, with no easy answers and no indication as to where to begin looking for them.

Well.

Uh.

"What the fuck," Leo whispers to the room at large, as though the walls could answer.

~~~~~~~

(A world away and still very close, a younger pair of twins cling to one another the way a drowning man clings to driftwood: desperately, clutching tight, as though letting go will spell their doom. Neither of them know where the emotions came from, or why; all they know is that each of them are damn glad the other is alive, and they'll do everything they can to make sure that continues to be the case.)

(What the fuck, indeed.)

[greenglowsgold]

The List.

Based on the Cass Apocalyptic Series.

The first part of this has been rumbling around in my brain ever since that Super Sad Scene a month ago, but yesterday’s update gave me the other side of the coin, so to speak, and finally pulled it all together.

@somerandomdudelmao thanks for the fuel, friend

                              -----

                              Donatello’s days have become a series of checklists, as of late.

No, that’s not exactly true. His days have always been about lists: what he’s done, what he can delegate to someone else, what still needs doing. But these days he’s been doing less and listing more, piling tasks from the first category onto the second as fast as he can manage, hoping he has enough time to empty the queue.

The full catalog is written out in a series of files, reorganized for accessibility to the layperson and meticulously up-to-date as of yesterday. He meant to run through it again this morning, ensure all the relevant instruction manuals were attached to each item and double check his protocols, but he wasn’t… he couldn’t…

He’s going to die tonight.

It irritates him, his own miscalculation of the timing more than the stark presence of his oncoming demise. The latter has been inevitable for quite some time, long enough that he’s gotten used to the idea. But he thought he had another week or two, and he doesn’t like being proven wrong. He wonders if his brothers know.

Probably not. They know it’s bad now, obviously, because they’ve piled him with pillows and blankets and surrounded him on all sides, and Leo has finally gone quiet. But they trust him, they’ve always trusted him, even when they shouldn’t, so if he swears he’ll last a few more days, they’ll believe him. He thinks. He’s pretty sure. If they knew it was tonight, he doubts they would choose to sleep through it. Donnie thinks about waking them up, but only for a moment. He’d like to say it’s a noble act, to leave them in peace a little bit longer, but the truth is he’s just too fucking tired to move.

There’s something settled bone-deep in his chest, a heaviness that sits on him like a stone, a peine forte et dure pressing him down and down, stopping his voice and his breath and his heart. He wonders if this is what dying usually feels like, or if it’s unique to the Kraang. Raph would know.

He cranes his neck to the right, to catch Raph’s face out of the corner of his eye. Raph’s working eye is half-open, staring down at the floor. Donnie could ask him. (He won’t. Let him fall asleep.) The movement of his head is so slight it doesn’t even catch Raph’s attention. He’s too tired for anything more. He’s so goddamn tired.

His lists are out of reach at the moment, with his physical interfaces back in the lab and his ninpo locked behind a wall of oh-god-it-sounds-too-exhausting-to-even-try, but he memorized them all long ago.

Raphael: Maintenance (delegated to Casey, who has it well in hand). Plans (tucked away in a dedicated folder, long term, but someday they’ll have the materials, and Raph will have a proper body again, someday). Honey (yes, he passed that along last week).

Raph has access to the tracking programs, so he can keep an eye on everyone himself, even when Donnie can’t pull up locations or vitals for him anymore. He has his own space in the base once more, somewhere to close a door when he needs to (he insists he doesn’t, but Donnie isn’t a fool). He has more excuses to spend time with Casey, who’s taking over his upkeep. Donnie hopes it fills in some gaps for both of them.

He runs through the list, double checks each item. It’s his last chance to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything important.

He looks down, finds Mikey.

There’s a stockpile of the anti-aging serum in his safe, the formula in his database, plans for the permanent solution clearly labeled. As long as they have his lab, his systems, Mikey will be as young as his years. He’s walked him through the greenhouse, even if most of it is controlled by the computer system. Mikey misses the world being green; it’ll do him good to spend more time around the plants. He has his tea, his candles. He has Draxum, who by now should have received a — mildly — threatening message warning him not to pull any disappearing acts anytime soon. He has their ancestors, just a short call away.

Donnie’s sure Mikey will call on him soon. He doesn’t plan to stray far.

Up a bit. To the left. Leo.

The arm — Leo knows how to take care of it, as does Casey.

The passwords — reset, something even Leo will be able to remember without resorting to blackmail.

The schedule — reshuffled for the next few days, he’ll have a hard enough time sleeping as it is.

The photos — everything they have, even the embarrassing ones. He even managed a couple of prints, and one precious shot from their pre-apocalypse days, something for Leo to tuck into a pouch and carry with him, when they’re not around.

Raph, Mikey, Leo. He doesn’t think he’s missed anything. Donnie lets his head fall back, too exhausted to hold it up any longer.

Is it enough?

His mind stretches further out. He’s unraveling.

What about April? Her prescription is up to date, they just checked a month ago. She has the latest in his combat tech, which has kept her safe in the field this long, so he has no reason to think it will falter now. He’s leaving her a few extra pieces, since he won’t be able to use them anymore. Leo will find the time for a movie night once in a while, he’s certain, even if his taste in Jupiter Jim movies is horrendous. They still have coffee; he’d die before he let that particular supply run out. He will, actually.

Casey. Fuck, Donnie’s gonna miss his birthday. But he did plan for this, his protocols will kick in. The mask is finished, everything is in place. He’s reconfigured his workstations, fit them for a tiny human instead of a seven-foot turtle. Casey has a better head for mechanics than any of his brothers ever did. Kid likes to be useful, so Donnie’s left him as much use as he can. He’s taught him everything Casey can learn and left instructions for more, when he’s a little older and wiser. His family will take care of him, they’ll make sure he gets there.

The base. It has to hold, to give them somewhere safe. The infrastructure is sound, and they have people to manage repair work. Supplies are decent, the most critical items in stock, everything that can be made renewable is. Their allies — Leo handles interpersonal issues and leadership, but Donnie’s checked the list with a pragmatist’s eye, left notes and rankings for priority. Security is the largest concern, but he’s spent nearly half his time with his assistants since his self-diagnosis (he could have spent it with his family), running them through the programs and adjustments, trying to bring them up to somewhere in the realm of his own expertise (a fool’s errand, but still). They’ve been rigorously instructed, they understand that the little things like sleep are secondary concerns. It has to hold.

Is it enough? For them to be okay?

He’s done everything he can. He can’t do any more. So it has to be enough.

Donnie blinks, and for a moment isn’t certain his eyes will open again at the end of it. But they do. At least one more time, they obey him.

Raph. Mikey. Leo. April. Casey. Home. He rolls back through the list. It’s his last chance. He can’t miss anything.

Mikey’s hand tightens unconsciously around his wrist, fingers meeting easily on either side. Donnie feels only the echo of the pressure.

Raph. Mikey. Leo. April. Casey. Home.

Something bright sparks at the edges of his vision before it fades. The last gasps of a dying brain, he supposes. Synapses firing one last time before they’re snuffed out.

Raph.

Mikey.

Leo.

                                                            April.

                                                                                                                        Casey.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   Home.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    Light.

                                                                                                                         There’s light.

                                                            It hurts.

                                                            He thought dying would stop the pain, but it’s risen to a fever pitch instead. His brother’s arms are gone, but the disease wraps around him in their place, consumes him. It rages like a wildfire, burning through his center until pieces start to flake away like ash.

Oh, this is what it does, what it was built for. The Kraang could have killed him in a lot of different ways. He’d wondered why they chose this one.

He hasn’t planned for it. This is something he didn’t even know to fear.

It’s bright and it hurts but it’s quiet as he crumbles, folds in on himself like a black hole in the utter silence of outer space. It’s quiet enough that the voice that breaks through does so clear as a bell.

His head turns to follow the sound, instinct. He’s lost half his field of vision, but what’s left is enough. He looks, and finds Casey.

Casey looks at him, at him, not the body. Donnie opens his mouth to ask a question — What are you doing here? How? Why? — but something else sloughs out instead. Not blood. He doesn’t have that anymore.

Casey calls his name once more and starts running.

Donnie’s questions fold back into his mind. His mouth clicks shut, he swallows back the putrid rot and pushes himself up. His arms are shattered but they’ll have to hold him. They have to. Because Casey is here and he needs something, which means Donnie missed something, which means he isn’t done.

His spirit disagrees with him, doesn’t see the logic. His arms don’t hold.

Casey reaches to catch him as he falls, and the touch ruptures him instead. He scatters. Into the air and the ground and Casey. For a moment, he’s just pieces, fumbling around and latching onto anything that welcomes them, and Casey does that. They flow into him. They’re him. They’re…

He’s…

Casey, he’s…

Donatello pulls himself back together. Most of himself, anyway. The infection hasn’t followed him but the damage persists. He’s run through with cracks and crevices, shaking bits away into infinity with every movement. But there’s more of him here than not.

Unexpectedly, Donnie is not gone. He’s still dead, but that’s fine, he planned for that one.

                                                                                                                         Casey has him now. He wraps himself around Donnie in layers, helps hold him together with a kind of sheer will that makes up for any lack of mystic knowledge in spades. Casey asks him to stay, and Donnie takes up the task like Sisyphus sizing up the hill. This time, this time I’ll do it right.

Even better, Casey has taken him to another time, one where all of Donnie’s long-term plans are now completely-fucking-reasonable plans. Casey’s going to fix it, so Donnie can fix everything else. Whatever else needs it. He hasn’t really asked. And he knows he’s missed something, but he doesn’t think too hard about what, not yet.

First thing’s first: he needs a body.

It’s so simple to accomplish that it seems like the universe is mocking him. Just a quick 1-2-3, ticking off the list. It feels almost stupid, like running back through the early levels of a video game after unlocking all the ultimate weapons and burning through enemies and obstacles, laughing, shit, did I used to think this was hard?

In no time at all, his own face has formed in front of him.

In no time at all, he’s gasping.

It’s only been a few hours since he last breathed air, but he’s missed it.

Another thing he’s missed? Functional musculature. Casey slams into him and Donnie is startled to find that it doesn’t knock him over. His arms and legs look like actual limbs again, not fragile little sticks disguising themselves as such. He stands, dragging Casey along without a second thought. The weight barely registers. It’s amazing.

The power trip is heady, but it only lasts a few minutes before reality kicks it in the ass and pulls him back down to earth.

We lost, Casey says.

They’re dead, Casey says.

It wasn’t enough, Casey does not say, but Donnie hears it just as clearly.

All those plans, the preparations, the precautions and protocols, they only borrowed a year or two before they fell apart. He sees the timeline spiral out before him, tighter and tighter until it collapses in on itself, rendered all the more insignificant from his own point of perception. He was alive yesterday. His family is dead today.

Everything he did, it wasn’t enough. Of course it wasn’t. He was stupid to think otherwise.

(Raph. Mikey. Leo. April. Casey. Casey’s still here. It was enough for him, at least.)

It cuts at him a little, to have been so wrong. But he’s strong again, now. He can take the wound. More importantly, he has another chance to get it right.

Donnie breathes. His chest expands smoothly, easily. The air doesn’t rattle in his lungs. He’s alive, he’s a genius, he can fix anything.

He pulls up a list.

[celestiawritess]

Trust

Synopsis ✧ It’s the end of the world. Or better yet, it has been for the past three years. You’ve survived perfectly fine on your own, moving from place to place without much trouble. Until you meet a man who’s got an issue with sharing and an ego bigger than the sun- who happens to be travelling to the same place as you.

Warnings ✧ Rafe Cameron’s ego, lots of death, zombies, gore, violence, mentions of SA, protective Rafe, slow burn, eventual smut.

Word count ✧ 4.3k

Next chapter ➜

When the world had ended, you’d had thought that the brutality of it was awful. People who once looked at others as friends, family, acquaintances- turned on one another, unable to trust. As much of the population succumbed to an illness that the governments claimed was under control- the rest of the world focused on survival.

Eventually the governments fell silent, unable to control what they claimed they could- and the world fell with them. Until the dead began walking again.

You’d been locked in your family’s home, sat on the sofa with your sister and mother, both of them crying and in complete fear as to what to do next- your father in the other room with the illness that had claimed many. That was a day you’d never forget, as the tv began to play safety alerts for those who were still alive- and your father stumbled out of the bedroom.

Except it wasn’t your father. It was what was left of his body, but it was not your father. It was not your father when he ripped into the side of your mother’s throat, her blood spraying over her cream sofa that she loved to keep clean. It was not your father when your mother’s body slumped to the floor, your sister clambering ontop of her, screaming at your father. It was not your father- eyes wide, hands gripping the edge of the sofa as the thing reached for your sister too- and she tried to fight. It was not your father when you finally snapped out of it and reached the stairs, pounding up into your room and shutting the door.

They weren’t your family as you cried softy to yourself in your room, a soft groan and pounding against your door which kept you situated for days.

They were not your family as you climbed out of the window of your bedroom, too afraid to face what they had become.

You sigh, shaking the thoughts from your brain as you listen to the birds chirping through the night. The pistol that you’ve learned to use weighs heavy on your thigh, can of cold beans doing no justice to your empty stomach. The rooftop that you’re perched on gives you a perfect view of the walkers down below, snarling and stumbling after the nice and rats scrambling about the city below.

You wonder to yourself how you’ve made it into this situation, stuck. You hated that word, hated admitting defeat. It’s not like you could rely on anyone else to save you- phone a friend if you must. There is no one else. As far as you know. The last group of people you’d met- you’d been a naive, scared young woman and they’d given you the opportunity to change that.

That was a while ago now. The apocalypse had been here for three years, and any promises of this being over seemed less and less likely. You’d stopped believing in a cure when walkers tore your first group apart. You’d not bothered with people since then.

You’d seen the awful, inhumane ways people had resorted to. It made you feel sick, people turning on other people- fighting, killing, for space, and resources.

You’d have no part in it. You moved silently, in the shadows, keeping to yourself until you got to where you wanted to. You had a plan, one that you were sure would work. You open your bag, which is laid against the wall next to you, grabbing your notebook.

Inside it’s got your map, of which you’ve been loosely tracking where you’d traveled, a big star marking where you’re trying to get to. The outbreak had begun in Florida, almost immediately wiping the population out there and not giving those who were still alive time to get out before the dead began walking again. You were hoping to avoid Florida.

Any of the other states that bordered on the ocean would do you fine. So far, you’d travelled from Wisconsin down to Illinois, on the border of Kentucky. At this rate, you’d hoped to aim for North Carolina, or south- each of the states known for extensive sea access and boats. You’d take one and sail off onto the water, where you’d never have to worry about walkers again. Or people, rarely.

You sigh, drawing the line from where you were yesterday to where you are today. You’d come across a hoard of walkers just before sunset, and not having the arsenal to take it on- nor being stupid enough to try, you’d had to divert.

You finish your can of beans, placing it and the spoon on the wall and looking back down at the city. The walkers like to come out more at night time, you’ve found. It’s a long while until sunrise, the winter months making the nights longer and the days shorter. Nature was against you.

Somewhere in the distance of the city, gunshots ring out. They’re far enough away for you not to worry for now, but close enough to put you off from sleep. Your eyes strain to look as far down the street as possible and you’re sure you see something weaving in between the hoards of zombies- almost looking like a human.

There’s no way someone would survive that, though. It’s a death wish. You reach down for your rifle, leaning down on two knees to get the scope set up on the wall and look where you think you’ve just seen someone.

It’s mostly walkers. There’s a few gaps where they aren’t but for the most part they take up the entire width of the street, making it impossible for anyone to get through without being torn to shreds.

Until you see it again. It’s a flash, a whip which makes you readjust your scope on the wall, scraping your fingers against the rough brick as you try to find whatever is flashing inbetween the groups of walkers. Could it be the same person who fired off the gunshots?

You’re not sticking around to find out. You scoff, leaning your rifle against the wall and you roll up your sleeping bag in no time, attaching it to the clasps at the bottom of your bag. You reach up for your spoon, knocking the can of beans off the wall and listening as it clambers to the floor of the alleyway down below. The snarls tell you that the walkers are alert now.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you curse, shoving your spoon in the side pocket and reaching for the strap, slinging it over your shoulder. You reach for your handgun, shoving it in the waistband of your pants and then your rifle, slinging it over your shoulder before rushing over to the wall at the other side of the building.

It’s a good eight stories to the floor below, yet you think someone must have lived here before, on this rooftop, because the fire escape had been blocked off, a plank of wood stretching across the gap to the next building. Your ears strain as you can hear someone trying the rooftop door, small growls slipping out of the gap. The lock was busted, but that didn’t stop you from propping an old wooden pallet in front of the door for occasions exactly like this. You’d watched, observed the walkers. They retained some of their skills from their past life, you thought- like being able to open door handles, or listen out for noises and eventually figure out where the noise had come from.

You click your tongue, head tilting to the side as you hop up onto the wall, wood already creaking beneath your feet. The growls intensify behind the door and you’re sure you hear the scraping of the wooden pallet, deciding it’s now or never to cross the wooden bridge.

You’re halfway across the two buildings when the pallet gives way, shuffling feet sounding out on the rooftop as you hop down the wall on the other side of the wood. You spin, seeing at least ten walkers all following each other on the rooftop as they try to sniff you out. You push the wooden bridge, letting it fall of the wall and slip in between the two buildings and clatter to the floor below.

The walkers turn and growl as the slump towards you, stopping at the obvious gap between them and their next meal. You roll your eyes. Maybe they’re not as smart afterall.

By the time the sun rises, you’re struggling to keep your eyes open, the city behind you now. It was in your best interest to not stay there anymore- cities are never a good idea anyway. The main road that you’ve been walking along to get out of the city is littered with walkers, but not too many to the point that you can’t deal.

You decide to find somewhere to sleep, somewhere quieter along the back roads that will keep you a bit safer. You couldn’t travel much today without the promise of sleep. Along the road, to the left, there’s a little diner that looks fairly looted. It’s to be expected, so close to the city.

Still, you decide to take a look, on the off chance that some looters are picky and have left you some bits. The door sways slightly in the breeze- or what’s left of it, metal bent and shards of glass all over the step. The glass crunches under your boots as you slide through the gap in the door, hand gripping your pistol in your waistband.

The inside of the diner is exactly how you expect it to look. Everything is all over the place, tables turned and windows smashed. The glass still crunches underneath your feet, remnants of salt shakers and ketchup bottles kicked to the side as you make your way around the counter.

There’s a picture on the wall that catches your eye, surprisingly untouched despite the rest of the wreckage in the little establishment. It’s a picture of an old woman and man smiling together outside what looks to be the diner- freshly opened. Back when the world was normal.

Moving past it, you swing round the corner into the kitchen, all the cupboards and fridges swung open, any signs of food here long gone. You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose when you hear a noise. Crunching glass.

Someone, or something was in here with you. Your hand immediately snaps back to the gun in your waistband.

“Wouldn’t grab that gun if I were you,” the voice is rough, like it’s the first words they’ve spoken in months. Slowly, you raise your left hand, right tightening on your gun as you think of an action plan.

There’s a door in the back left corner, an island of counters blocking you. It’s not worth the risk, you think- you’ve not seen the person, and you don’t know if they’ve got a gun pointed at the back of your head right now or not.

“Put the other hand up too, now,” your teeth latch onto the inside of your cheek, contemplating the back door escape. “Are you deaf? Now, or I blow your brains out,”

Your fingers unfurl from around the gun, raising your hand slowly. You feel as they begin tugging your rifle away from your shoulder- and you spin. Your elbow flies to their gun, knocking it out of their hand as it clatters to the floor and skids under one of the fridges. Immediately, you reach for your own gun, aiming it at the person.

You’re sure he can see the look of pure disgust on your face. His hands are now the ones raised, covered in blood. To be precise, his entire outfit was covered in blood. Dirty, shiny black blood.

“You’re infected?” You surprise yourself with your own voice. Your grip tightens around your gun as you take a few steps back, gaze never faltering. He shakes his head, pretty quickly, matted hair following in clumps.

You wave your gun down his attire, eyebrow raised. “Got caught in a hoard in the city back there. Had to cover myself to get out,”

The sentence clicks in your head and you remember the night before on the rooftop when you saw something zapping through the hoards. It must have been this guy.

You laugh, breathily, still keeping the gun raised. “Makes sense, I saw you.”

He smirks, dropping his hands to his sides. “Gotta do whatever to survive,” you can practically smell the ego from here, even over the pounds of walker blood.

You scoff. “That include threatening to blow my brains out?”

He clicks his tongue, shuffling his bag on his shoulder. “You were about to find my stash. Friend or foe, it’s mine.” You glance around the picked clean kitchen, noticing finally a piece of drywall that was slightly pulled to the side.

“Well, foe, I’m good. I’ll go find stuff elsewhere.” You move backwards, keeping your gun up, towards the back door. He shuffles forward, but you wave your gun.

“Stay put until I’m gone. Don’t want anymore trouble.”

He nods, and you can tell he wants to say something else but holds his breath as you reach for the door handle. It’s stuck, probably from not being used for so long.

“Why don’t we stick together? Some pretty cool moves you’ve got there,” he says, gesturing to his gun that’s still on the floor. You shake your head, finally unsticking the door handle and swinging the door open. Despite being winter, the Illinois sun beats down on you almost immediately.

“I’m good. I like being on my own.” You don’t let him say anything else as you jump down the back step, slamming the door behind you.

You shove your gun back into the waistband of your pants as you circle wide enough around the building to join back onto that road. Of your map was right, following this road today would take you past some fields and into a smaller town. Smaller meant less, but also meant less chance of being completely picked clean.

It’s quiet, sun high in the sky already- midday. You didn’t have long left until the sun would disappear, and you’d need to find somewhere to hold up again. You can feel the exhaustion seeping through your bones, and your feet ache from the broken soles of your boots. Still, they’d not let you down yet- you couldn’t find the heart to part ways with them until they were truly gone.

It was one of your bad habits. You reach down into your thigh garter, pulling your knife out as a walker snarls and stumbles towards you. It tumbles over its own feet, falling onto you. You lodge your knife into its head, pulling the knife back and pushing the zombie to the floor.

There’s a little house to your left, seemingly picturesque and untouched. It’s in the middle of the fields, and when you glance over your shoulder, the city is like a mirage in the distance. If things would have been normal, this house would have been ideal. Close to the city but far enough away to keep from the city life.

Although the sun is lowering quicker than you would have liked, you decide not to stop. Ideally, you’d like to put as much distance between you and the guy from the diner, presuming he was following you.

Your feet are killing by the time you reach the first part of the small town. There’s a few walkers littered around but nothing to make a fuss over yet, all easily avoidable. You pick the first store you see, an old hairdressers, which looks fairly safe and secure. No smashed windows, boards covering them so no one can see inside. If it had roof access, even better.

The door groans loudly as you open it, under the pressure of being secured shut for so long. The stars are on your side, however, as a glance over your shoulder shows that none of the walkers on the street heard it. Inside is exactly how you expected it to look- dusty.

Everything is pretty intact, aside from the cash register picked clean. It makes you scoff, wondering what the person who took the money is doing now. Money had no means anymore. Not to you at least.

There’s a door at the back of the small salon which you push open, to be met with the tiny fenced in bin yard. There’s a rickety wooden chair placed in one corner, next to a ladder which leads up to the roof of the one story building. The ladder creaks under the weight of you climbing, obviously close to breaking.

You swing one leg over the edge of the roof, seeing an old sleeping bag crumpled up in one corner, remnants of a fire nearby. It’s obvious someone’s not been here for a while, and you ponder what could have happened. It doesn’t stop you from stopping your bag to the floor, groaning as your shoulders free from the extra weight.

You can see the rest of the small town from here, mostly little businesses that you’ve never heard of before and something that you’d hoped for- a mostly intact supermarket. Only the doors looked like they were smashed, the windows also boarded up.

Taking a seat next your bag, you pull out your notebook and mark off your journey from today. The sleepiness seeps through you as you’ve finally stopped moving, reaching to unclip your sleeping bag and roll it out on the roof top.

As you lie down, looking up at the stars, you think about how much you’d kill for a massage right now.

When you wake, it’s dark. There’s etchings of light creeping up on the horizon, which makes you confident that it’s morning. There’s little to no moaning out on the street below, and a look confirms that most of the walkers from yesterday have wandered away somewhere else.

You make quick work of rolling your sleeping bag back up, clipping it into place before gathering your bag and slinging it over your shoulders, along with your rifle. There’s a renewed sense of energy around you as you slide down the ladder, pushing open the bin yard gate and walking down the side of the building to join back into the Main Street.

Most of the buildings along the way to the supermarket hold little to no value to you. They’re full of little trinkets or other items that are practically useless nowadays. The supermarket is littered with walkers, of which all crowd through the smashed doors when you tap the glass. They fall over each other, making it easier for you to pick them off.

Once you’re inside, you’re not so surprised to see almost everything is gone. There’s a putrid smell, and you’re not sure if it’s the brown mush of the refrigerated products left or the pile of corpses in the corner, burned to a crisp. The black soot travels up the wall and onto the ceiling, the tiles crumbling and hanging towards the floor.

There’s a few tinned goods left dotted around, and it makes you wonder if people had been picky when scavenging. It wasn’t really a luxury to pick and choose what you are nowadays, as you shove as many tins into your bag as possible.

Once you’re satisfied, you make a circle round the store, making sure there’s nothing you might have missed. You’re sad to not be able to fit everything into your bag, but the weight, ten times heavier than the previous day, makes you grateful.

It’s raining when you clamber over the walker bodies at the front of the store. You almost do a double take when you see someone stood at the window of the store, greying to look in through the cracks on the boards.

Your hand reaches for your gun, pulling it out of your waistband. The person turns and almost immediately you scoff. It’s the guy from yesterday, albeit a lot cleaner than you had last seen him. He grins when he sees you, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Anything good?” He asks, causally, like you’ve known each other for decades. You roll your eyes, turning away and walking in the other direction. You actually needed to go the way that he was stood, but you simply just didn’t want to pass him.

You can hear his footsteps on the cracked pavement as he jogs to catch up to you.

“Look- hey, I think it’d be good for us to stick together.” His statement makes you turn, throwing him a look that you’re confident could kill.

He raises his hands in defence. “I’m serious. You’re obviously going somewhere important and I’d like to come too.”

“Like I told you yesterday, I’m good. Stop following me.” You brush past him, not walking in the right direction. The sun is now fully on the horizon, casting the town in a soft orange glow.

“Whoa. Firstly, I’m not following you. We just happen to be going in the same direction. Secondly, it’s not safe for you to be alone,” you fight the urge to roll your eyes as you cut down a side street, hoping to find the highway close by quick enough so you could make a straight beeline for the Kentucky border. You’d make it today, if you weren’t being pestered so much.

“I’ve managed perfectly fine on my own, thank you.” His hand wraps around your wrist to stop you from loving and immediately you slam the handle on your gun onto his fingers, causing him to yelp out and let go.

“Okay, there was no need to be like that.” His yelp alerts the attention of some walkers nearby, a fairly sized crown which begins stumbling towards you.

“Great,” you mumble, shoving your gun back in your waistband in favour of your knife. One zombie comes close enough to allow you to shove your knife deep into its eye socket, falling limp and to the floor. The other four come all at once, causing you to stumble backwards as one grasps at your raised hand. You manage to stab it but don’t have time to reel back for the other three- until the persistent guy lurches forward, using his own knife to swipe at two of them. The final one swerves around for you but falls to the floor, giving you the opportunity to bring your boot down onto its head.

You breath out heavily, turning to look at the guy. “Groups bring unwanted attention. I’m good on my own.” You begin walking away again, sheathing your knife back into your holder. You can hear him jogging to catch up again and you sigh.

“Cmon. I’ll do anything. I’m just trying to get home to my family.” The comment makes you stop for a second, the memories flashing through your brain briefly before you push them away.

“And I wish you the best of luck with that. I can’t help you.” It’s his turn to sigh now, and despite your best efforts to speed up, he manages to keep your pace.

“I’m not asking for help. I’m asking for companionship. Once I’m where I need to be, I’ll be out of your hair.” You falter, considering. It would be nice to not have to watch your own back all the time.

“And where do you need to be?” You ask, wiping your brow.

He cocks a grin, which you notice out of your peripheral. He must be thinking he’s got you hook line and sinker right now.

“North Carolina. It’s where my family will be.” You turn toward a field behind a house, the highway situated at the other side. Either way, you’d both be going the same way.

Except he had a family to go to. That, he seemed so sure of. He was hopeful. Hopeful he still had his family, that they were alive. You’d left yours a while ago, not that you’d say anything about that. To anyone. The thought of it gives you a headache and you reach for your water bottle, taking a tiny sip. Water was sacred now.

When you reach the fence he offers his hand to help you over but you shake your head, climbing over yourself and dropping down into the soft grass. You pan your eyes up to his face. He’s still got that soft grin plastered over his features, watching you as you readjust your rifle strap and bag. His hair is no longer matted, soft bangs falling unkept over his face. You wonder where he’s found the time or resources to wash all the blood out of his hair.

You hated to say so, but thinking about him using walker blood to get through a hoard was resourceful. The way he took down those two walkers too. He wouldn’t be dead weight. And he’d be out of your hair in a months time.

“You’re gonna follow me even if i say no, aren’t you?” You ask, and he grins wider, nodding his head. You sigh, pulling out your notebook to check your map. Right on track.

You don’t say anything else, though, walking forward with a small nod of your head.

“Lord help me.” You mumble, wading through the grass to the highway.

Something a little different for the Rafe AU scene. Let me know if you’re enjoying and want me to continue cos I’ve got some ideas🕺

[breakdownsbuttlights]

Chapters: 1/4 Fandom: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Drift | Deadlock/Ratchet Characters: Drift | Deadlock, Ratchet (Transformers) Additional Tags: Empire of Stone, Drift's Exile, Alternate Universe - Human, Whump, Fever, Delirium, Religious Crisis, legionnaire's disease, (all in good time) Summary:

“For eighteen months Drift wandered beyond the fringes of civilization, living out of the trunk of his car, eating little, sleeping less, each day sinking deeper into a magical, malignant world of his own creation. If Ratchet hadn’t caught up with him when he did, he likely would have died in that wilderness.”

[theproverbialpen]

HEY, YOU! PERSON WHO KEEPS LISTENING TO RUTHLESSNESS ON REPEAT:

Do you sometimes skip through Epic just to hear any song Poseidon is in in? Is Steven Rodriguez’s “Like You Mean It” probably going to be on your Spotify wrapped this year? Have @neal-illustrator’s animatics permanently altered your brain chemistry?

First of all, let me recommend “Devil Wears Lace” by Steven Rodriguez cause damn that song is good.

Second of all, let me also shamelessly plug my fanfic for those of you who have also found yourself with a carnal need for the Dark-Haired King himself:

“No, my lord—I beg your mercy, please.” Gods, it was one mistake! One stupid, stupid decision made in the throes of lust. To think your kingdom, your home, would be punished for your one lecherous act had you spiraling all over again, chest constricting like a vice. Why, oh why did you have to anger the most mercurial of all the gods?!

Poseidon did not respond immediately, the stillness bordering on pensive. You dared not breathe, lest your wheezing further enrage him. When the silence stretched onward, you were just about ready to start begging for your life again. You opened your mouth, prepared to let epithets and apologies flow forth like libations, when he finally answered you.

“Fine,” came his stern concession. “You want mercy? Why don’t you prove to me you deserve it?”

“How would I do so, my lord?” you quickly inquired.

“Well, I believe you were in the middle of something, weren’t you?”

So yeah! If that sounded somewhat appealing to you, you can read the whole thing on AO3. This will be a threeshot with a follow up story (or two) because man the hyperfixation has been activated. Hope y’all enjoy, and thank you for taking the time to read :)

[violent138]

Got a fic idea for when this branch of sentient alien parasites take over the big guns of the Watchtower and basically just anybody with powers but leave the baseline humans alone as they're beneath notice.

Oliver and Bruce end up together, sneaking around and taking stock of the mess.

Oliver: "Have you learnt anything from this? Like maybe how important it is to make contingencies plans for everyone? Because anybody could be--"

Bruce: "The only thing I've learned is that our decontamination protocols need improvement. Perhaps we shouldn't bring the space suits in past the airlock at all."

Oliver:

Oliver: "You want to make this a nudist satellite, that's what you're getting from this?"

Bruce:

Oliver: "My kids glare better than that, now what's our play? I'm thinking we try out some gadgets, figure out weaknesses?"

Bruce: "And if it notices us?"

Oliver: "Loser has to propose the nudist satellite idea to the rest of the League when we're operational again. What do you say?"

Bruce: "That wasn't what-- ugh, deal."

[lemonlinelights]

Intervention

ao3

Summary: The turtles are worried about Casey Jr's recent behavior.

A short fic based off of somerandomdudelmao’s Cass Apocalyptic series 

   Casey Jr!” Mikey yelled. It was a type of shout heard on long car rides when a cow was spotted. Casey froze, his hand hovering over the door knob. 

   “Hi?” Casey asked. He turned around to face Mikey. Then he immediately regretted doing so. It wasn’t only Mikey that was there. Donnie and Leo had appeared quietly, flanking either side of Casey. It reminded him of that dinosaur movie they watched together to have him “better understand pop-culture”. 

   “Well um,” Casey turned around “I’ve gotta go-” he tried to make a break for it only to be met with the wall that is Raphael Hamato. Casey was surrounded. 

   “What, what is this, an intervention?” Casey joked. He was the only one who laughed.

   “Precisely.” Donnie said. Casey’s eyes widened. 

   “We’re worried about you.” Raph said, hand on Casey’s shoulder. Reassuring, but also stopping Casey from bolting. 

    “Me?” Casey asked. 

    “Yes, you!” Leo exclaimed. “Who else would we be talking about?” He waved his arms around. 

   “…not me?” Raph’s brow furrowed. 

   “You haven’t been home at all.” Mikey said, officially opening the floodgates. 

   “We haven’t seen you eat.” 

   “You won’t talk to us.”

   “Have you been sleeping at all?” 

   “You’re skittish.” 

    “And I know you’ve been stealing from my lab!” Donnie shouted. 

   “Also, you’ve been lying.” Leo finished. Casey rocked back and forth. 

   “Psh, me, lying?” Casey waved his hand as if to dismiss the idea. 

   “Does saying you have an uncle of all things ring any bells, Casey?” Leo asked, hands on his hips. Casey felt his heart sink. 

   “What Leo means to say is, we can help Casey, whatever it is that’s bothering you, us, April, Splinter, and…even Draxum.” Raphael explained, he squeezed Casey’s shoulder. Donnie rolled his eyes, but he didn’t scoff. 

   “Yeah!” Mikey exclaimed. “I can use my pizazz!” He said while finger gunning at Casey. 

   Casey couldn’t do this. What felt like an eternity to Casey looked like a blur to the others. He yanked himself out from under Raph’s hand, dodging Mikey trying to grab him. 

   “No!” Casey shouted. “No, you can’t help!” 

   “Yes we can!” Leo shouted back and God the way he tilted forward, arms opened wide, a determined look on his face. Casey choked back tears. 

   “You can’t bring them back!” 

    Everyone stilled. 

   “You look just like them.” Casey whispered. But that also wasn’t the full truth.

    Sure Leo did what Uncle Tello called the mom stance but he didn’t do it with the same caring grin. Smile lines and crows’ feet missing from his face. Donnie rolled his eyes but it wasn’t the same playfulness. Mikey did finger guns but there wasn’t the same spark, literally and figuratively. And this Raph couldn’t hold him the same, they weren’t there yet. He wasn’t there yet with any of them, where an embracing hug was the default. They were so much alike but they were not the same turtles he knew. They were not his senseis. 

   All he wanted right now was a genuine Hamato hug. His Hamatos’ hugs. And Uncle Tello could do that. Uncle Tello was here. Uncle Tello was working towards a day where all of them could hug Casey again. Casey could do that. Casey could be here with them, his senseis. 

   “I can fix it.” Casey said. His hope poured out like a squashed oozesquito. Sad and beaten but still going. 

    “Huh?” Mikey said. 

    “Just you wait!” Casey exclaimed, running out of the lair, heels on fire. 

   “Casey, wait!” Leo started to go after him. One of Donnie’s mechanical limbs reached out and grabbed him. 

   “What would you even do?” Donnie asked. Leo didn’t know. He didn’t know. None of them know. 

   But Casey? Casey knew. Casey knew exactly what he was going to do. For once in his life he knew exactly what he wanted and he knew exactly how to get it. 

   Casey Hamato knows.

[delicatebarness]

ᴀs ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ғᴀʟʟs ᴅᴏᴡɴ | ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʀᴀɪʟᴇʀ

sᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: In the middle of the night, your world is shattered. Chaos erupts around you and you're forced to leave your home as the terrifying reality of the apocalypse unfolds.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: Apocalyptic Themes. Violence and Gore. Death. Panic and Anxiety.

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 968

sᴘᴏᴛɪғʏ ᴘʟᴀʏʟɪsᴛ | sᴜᴘᴘᴏʀᴛ: ᴋᴏ-ғɪ

sᴇʀɪᴇs ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ | ɴᴇxᴛ ᴇᴘɪsᴏᴅᴇ

ᴀ/ɴ: Another one for Prologue Season, remember to let me know what you think if you want the story to continue, by the way, it is eventually Bucky Barnes x Reader. - Please feel free to leave feedback or let me know where and how you want the story to continue, this is just as much yours as mine. - B

ᴀᴛᴡғᴅ: Let me know if you would like to be tagged for possible future chapters.

ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick | @sapphirebarnes | @rach2602 | @thetorturedbuckydepartment | @lanabuckybarnes

Tangled in the warmth of his arms, the blanket wrapped you in the quiet safety of the night. It was almost surreal how peaceful the night felt, the distant hum of the city outside, the steady rise and fall of his chest under your head. No urgency, no fear– just the comfort of each other. 

Then suddenly, sirens split through the silence, jarring you from your haze. Flashing light of red and blue outside the window, bathing the room in an eerie, pulsating glow. Sitting up, you clutched the blanket close to your chest, as your heart hammered against it. Looking over at him, you watched the color drain from his face. He knows. 

Dread opens a pit in your stomach, dropping further as you witness something unspoken in how he moved. In that instant, he jumped out of bed, yanking open drawers and tossing clothes into a duffel bag. His frantic energy only intensified your fear. Your mind reeled at the dull sound of metal scraped as he retrieved something from his nightstand: a blank and ominous gun. 

Finally, you found your voice, it trembled barely a whisper when you managed to find the words. “What’s happening?” You questioned desperately, a fragile hope that this was just another nightmare, and any moment now, you’d wake up. But deep down, as you looked into his eyes, wide and wild, you already knew this was reality. 

“Get up,” he urged, voice straining as he shoved the bag into your hands. “We’ve got to go. Now.” 

Clutching the duffel bag, you froze, your body refusing to move. Through the window, shadows lurched through the street, and alarms wailed and mingled with distant screams. Chaos erupted as streetlights flickered, covering the scene in a sickly, unnatural glow. You couldn’t reconcile the sense of it.

He gripped your shoulders, desperately shaking you out of your temporary paralysis. “Listen to me,” he said, his voice gruff but urgent, “ you have to move. Right now.” 

He pulled a jacket over your shoulders, it was thick and worn but, it smelt like him, the home you were about to leave behind. Barely registering his rapid instructions, as he continued to talk, your mind struggled to play catch up. 

“We need to head north. We’ll find a car and stick to the highways. Don’t stop, don’t–” he paused with a crack in his voice, just for a second, but long enough to make your breath catch. There was a fear in his eyes, fear you had never seen before.

Your throat was dry, and your words were stuck, catching on the forming lump. But, you managed to choke them out, even though you weren’t sure you wanted to know the answer. “W- What about everyone else? Our families and our friends are here– what’s happening to them?” 

There was no plan for them, the hesitation in his eyes was enough of an answer: no rescue was coming. Only this, a frantic scramble to survive, thrown at you without warning.

Stumbling to your feet, the duffel bag slammed against your legs as you tried to pull the jacket around you with numb fingers. It felt like you were watching this happen to someone else, maybe a character in a horror movie you never auditioned for. 

Already at the door, the gun gripped tightly in one of his hands as he peeks through the peephole. Each jagged piece of time cut deeper than the last as seconds stretched on. Fear twisted itself into something cold and sharp as the pounding in your chest drowned out everything else. 

When he finally opened the door, the sound hit you like a physical blow– The screaming, gunshots, and guttural groans from the dead. Nothing made sense, and there was no time to make it. Dragging you down the hallway, his grip tightened as you ran toward the chaos. 

“Go!” he yelled, shoving you forward as you made your way out of the apartment building and onto the street with a stumble. The night's air was thick with acrid smoke, the scent of burning mingling with the stench of decay, of death. 

Your eyes darted from one horror to the next, the twisted bodies that used to be people, shattered windows, and overturned cars. People were running, screaming, and falling. The world was falling down around you, and there you were, trapped in the middle of it, nothing more than a bystander to the end. 

Fingers digging into your skin, he pulled you toward the edge of the street. “Just run!” he shouted, but his voice was barely audible over the discord of the apocalypse unfolding around you.

Another stumble, you turned back to look at him. You didn’t understand, he wasn’t following. His gaze met yours, eyes wide, filled with fear and something else, something dark. You didn’t want to understand, but then, you saw it. His hand clutching his side, fingers staining crimson. Seeping through his shirt, the blook spread like inkblots. That was when you saw it— the ragged and deep bite, his flesh torn where the teeth had sunk in. 

“Go!” he shouted again, but his voice had grown weaker then, and he trembled with the effort to stay on his feet. His strength ebbed away with every drop of blood that soaked his clothes, what little color was left in his face, now draining with it. You knew what that meant, what he was trying to tell you without words. He wasn’t coming with you.

Your world collapsed in on itself at that moment. Driven by his last desperate command, your body moved instinctively and ran. The duffel bag slammed against your back, tears blurring your vision. As you sprinted into the unknown, his scream was swallowed by the night as the dead closed in on him.

---

sᴇʀɪᴇs ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ | ɴᴇxᴛ ᴇᴘɪsᴏᴅᴇ

[dumbfrenchname]

Ok so the last episode of @somerandomdudelmao actually made me cry just because they’re doing something so simple yet something we dont think to do as sibling, spending time together but not doing the same thing together.

[ceo-of-sloppy-women]

No grave can hold my body down; I'll crawl home to her

Chapter 11

trigger warning: this chapter heavily mentions a zombie/infected kid from Reader's past.

Chapter 12

With her wound healed, Sevika turned a deaf ear to any reasonable argument that the muscle was still healing and she should continue to rest. She paces around the house, with three days still left on her leave, knowing that Vander would tan her hide if she got caught tending her bees – which, in her opinion, was a perfectly reasonable activity for her to do now that she’s healed. Not wanting to see her pace the house all afternoon – having been dismissed early by Singed, who was too tired to open the clinic today – you hoist one of the boxes of bottles in the kitchen onto your hip.

“How about we take these to Jayce, then? It’ll get you out of the house, at least,” you suggest, gesturing to the other boxes. You had added a few of your own that you’d collected over the years, yet the staggering amount of Sevika’s bottles still vastly outnumbered your own. Her recent injury didn’t help matters.

Sevika squints at you, pressing her lips together. Fear trickles down your spine as you will yourself not to shrink under her scrutiny. For a moment, you truly fear she’s about to defend her bottle collection, or worse, argue that she should be able to go back to work if she’s able to take bottles down. Then she picks up two of the boxes effortlessly and grunts out a “Fine.”

You breathe a shaky sigh of relief and follow her out the door.

She walks considerably slower than usual – which only reinforces your point that she can’t go back to work yet, but you don’t dare bring that up right now. She looked ready to bite your head off earlier. So, instead, the two of you walk in uncomfortable silence across town to Jayce’s forge. You have yet to be in this part of Zaun, having mostly kept to the main street, Singed’s office, and Sevika’s house. The forge isn’t far off from your usual route, as it’s a small town; however, as you round the corner you feel as if you’re transported back in time to the 1800s. There’s a literal saloon with a sign made of big bold letters, a general store, a sheriff’s office, a gunsmith (you kick yourself for not realizing there might be a gunsmith in town – you should bring your rifle around one of these days, it could use some TLC), and, of course, the “blacksmith,” Jayce’s forge. All of the buildings are new, constructed in a way reminiscent of the 1800s – with porches and walkways running across the sides of buildings, and dirt roads for horses. These walkways and rounds are found throughout Zaun, but this is the first time your brain has drawn the dots together to really register this information.

 You stop for a moment, staring out across the new, yet old, town, memories of visiting living history museums crash into you. You had gone several times as a child, recalling the experiences with fondness, until a cold chill runs down your spine and you are reminded of your most recent encounter with one. After the world ended. It had been a cold winter – your supplies were dwindling, and you needed shelter as a blizzard was coming down around you. When buildings faded into view on the horizon, you had rushed to them, hiding away in an old movie theatre. Up until then, you had tried to avoid any areas that might have been heavily populated when Shimmer started running rampant, lest you encounter infected or scavengers. Yet, you hadn’t even thought twice as you set out to find the warmest spot in the building. It was quiet for hours, leaving you undisturbed in one of the booths, wrapped in your coat and sleeping bag. You had even managed to eat a cold can of beans (not your finest moment)! Until you heard it – a scratching and scrambling coming from the hallway. Lulled into complacency from the quiet building, you had gone to investigate the noise, only to come across a goner in the shape of a child gorging on a long dead carcass. You had gasped involuntarily, completely new to the apocalypse, and it had whipped around, snarling at you. Stumbling backwards, you raced to gather your belongings as it advanced toward you, hunger in its eyes. Out of sheer panic, you continued to back up until your shins hit the edge of the booth, and the theatre groaned. There wasn’t a moment to react as the booth crumbled, sending you flying into the seats below. The fall gave you a broken arm, which you didn’t notice until you’d fled the theatre, but the goner followed you anyway and you could hear more on the way. You had run from that theatre faster than your tired legs could carry you, eventually hiding out in the sheriff’s office until the blizzard broke. Knowing your odds better, you were able to scavenge various materials from the buildings and turned the fort into a homebase while your arm healed, until a group of raiders forced you to abandon it.

In all that time, you never did go back to the theatre – too afraid to face what you had found there. Sometimes, when you close your eyes, you still see her little yellow sundress covered in bloody handprints.

A hand lands on your shoulder, and you yelp, jumping almost high enough to hit your head on the sign above you.

“Hey, you good? I’ve been trying to get your attention for five fuckin’ minutes now.” Sevika questions, fixing you with a look of equal parts frustration and concern.

“Yeah – sorry, I just… the architecture brought back some bad memories. I’m fine,” you attempt to shrug it off, starting to walk down the street.

“You want to talk about it?” Sevika presses, trudging after you.

“Ask me later,” you fluff her off, trying to throw the whole interaction under the bed.

Thankfully, Sevika takes the hint and drops it.

The walk to Jayce’s forge is silent – apart from the usual noise of Zaun. You can feel tension in the air; despite Sevika’s willingness to drop the topic, she still eyed you with concern. It made your stomach twist – you should be the one worrying about her and her leg that she insisted was ready the moment the scabs peeled away! Yet, she’s watching you like you’re one of her bee hives that she doesn’t know will make it through the winter or not. By the time you arrive at Jayce’s you have had entirely too much of her pity and slam the crate on the counter harder than intended. Jayce, who had been sitting on a bench and taking a water break, jumps at the sudden sound, his head whipping over to you.

“Oh! Hey, you too, it’s about time you brought me all of those bottles. I was starting to think you’d forgotten,” Jayce says, getting up with a grin that only twinges slightly at his aching back.

“Got busy,” Sevika grunts, setting her crate on the counter gently.

“I bet! I heard from Ekko that you two brought back a kid while out on patrols. So, I figured you were too busy with the little one running around underfoot to come see me,” Jayce rambles, pulling out a pad of paper and a pen.

“The kid’s Jinx’s problem,” Sevika grunts, an unamused look on her face.

“Oh, sorry, I just thought –“ Jayce starts, blinking at the two of you owlishly.

“Don’t worry about it. Isha and Jinx have been over quite a few times, but we’re more of… aunts. She’s gotten very attached to Jinx, it’s quite adorable,” you jump in, stopping Sevika from responding with another monotone, grumpy answer.

Jayce smiles and nods, his head bobbing with enthusiasm. “Good to know – I’ll have to let Mel know, she’s got a supply box ready for Isha’s new caretaker. It took her a few weeks to get it organized; she even put in a rush order with Grayson for some toys.”

A bubbly, sentimental smile quivers its way onto your lips at Jayce’s words. Zaun’s community never fails to surprise you in all the best ways. The warm, solid weight of Sevika’s hand settles on your waist, pulling your sides flush. She leans her weight slightly onto your side, her leg clearly giving her trouble – but the slow stroke of her thumb on your ribs makes your heart flip in your chest. Sevika may be using you for support, yet the gentle way she holds onto you is far past utilitarian. 

“Good. That kid needs all the support she can get. Now, the bottles?” Sevika prompts him, nodding her head to the crates.

“Alright,” Jayce chuckles, clicking the pen. “What do you want me to do with the bottles? I can make something decorative or recycle them. Your choice.”

“Something pretty. This one doesn’t have much other than survival gear,” Sevika says, making you blush.

“You don’t have to –“

Sevika tilts her head and levels you with an eye roll that could stop earthquakes. There’s an edge of pain in her eyes, another sign of her injury flaring up. Privately, you wonder if she gets pains in her arm as well… it might account partially for her short temper and grumpy attitude. Possibly also the drinking. Though, you definitely shouldn’t be trying to diagnose your friend when you have only a few week’s worth of mediocre medical training from Singed’s clinic. Instead, you stare at the counter and resolve to take her home after this, even if you have to make up some bullshit excuse to get her there.

“Right… anything in particular?” Jayce asks, eyeing the two of you with a raised eyebrow.

“You’re the artist. Surprise me,” Sevika shrugs, as if it suddenly doesn’t matter to her. You open your mouth to argue that she is also an artist, as she crochets, but clamp your mouth shut, deciding not to argue with her. You did not need to embarrass yourself further in front of Jayce and make this trip take longer with a compliment she could easily turn into a petty argument.

Jayce merely nods his head and jots down a note, before ripping off the paper and sticking it amongst the bottles. “You won’t regret putting your trust in me. I am great at surprises! I’ll get this to you when it’s finished – apparently, a couple of the people we found in Piltover recently have started running a postal service. They have been delivering my orders with a surprising amount of accuracy and care.”

“Well, we patiently await your next masterpiece,” you say, smiling brightly in an attempt to seem composed while you rush this conversation along. “Sevika and I have a few more errands to run, so we will leave you to your work.”

“Thank you for stopping by. Have a good day, both of you,” Jayce chirps before retreating into the forge proper.

You turn to Sevika, who is taking heavy, slow breaths in through her nose and out through her clenched teeth. Gently, you squeeze her side, providing her something other to focus on, rather than the pain. Your mind recounts the location of your last joint, primed and ready for smoking. Just enough to take the edge off Sevika’s pain so she wasn’t two seconds away from outright trembling in your arms. “You know, I’m kind of tired – it’s been a long week, and I am dying to just stretch out on the porch for a cat nap in the sun.”

Sevika turns her gaze to you, blinking her eyes at an almost glacial pace. The air tastes of exhaustion and pain as she slumps a little more against you. For a moment, you worry she’s about to grumble that you’re only making excuses to get her to go home. Or, worse, that she’d try and find a way to stay out longer while she is clearly in pain.

“Yeah. Let’s go home.”  

Quietly breathing a sigh of relief, you nod your head and guide her back the way you had come. “How does a joint and some lazy pizza sound? I think we’ve got some pitas lying about from a couple days ago, and we definitely have everything else left over from when we made pizza subs.”

“Sounds good, sweet thing,” Sevika mumbles, limping despite herself.

You smile gently, too worried about her to let the nickname go to your head. Instead, you guide her down the streets, taking the shortest path with practiced perfection after having to be self-sufficient for the past few weeks. She’s leaning so hard against your side that you’re practically carrying her – you can’t find it in yourself to complain despite her weighing far more than your carrying capacity.

Finally reaching home, you help her to the back porch and get her to promise to stay put. She barely puts up a fight, waving you off to go do what you need to do. Stepping inside for a moment, you grab a blanket, the promised joint and a half-eaten bag of homemade chips you’d bought last week. Dinner can wait until later. Sevika is exactly where you left her, eyes screwed shut in pain and leaning back against the swinging bench, nails dug into her leg. You sit on her right side, turned toward her with one leg tucked under the other, throwing the blanket over the two of you. She blindly gropes until she can pull the blanket closer to herself. A dull ache fills your chest as you watch her, wishing you could do more to help her. For now, you do what you can, lighting the joint and taking two puffs before passing it over to her. She takes a shaky drag, having to remove her hand from her leg.

Refusing to allow yourself to hesitate, you place your hands over her leg where you knew the bite had been. Her eyes flicker open, watching you but not protesting. You take it as a sign to continue, slowly kneading your fingers into her thigh. She sighs softly, leaning back so hard her head knocks against the metal bar of the porch swing. Instead of passing the joint back, she places it between your lips and tells you to inhale. You obey, letting the smoke curl out from between your lips when she pulls it away. Every few moments, she repeats the action rather than passing the joint back to you properly, and you continue to massage her thigh, helping her as best you can. Her eyes linger on your lips with each inhale, and you cling to each contented sigh that escapes hers, prompted by your ministrations.

Sevika puts the joint out on the metal frame of the porch swing and flicks it into the ashtray sitting precariously on the porch railing. For a brief moment, you wish she’d put it out on you and flush in embarrassment at your own thoughts. Sevika barely notices, wrapping her arm around your shoulders and rearranging the two of you far more effectively than should have been possible. The blanket is tossed over your legs as she lays out on the porch swing, having pulled you down to lay on her chest, your legs resting between hers. Your face flushes harder as your head lands between her breasts. With her hand between your shoulder blades, you are effectively pinned down, right where she wants you. Hesitantly, you wrap your arms around her torso; hands splayed on the small sliver of her back that isn’t pressed into the cushion of the porch swing. You will take what you can get, like a starved dog given scraps from the table – hungrily and eagerly, lapping up them far too quickly until there’s nothing left but the bitter taste of the floor.

“So… what made you freeze earlier?” Sevika asks tentatively after an eternity has passed.

With a heavy sigh, you finally explain to her the bitter memory that had stuck to your consciousness like glue until Sevika had pried you away. “A couple years ago, I got caught in a blizzard and took shelter in the first building I found…”

She listens intently, rubbing circles into your back as one of your hands snakes up to rub her shoulder. She stiffens for a moment when you do so yet makes no move to bat it away. The tension in her shoulder slowly subsides as you continue, digging your thumb into the meat of her shoulder to ease away the knots that have coiled there. Sevika melts further into the porch swing with each flex of your hand, her head leaning forward and tucking into the crook of your shoulder.

Once you finish, she has no words to say that could justifiably pass as comforting. Instead, she pulls you closer and wraps her arm around your shoulders. You hadn’t even noticed you had started crying until she starts to shoosh you gently – with no intention to force you to stop crying, only to comfort you. An eternity passes you by as you cry into Sevika’s shirt, feeling utterly pathetic and entirely validated as she murmurs gentle words of kindness into your skin. You struggle to calm down, the sorrow bubbling up in your throat as you cling to her. Each sob slowly lowers your mind down to a simmer until you’re snuffling softly against her shirt. She passes you a handkerchief so you can blow your nose and rakes her fingers through your hair.

“Feel better?” she asks, rocking the swing with a gentle push against the wall.

“No… yes,” you mumble, trying to clear your nose. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have –“

A large, calloused hand covers your mouth as Sevika sighs, shaking her head at you: “No. Don’t go apologizing to me for that. You don’t ever have to apologize for being human. Especially not to me.”

“Okay,” you whisper against her hand, letting your hot breath lick against her palm. She pulls it away, tucking a loose strand of your hair behind your ear. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, sugar plum,” Sevika yawns, stretching out a little on the porch swing before shuffling back into a comfortable position. “Let’s have dinner later; I don’t feel like gettin’ up right now. And you ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Her hand rests firmly between your shoulder blades as if you’d dare to try. Instead, you deflate against her, making sure not to rest your head in the damp spot on her shirt. Unfortunately, that means your face is right next to her breast – though Sevika doesn’t seem to mind. She hums contently, going back to stroking her hand through your hair when she’s sure you’re not going to get up.

“Five more minutes,” you mumble contently, smiling against the soft flesh of her breast unintentionally pressed against your face.

“Fifteen,” Sevika argues.

“Ten,” you argue back.

“Fine.”

The two of you accidentally fall asleep as the porch swing rocks back and forth. When you awake, night has started to overtake the sky, and you’re starving. You glance up to see Sevika’s face cast in the warm glow of the setting sun. She’s still fast asleep, the most peaceful you have ever seen her. There’s a soft smile on her lips and her hand is tangled in your hair, and for a moment, you want nothing more than to be able to lean forward so you can slowly kiss her awake. But this isn’t about what you want. This is about survival and friendship, and all that you cannot have yet give to others freely. So, you extract yourself from her hold, flinching at the tiny whimper that escapes her, and escape to the kitchen.

By the time the pita pizzas are almost done, Sevika stumbles into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Neither of you brings it up. That night, you sleep in your own bed, cold and alone, wanting to give Sevika her space before you fuck up the one good thing you have in this world.

[shamrockqueen]

Predator in the desert

Chapter 3

Pairing : Winter soldier x reader (post apocalyptic AU)

Warnings : Desperation, starving behavior, references to war, duality of the mind, emotionless man

Word count : 2020

Chapter 1

Bucky MasterList

You stopped breathing, the ghost of an echo bouncing through your ears after he’d yelled at you.

Your eyes snapped from his cutting and cold gaze, further down to the glimmer of his fearsome metal fingers as they closed around the old brass knob on the door. The only opening to the room, the only way out, and you wouldn’t be able to reach it, let alone slip past his solid stonelike frame.

You weren’t ‘calm’ by any means, but he had your attention, and even as you continued to shiver, it was all he really needed.

“Are you hungry?”

You flinched as he spoke; his voice edged only with a lack of patience as it reached out to you with heavy hands to shake you from your reeling thoughts.

You didn’t answer just yet, feeling your pulse thrum along your skin wildly. You just laid there, stunned as you stared at those metal fingers tightening around the knob of the door and trying to ease your own breathing before it made you feel numb.

“I asked if you were hungry.” He was much more stern, and even a little louder this time, watching with equal disinterest as you gasped back and struggled to answer.

“Y-yes… I‘m hungry.”

You spoke weakly, your lips shaking and your eyes welling with a wet dribble of tears. Like a small break in the smallest of bones as you gave in to the absurdity.

Of course you were hungry. You’ve been hungry since you were a screaming infant, just as everyone doomed to a life in the wasteland had been. Food in any amount was a luxury, whether it’s warm meat and grains or smashed bugs you find crawling along the floor by your bedroll.

This promise of food without a single bat of his eye should have felt like a dream come true, but something in your stomach felt heavy before clenching with a sharp cramp. That familiar pang of hunger pains morphing viscerally into obvious fear as your guts knotted together.

This was the only moment in your miserable life that you didn’t crave food, as you were consumed only with dread.

You didn’t want to take anything from this unholy amalgamation of man and metal. It was like cowering beneath the boogeyman, a monster of jagged teeth and twisted limbs that could steal your last shred of innocence, only to find an unreadable being that looked no different from yourself. He didn’t wear enough of his lethality on his skin, leaving you to spiral at the possibilities of what these chains binding you to his lair really meant for your near future.

It was no better than being a rabbit caught in a cage. There is the offer of water and now food, but the danger of your captivity, just as the chain around your leg, was a staunch reminder that none of this would be out of kindness. There is no good reason that you are here—none that could be conceived as all the terrible reasons swarm your aching head.

His expression never seemed to change as he took in every reaction you gave him, seeming to read it like new data to further his own strange purpose. When he was finished searching your jumbled tomes, whether having found his needed information or losing interest, he dragged that door open and disappeared through it before shutting you back inside that room. Only this time, you were alone with the crushing silence he had once held above you.

A silence quickly broken by the hard clack of a lock turning shut in the flimsy wooden barrier this soldier had placed between you two.

He fit the stories from old fantasies of war. An old story long left covered in dust, detailing how both sides ate away at one another until the bones were bare and empty of their marrow. He bore the red star, the mark of a demon of irradiated sands. One head severed from its ranks meant two would splinter out in its place, biting and gnashing its way through the wasteland.

The great hydra was supposed to be dead, a final rest assured long before your own birth. How wrong they all were apparently, and as you recounted those scary fairy tales, your stomach twisted harder and harder.

You tried to steady your breathing, letting it stutter and shake before it finally met an even rhythm.

‘You really did need to calm down’ The traitorous thought was the last fly to buzz through your brain before you let the muscles in your shoulders fall loose to hit the floor.

Your ankle still felt heavy with its new iron cuff, and you struggled back onto your elbows and further onto your feet, the sound of the chain dragging along the wood the only noise left to taunt you.

Your eyes narrow at the brassy knob, a small spark of defiance finally igniting in your chest only to fall short of catching a flame.

You were frustrated at best, hot tears stinging your eyes before spilling out over your dirty cheeks.

‘Why me? For fucks sake, why?”

How were you significant enough to be stolen? Did he pity you, thinking that keeping you would be better for your well-being, like a lost kitten climbing among the rocks he had scooped up?

Why would a monster want to help you? Why would he bother to care for you when he could do what any other villain would do to others who strayed too far from home?

But, this room didn’t look like a pen to keep his livestock. It had a small window at its other end, barred on the outside of the glass for your protection. The bed wasn’t shabby, only worn, and with actual blankets and pillows.

If you were to be kept, you suppose he chose to keep you well.

You turned back to the door, its knob within reach, but you didn’t jump to futilely pull or tear at it. You reach forward, a shriveled shard of hope still tearing at your heavy heart as you slide your fingers around it.

You know it was locked; you heard it happen, but you still clung to the possibility of this being a terribly real nightmare instead. Maybe your mind would let you open the door, but as you twisted the handle, it of course did not budge.

You stood closer, your head falling to your chest as you pressed your fingers to the wood. Your mouth opened with a shaking exhale of an empty scream, and new tears flooded over to wash the rest of your grimy face.

You did not expect the door to push forward on its own, nearly smacking you in the face as it knocked you back. You land on the floor unceremoniously. Still so weak and unsteady, you weren’t even a suitable match for an old door.

The man was back, standing over you with a plate in his human hand. He sighed before setting the platter of promised food on the bed, stepping over you in the process.

He spoke evenly, saying, “I didn’t mean to hit you,” but his voice didn’t carry any ounce of guilt for knocking you back on your ass. Would this have been the first time he’d knocked you down, or was it simply the only time he hadn’t meant to do so?

“Are you alright?” he asked as he leaned over your crumbled form, reaching towards your reddened cheek where the wood had initially smacked you.

You immediately shied away from his touch but didn’t fight to scramble backward.

He leaned away but offered you his less harrowing hand to help you off the floor instead of leaving you to do so by yourself again.

You never answered his last question, but as he didn’t press further, it was possible that he wasn't really interested either way.

He gestured to the plate of food he’d set on the bed and said flatly, “Eat.”

You looked over at the plate still perched on a pile of blankets. A slab of cooked meat, diced cubes of root vegetables, and a mush of something boiled, green, and leafy. It was the best thing you’d ever seen.

Actual meat the size of your hand coupled with real vegetables possibly rich with those vitamins and mineral-things the doctor used to talk about. Whatever it was, it made your tongue wet as you swept it over your cracked lips.

A small part of you still wanted to be cautious, as another balled its fists in frustration from being kept away from a beautiful plate of healthy food.

You opened your mouth, only to choke back on the words with a wet cough. You sputtered again, crying like a sad child for him to witness before finally speaking.

“Are you going to drug me?”

"No,” he answered quickly and with little care.

You watched for any signs of a farce, a twitch of an eyebrow, a quirk of a lip, anything. His eyes held their dull, disinterested blue as he waited for you to make up your mind.

You ventured closer to the plate, pressing a dirty finger against the still hot morsel of meat. It was light in color, like white meat off a rabbit, but you needed to be certain before going past this thin line you had drawn for yourself.

Your lips stuck together as you nearly whispered a squeak of a few words, “Is it people?”

The ‘P’ was sputtered by the drop of collected tears, making the sound more pronounced as it left your lips.

“No”

You looked back at him at the subtle change in his voice. With one word, one syllable, it was oddly unmistakable. He sounded a little offended, and yet he didn’t lift a finger against you.

That last ‘no’ was all you needed before throwing yourself at the plate, scooping at the wet potatoes and greens with your fingers to wipe the tasteless sludge over your tongue in ecstasy.

You tore at the meat with your bare teeth like a hungry dog in a frenzy of unending starvation.

You weren’t human anymore; no longer yourself. It was shameful how you felt. In this moment, as you tore at a lump of fat with your back molar, you wanted this more than ever.

You wanted to be a pet if it meant the promise of this minimal care. You wanted to be kept; you wanted the fresh water and food; damned be the consequences.

You weren’t thinking clearly, not until you licked the last stain of grease and green vegetable smudge off the plate with your desperate little tongue. You hadn’t realized you were panting, gasping at the air, and holding the plate with white knuckles and numb fingers as if he could fly off and never return.

His expression had shifted for only a second. A split moment where his eyes widened a single centimeter before returning to their natural steely state. His shoulders stayed stiff with new concern. It was all a subtle change you had missed during your indulgence.

“Do you want more?” He asked, his voice still tainted with that unspoken concern.

You swear you could nearly feel your heart stop at just hearing those words. You were still desperate, and you nodded frantically.

He reached carefully towards you for the plate, giving you his metal fingers instead of the soft fleshy digits of his other hand. Possibly anticipating being bitten when pulling away the saucer. You let him take it from you, watching as he repeated his earlier actions of leaving and locking you inside the room.

There was a burn of shame somewhere in your stomach, but it was greatly overshadowed by a deep desire for sustenance. And, this man, what should be a monster in your eyes, was unbothered to fulfill such a desire.

You stood in place, not reaching for the door like the captive you are, not waiting on the bed like a puppy missing its master. But, by god, you wanted that fucking food.

Chapter 4

More post apocalyptic AU

Tags : @itsswritten @cjand10 @dear-lolita @took-a-wr0ng-turn @scott-loki-barnes @ihavetwoholesforareason @potatothots @toozmanykids @wintrsoldrluvr @heletsmelovehim

[kiaxet]

So it turns out the latest update in @somerandomdudelmao‘s apocalypse comic has been living in my head, and when that happens I need to get it out, so ~900 words of sad it is!

~~~~~~~~

Donnie is good at birthdays. He has been once he was old enough to understand the concept. It's a point of pride.

Specifically, he's good at presents. According to his data, most people who fail at presents do so because of the guesswork they seem to think needs to be involved. He's never understood the point of that. Data and hypotheses, certainly, but why guess when a definitive answer is available after a simple direct inquiry?

"What do you want for your birthday?"

Early on, the presents are easy. Art supplies. Comics. Stuffed animals. Things he could hand to Papa in an easily followed list format, or obtain for himself once they all got old enough to start safely leaving the lair and venturing into the city above. It's simple and straightforward and so, so easy to get right.

(Of course, he always has an annotated list of his own desired gifts to provide to his brothers; if he's solved the guesswork issue, he may as well make things easy for them too. Plus, that method ensures he gets what he wants.)

Things start getting a little more complicated as he and his brothers get older. Art supplies and comics and stuffed animals are still very much appreciated, and he's documented his brothers' tastes well enough to know exactly what they like, but the answers to his simple direct inquiry are different.

"Dee, can you help me plan this mural out? I think I have enough space, but I could use a hand with the measurements."

"Donton, my half of the day is gonna be a Jupiter Jim marathon, and I need you there. Without your laptop." A beat. "But you can pick one of the movies if you want."

"Hey Donnie, you think you can help me out fixing up the gym? Things just stay put longer if you weld 'em."

After a few years of documentation, Donnie spots the pattern. His brothers appreciate physical gifts from him, certainly, but that's not what they want anymore. What Donnie's family wants from him is time - time outside the lab where he spends a good amount of his days, time spent in conversation or shared activity or simply in the same room. It's not as easy as finding the right physical gift, but if that's what they want, then he's more than happy to provide. Now that he's discerned the pattern, it's just as easy to give his brothers what they want, and Donnie can continue to maintain that he is Good At Birthdays as a point of pride.

~~~~~~~~

The Hamatos don't do birthdays anymore. There's no time in the apocalypse, no supplies, and Donnie is one of the few who actually keeps track of the calendar date. The apocalypse certainly has its share of anniversaries, a list that only grows the more people they lose, but birthdays are no longer celebrated.

With one exception.

Casey Jones Junior, their collective adopted kid, is young enough that birthdays still matter - should still matter. They do their best to keep him safe and keep those days calm and happy for him, despite everything happening around them, and while they don't always succeed, they at least try.

And damn it all, Donatello is still good at birthdays.

"Casey Junior!" He greets the kid with a grin, leaning on his bo like it's not both an inconvenience and a humiliation to need to rely on it in order to stay upright.

"Uncle Tello?"

"Since I'm not very good at guessing, I'll ask straight out." This is not entirely true - he has a list of potential gifts for Casey drafted, with 98% certainty that whatever Casey asks for will align with one of them - but he requires that confirmation to move forward. A certainty in a world where certainty is in short supply. "What do you want for your birthday?"

"My...ah." Casey's expression falls and he looks away, gaze fixed on the paperwork in his hands. Donatello says nothing, pointedly ignoring the elephant in the room in order to give Casey space. "You...can do anything," Casey starts.

"Pretty much, yes." Material issues aside - spirits know he'd have a cure for whatever the Krang had infected him with if those weren't a concern.

"I want you to stay alive," Casey says, and Donnie's smile freezes in place as Casey looks back up at him. "Can you do that?"

Damn that two percent uncertainty.

"Ah. Of course." He shrugs, as though he doesn't know exactly what Casey is asking for, and pulls up a holographic display of a calendar. "According to my calculations, I will be alive next month, which means I'll be here for your birthday." Not talking about it won't solve the problem, but it may salvage this conversation. "So! What's an actual gift you want?"

"I want you to be here." Casey's gaze finds a point on the floor, and Donnie falls silent. "Not just for a month."

No. No, he needs something concrete - something he can act on - he knows how long his list of responsibilities is, but he still feels stymied, rushing up on the end, and he needs something he can do- "But it's not a gift," he replies, a last-ditch effort he's fairly certain is bound for failure-

"No. No, it is."

As always, all Donnie's family wants from him is time.

And now, at the end of his rapidly-shortening life, it's the one thing he can no longer give them.