#car crash sirens wailing people screaming

[dr4isaitl]

"Connor McBoring Connor McNopersonality Connor McBeigehouse" BOOOO TOMATO TOMATO OLD JOKE i bet u still think the mark of a well rounded character is Sarcastic Goofy 6ft tall Dark hair green eyes "He covers his emotions up with humor... AND hes sexy 😟 This has never been done before. Every other male character is a John Doe"

[ode-to-melpomene]

hi hi mel!!! i love all your works and your writing is so wonderful ^^

was wondering if you could write something where one of the bat boys reaches the reader right before they’re about to get kidnapped by some criminals?? like maybe they’re publicly in a relationship w the batboy’s wayne identity n get targeted for that reason but one of the boys gets there js in the nick of time :)

thank u sm and have a great rest of ur day ^^

Love this prompt! Some of these are pre-kidnapping, some are mid-kidnapping. If anyone wants additional characters added, let me know! Hope you enjoy 💛

Daring Rescues

Pairings: Bruce Wayne x gn!reader, Dick Grayson x gn!reader, Jason Todd x gn!reader, Tim Drake x gn!reader Synopsis: Who comes to your aid when you find yourself in need of saving? Word Count: 2466 Warnings: Established relationship! Kidnapping, minor injuries, general mortal peril.

Bruce Wayne:

Bruce knew better than to associate you with Batman. He had learned that lesson a hundred times over by now, how dangerous it was to associate the people he cared for with the cowl. But now wasn't the time to dwell on the blunder.

“Oracle, update,” he barked over the communication device. Bruce perched atop a balcony, staring down at the street below.

“Black SUV turning onto Carlton,” Barbera replied, the sound of her fingers furiously working over the keys of the Batcomputer meeting his ears. “The car is registered to a loan shark put away a few years ago. Suspected ties to Falcone.”

Bruce uttered a grunted mm in response, eyes narrowed beneath the cowl. His eyes scanned the road below. He caught the sounds of sirens wailing in the distance. “GCPD?”

“I’ve got them cutting off side roads. Headed your way now.”

He squared his shoulders and prepared himself to launch from the balcony, one hand braced on the ledge beneath him and the other on his belt. He cocked his head to the East and narrowed his eyes- yes, there. He watched the SUV turn the corner, skidding as it spun around the sharp turn and narrowly avoided oncoming traffic.

“Sixty-three miles an hour?” he guessed.

“Sixty-six. Sounds like you might be losing your touch.”

“Oracle,” Bruce warned. He scowled. That extra speed would change his entry angle.

“Sorry. Dropping in three-”

Bruce’s hand shot to his belt.

“Two-”

The end of the grappling hook shot out from the device in his hand and buried itself within the construction scaffolding across from him. He gave a single tug, then launched himself from the balcony-

“One-”

- And crashed feet first into the rear passenger window of the interior of the modified SUV, seats removed to provide more space in the back. Panicked shouts rang out as glass shards shattered across the interior. Bruce pulled his cape over the lower half of his face, preventing glass from cutting his skin as he hit the floor.

The vehicle swerved and he used the momentum to bring his elbow into collision with a man’s partially covered face, his jaw making a distressing crack at the impact. His other hand lashed out, grabbing the driver by his hair and slamming his face against the steering wheel. The driver’s nose crunched and blood sprayed against the vehicle’s dash.

Hands grasped at his suit and he drove his knee into the third assailant’s ribs, sending him stumbling backwards. Your muffled shriek filled the interior of the SUV as the vehicle swerved and momentarily rocked into the curb.

The driver’s hands gripped at Bruce’s wrist behind his head, his foot flooring the accelerator. Bruce let out a tsk as he lunged forward and looped his arm around the driver’s neck. The man’s shrill scream was quickly silenced as Bruce squeezed the man’s neck in the juncture of his elbow and bicep.

He pulled the man backwards and used his opposite hand to stabilize the chokehold. His freehand reached for the steering wheel, guiding the vehicle down the road. He just needed a moment-

The driver finally went limp in Bruce’s arms. He tugged, pulling the man from his seat and wedged a batarang against the brake, quickly bleeding off speed.

Muffled screams filled the room, followed by a grunt of pain. Familiar hands raked over Bruce’s belt. He gripped the wheel with one hand and turned his head just in time to see a zap of electricity come to life.

You dove towards the third kidnapper, barreling into him and driving the taser into the side of his neck. The man screamed, spasmed, and went limp.

You panted around the gag in your mouth, your hands chained together in front of you. You held the taser tightly in your hands, glaring down with a fiery expression.

When you turned your gaze on him, that fiery passion was replaced with a soft, mirthful glint in your eye. You gave him your best smile, despite the gag, and a cheesy thumbs up.

Bruce scowled, despite the way his heart skipped a beat.

Dick Grayson:

Why did you always have to rush into things?

Of course it was a set up. That was so obvious now that you had a split lip and blood trickling from your nose. It was a last ditch effort on the part of some petty criminals who wanted a piece of the Wayne wealth in exchange for Dick’s hapless partner.

The masked goons cornered you in your own apartment, toying with you like cats stalking a mouse. One swung a pipe wrench and you skittered backwards, nearly bumping into the end table next to your couch. You really needed to move that when this was all over, and make sure the space was less cluttered so you wouldn’t get tripped up like this again-

A blade came slashing down, glinting in the waning sunlight that filled your apartment as it narrowly missed your face. Your curse was met by vicious laughter. With a snarl, you gripped the end table and hucked it at the figure holding the blade. 

Two of the goons jumped away from the end table as it flung towards them. You took the chance to dash to the kitchen, knocking over and tossing random items in your wake. As much as you appreciated the self defense training Dick had put you through, you didn’t trust yourself against their weapons. You took solace in knowing they weren’t here to kill you… but that didn’t mean they weren’t more than willing to rough you up.

You just needed to waste some time. So you threw a plate, a beautiful, arbor rimmed plate that had been a gift to you and Dick from Selina and Bruce (you suspected Selina stole them.) The assailants dodged the ceramic, so you snatched the detachable faucet and sprayed the nearest goon in the face with cold water. Too bad they were smart enough to wear masks.

And then you saw the balcony door slide open. It all happened so fast, a flash of black, blue, and silver darting into the space. Metal clashed with skin, a sickening thunk sounding as an escrima collided with an attacker’s skull. An angered shout tore through the air, only to be quickly silenced by a thud as the outspoken figure hit the floor.

It was over in a matter of moments. Three unconscious bodies on the floor, tucked out of sight behind your kitchen island, and a shadowed figure huffing agitated breaths through gritted teeth. Spots of blood on the escrima, on his face.

You blinked once, twice, clearing the fog from your vision. Nightwing- Dick loomed across from you. He tucked the escrimas behind his back and turned to face you, the scrunch in his brow covered by his mask.

“Are you alright?” you asked, voice barely above a tremble.

His expression softened immediately. He heaved a sigh and dashed around the kitchen island, sweeping you into his tight grasp. You wrapped your arms around him just as eagerly, pressing your face to the stretchy fabric of his suit.

“Should be asking you that, love.” Dick pulled away slightly, holding you at arms length. Though you couldn’t see his eyes through his mask, you knew he was carefully taking stock of your injuries.

“Just a few scrapes,” you said with a reassuring smile in spite of the way your swollen lip burned. “You should see the other guys.”

Dick barked out a laugh and pulled you flush against him once again, burying you in a tight embrace.

Jason Todd:

You should have called a cab.

Rain poured down on you, drenching you to the skin. Rain hadn’t been on the forecast today–you always made sure to check on days you chose to walk to-and-from work. When you had stepped out of the office building to find a slight drizzle dappling the sidewalk, you had thought nothing of it. Like many other Gothamites, you had assumed it was a passing spring weather.

Now the storm drains gurgled pitifully as water gushed into it. Your clothes were sodden, shoes waterlogged, mood dampened. You squelched down the sidewalk with a sour expression plastered across your features. The torrential downpour quieted your sentences, muffling your ears to the acute sound of footsteps following you from a distance.

You turned onto the next block and huffed, the wind now buffeting you face on. What a dreary, horrible day to be let off late from work. Jason would likely be on patrol by now, leaving you to sit alone in your shared apartment, reheating whatever he had left over from lunch. Maybe you could curl up in your bed and dive into that novel you had both been reading. That could make for a good conversation to wind him down from the emotional high of his patrol-

Foreign hands snatched you from your thoughts and dragged you into a dark alley, your scream muffled by a gloved palm.

You were slammed face first into a brick wall, the rough texture scraping your cheek. You bit back a snarl as the hands turned you around and smacked the back of your head against the hard stone. The chill edge of a blade was pressed to your throat and when your eyes readjusted to the sudden darkness and stinging pain in your head you were met with a masked figure. Great, because what you really needed after a long day was a mugging.

You fought viciously as the figures around you herded you down the back alley like a spitting, snarling animal. You stomped your heel on their feet, bit at their hands, kicked and flailed until you heard muffled requests for rope and chloroform. It wasn’t until you saw the van tucked away beside an industrial grade dumpster that you began caterwauling like an anguished banshee.

You were relieved by the sound of a familiar thump at the edge of the alleyway–you would recognize the sound of those heavy boots dropping anywhere, with how often you heard them on your fire escape. Your attackers slammed you against the van and you barked out a gleeful laugh at the sight. The attackers had a moment to turn their heads before Red Hood was descending on them with ferocity. You turned away, pressing your forehead to the van.

Screams, bones cracking, bodies hitting the ground. It was over quickly. When you turned to face him, his armored chest was heaving and he clenched and unclenched his fists at his side. You knew better than to touch him when he was this high strung, so you settled for the safer option.

“Took you look enough,” you teased breathlessly, keeping your gaze one the way the red surface of his helmet snapped to face you instead of on the (you hoped) unconscious kidnappers. “I was starting to wonder if I was going to have to take care of this myself.”

The toe of Jason’s boot nudged an unconscious figure, a red and rapidly welting bite mark blossoming on the individual’s hand and wrist. “I don’t doubt you could’ve, but a little help never hurt.”

You cracked a smile, softening the hard lines of your expression in the hopes it would ease him. His shoulders relaxed at your placating gesture. You extended a hand, fingers spread in a silent offer.

“Walk me home?” you asked, more for his benefit than yours. Your heart still pounded in your chest, but the tightness eased when he interlaced his gloved fingers with yours.

Tim Drake:

Warehouses were such a cliché place to harbor an abductee. What happened to creativity? Tim crawled through an upper window of the dilapidated warehouse, some thirty feet above the ground. He stepped carefully across the rafters as he surveyed the scene.

There you were, a normal college student tied to a chair–well, normal if you ignore the fact that you were rumored to be in a relationship with the Timothy Drake-Wayne. He frowned at the sight of your arms twisted behind you and tied to the back of the chair. They had you situated in the center of the empty room with goons patrolling around you. His eyes sought a singular figure atop a pile of scrap, a rifle in hand. The figure searched the rafters–Tim would have to be careful to avoid him.

Tim stalked across the rafters, keeping to the shadows. He crept across one of the beams that bridged the center of the warehouse, ducking low and staying out of the light. His eyes were fixed on you-

Oh. You perked up, your head lifting and shoulders easing. You knew he was there somewhere, judging by the way your head turned slightly to scan the open room. You tilted your head, a flimsy gesture towards a second figure, patrolling near you with one hand tucked away in her coat. A hidden weapon? He bit back a smile at your clever aid.

Tim took another step, and something clanged. He looked below him, spotting a hook hanging from a long chain, the chain swinging under the beams subtle movements. He turned just in time to see the sniper swing his rifle in the direction of the sound-

You screamed.

The shrill shriek shook each of the assailants and all eyes turned to you. He exhaled a harsh breath of relief as you wailed and the masked figures moved in towards you. The sniper’s weapons whipped towards you and away from Tim.

Tim dropped. His landing was cushioned by the goon you had pointed out, knocking the figure to the ground. He used the momentum to carry himself into a roll, then launched to his feet and barrelled into the next unsuspecting kidnapper. This one was ready, his hands up in fists. Tim gave an opening and ducked as the man’s fist sailed past Tim. He gripped the attacker's arm and yanked, tossing him over Tim’s shoulder. The man landed with a thunk and Tim was quick to follow, extracting a pair of cuffs from his belt and linking the two fallen attackers together.

A shot rang out. It seemed the sniper wasn’t very good, considering Tim remained fully intact. His hands dipped to his belt again and withdrew a few batarangs. A quick volley knocked the sniper's mask askew and sent them stumbling down the rickety pile of scrap they stood upon. He used the opening to launch himself across the room, bo staff extending in hand. He swept the kidnapper’s legs, sending the figure tumbling down the pile.

“How did you know I was here?” he asked as he knelt to cuff and gag the attacker, kicking the rifle aside in the process.

“It got drafty,” you called back from where you sat tied in the center of the room. “Must’ve left the window open.”

[nico-di-genova]

[gunshots] [people screaming] [car crash sounds] [sirens] [alarms wailing]

[of-nyon]

internet went out yesterday so I missed most of Tumblr Halloween which is bullshit. Have a new wip in lieu of boops.

The first Holy Act of Rodimus Prime, True-Chosen, warm white light still spilling off his frame, was to bolt.

He hadn't even come here for the Matrix! He'd come for the crowd, pushing and straining against each other for so much as a glimpse of the ancient artifact, and certainly not paying attention to someone slipping a hand into their subspace to grab whatever he could.

Hot Rod ran, ignoring the “Hey, wait!” from the guard who'd waved him through earlier. Optimus Prime apparently meant it; sure, the rich folk still got the top spots, same as always, but they'd let through a lowlife street mech like Hot Rod without him needing to sweet-talk them. He polished up good, when he had the means and the funds and the energy, and he'd put effort into tonight's look in hope it'd get him past the guards.

All for nothing, as he dropped into alt mode and sped out, tires screeching over someone's panicked 'Sir!'. The grand staircase was coming up fast, and someone – not him – yelled as he cleared the thing in one go without slowing down, enough momentum going that he was still going forward on his front tires as the rest of his frame crashed down to the priceless marbled floor. People screamed and scrambled out of his way, the big doors thrown wide open for all of Cybertron to come and view the Matrix, but the crowd outside was too much. He flipped back into root mode, experience helping him wrest himself through tight gaps. The groups of incoming mechs didn't have the news yet, so no-one tried to stop him as he fought through the press of bodies – at least anyone chasing him would also have to contend with -

There was a screeching of sirens behind him. That had the crowd's attention, and Hot Rod didn't dare look back as he finally passed under the main palatial gate, a strange shudder running through his frame as he took to his alt again now he was out on the streets. The white light had bled off, at least. Sure, it wasn't illegal to be chosen by the Matrix, probably, that was why Prime had set this whole thing up in the first place, but it was definitely illegal to have a subspace full of stuff he really needed to sell if he wanted to fuel any time soon.

The sirens pursued. If this was Nyon, he thought, taking a corner so hard he skidded on two tires before coming back down on four, he would already be down any number of boltholes, slag, he could probably hide in the Temple itself, there was a way to get up into the rafters no-one else knew. But Iacon was different - wide, expensive streets, no cover, no friends. Well-to-do-mecha – or, more likely, their gardeners – blinked at him as he sped past. Delicate crystals chimed in his ferocious wake, mingling with the sirens.

Slag, slag, slag. They were maybe a corner away. They always chased a running mech. He took back to root again, coming up jogging, slowing down to maybe not look as guilty and they'd think they were chasing some other guy, desperately trying to find the way out of this mess. He'd never been -

“Psst, kid!”

His head snapped up. An arm was waving out of the window of one of the expensive houses, one floor up.

“See that drainpipe? If you kick off that windowsill you can shimmy up and – yeah, you got it!”

Hot Rod didn't stop to think, just lunged at the offered way out. No-one 'psst, kid!'-ing him ever did it because they were in with the cops, and he took the matte black hand that helped him through the window easily.

“Whew!” His saviour said as he tumbled through, realising at the last moment to duck his head as the sirens wailed past not a moment later. “Close call, eh?”

“Thanks,” Hot Rod gasped, vents billowing, then he stilled. The sirens had stopped.

“Ooh, I bet I know who that is,” the mech, a little civilian car with a burning blue visor, went over to lean over Hot Rod and yell out the window: “Yo! Prowl!”

“Jazz,” the Enforcer's voice floated up, sounding prim and proper and not nearly like he'd been gunning flat-out after a racer. “Is that smoke? Are you on fire? Do you need assistance?”

“Eh?” Jazz wafted away the billowing hot air coming off Hot Rod's trembling frame. “Nah, nah, 's this new effect we're coming up with for the next show, real cool, real hot, I mean. Just giving her a test run. You get your guy?” He was leaning conversationally on the windowsill now, Hot Rod trapped between his legs and the wall.

“He appears,” Prowl's disembodied voice said, “to have vanished in the middle of the street, right outside your window.”

“Wow,” Jazz replied, one foot tapping out a restless beat next to Hot Rod's knee. “That's crazy.”

“He's not in trouble,” Prowl continued. “With the Palace. If you see a red and yellow speedframe, likely forged racer, wide yellow spoiler-wings, flame decals, possible – possible Nyonian origin, please let me know immediately. Once the footage starts circulating, people will start recognizing him, and we need to ensure his safety above all else.”

“Huh. All right.” Jazz switched feet on a beat only he could hear. “What footage are we talkin' about?”

---

“Wow, mech, you are in it,” Jazz whistled, low and melodious and impressed. Hot Rod buried his head in his hands. By the time he'd been scrambling through Jazz's window the news and infranet had set on fire with the tale of a new Prime, with the recordings to prove it to the doubtful. Headline after headline, post after post, a whole slew of fun new conspiracy theories springing up around him. The press had very quickly identified him, the registration document at the Nyonian hot spot of his spark, name, and function splashed across screens the planet over.

Hot Rod, Entertainer.

From there it would be a short skip to the House that had picked up and framed his spark and raised him for the legally-mandated timeframe of three orns before he was put to work.

“Yanno,” Jazz said, “Prowler did say you weren't in trouble. Like, he knows you're here, just figures you're safe with me for the time being. That mech don't lie.” A pause. “Well, he does when the numbers line up, but not about this, I think. He really doesn't want you to go get yourself slagged, is what I'm saying.”

Hot Rod lifted his head up, twin points of blue optics burning through the gaps in his fingers.

“I'm just sayin',” Jazz repeated, holding his hands palm-up in a gesture of truce. “Anyway, lemme treat you while you're with me, mech. You gunned it down here, I bet you could do with some fuel.”

---

Jazz was sat on the couch with one leg crossed over so his foot rested on his knee, idly strumming his electrobass, picking out low notes while Hot Rod was small enough to curl up a cushion over. He'd slipped into recharge some time ago, no problem, mech'd had a busy day.

:Jazz.: His comm crackled to life. :How is he?:

Jazz glanced over at his new charge before (quietly) plucking out a dramatic strum he associated with Prowl's appearance on the scene. If you were friends with Jazz for long enough, sooner or later you got a leitmotif assigned to you. More than one, if he really liked you. Prowl had the record, with four to his name.

:Doin all right, I think. Got some fuel in him, an' he's sleepin now. Cute kid. He really the new Prime?:

:The evidence is irrefutable.:

:Dang. Been kept busy, then?:

:You do not know the half of it.: Prowl sighed through the comm. :Please keep an optic on him, he's safe where he is right now while we deal with the fallout. We'll reimburse any expenses.:

:No problem, no problem.:

:And...if all goes well and he does take up the Primacy, and even if he doesn't, there is a reasonable chance your apartment will become a sacred pilgrimage site.: Jazz laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of it, even knowing Prowl was as dead serious as he was with just about anything else in his life. :Optimus is more than happy to offer quarters in the Palace. I know your contract with Mellow is ending soon. We can bring you on-:

:What, as official good taste in music-haver?: Jazz asked, amused. And Prowl was right; Mellow liked to commission artists, pay for anything and everything they needed, then forget about it for a few decacycles until the contract was up and he got to see whatever it was you'd put together over that time. The mech had been on a night out with friends, scouting out his next big hit, Jazz had scored a gig as a temporary replacement bass player, and then was all but chased down by the guy after the show. And who would say no to what he was offering?

:If you'd like,: Prowl continued. Jazz had some idea that they were poking into Mellow's business, but that was no business of his, long as he got paid. He hadn't been interviewed about it, but Prowl was eager to get him out of the apartment and kept offering him a place up at the Palace.

:You know what,: Jazz said, glancing over to the sleeping probably-a-Prime and testing out some higher notes he thought suited Hot Rod. :Sure. It'll be funny, if nothing else.:

(part 2!)

[reachartwork]

DH.1: Playback

The streets are a mess, blood and debris everywhere. Sirens wailing, people screaming. It’s like a warzone out here, and we’re standing right in the middle of it. I’m stuffing a piece of my torn costume up my nose, trying to stop the bleeding. Burst a vessel stealing all that sound earlier. Hurts like hell, but no time to worry about that now.

Pumice emerges from the smoke like some kinda horror movie monster, cracking his knuckles and grinning like he just won the lottery. “Well, well, if it isn’t the traitor and the wannabe hero,” he sneers, his eyes fixed on Spindle. “Guess it’s my lucky day. I get to teach both of you a lesson.”

I glance at Spindle, and he looks back at me. We don’t need words to know what we gotta do. “Hey, Pumice!” I call out, trying to draw his attention. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to crash a party without an invitation?”

Pumice snorts. “Invitation? I’m here to shut this party down, permanently.”

I focus, reaching out with my power, and snatch the sound of a nearby car alarm. Then, with a flick of my mind, I play it back behind Pumice, hoping to spook him.

But Pumice just laughs. “You think a little noise is gonna scare me? I’m made of stone, nigga. And I got bigger fish to fry.” He turns, scanning the street, and I realize with a sinking feeling what he’s looking for. “Body count competition. No time for car alarms.”

Hell no. Not on my watch.

[a-sin-to-be-rin]

Can't Save 'Em All

Mary Jane knew. The second Peter pulled away from her, the moment his eyes narrowed and conflict crossed his face, she knew they were too late. There was a crash and darkness and…

And now, MJ is screaming at Peter to wake up. Why won’t he wake up?

---

Things were going fine until Peter’s Spider-Sense decided to pop up like an unwelcome zit and ruin everything.

Officer Davis - the man who saved Peter from becoming street pizza during his fight with the Demons - had been on stage, receiving a medal of honor. He was getting the praise and recognition he deserved, and it felt right.

And between speeches, Peter made plans with MJ. She’d suggested a coffee date. Peter elevated the offer to a homemade dinner. (And - when MJ looked at him dubiously - he deescalated slightly to dinner at a restaurant.) And MJ seemed to be happy with it. And Peter was happy because MJ was happy and things were working and then-

And then Peter’s mood-killing Spider-Sense hit him like a lead pipe. The mother of all headaches scrambled his brain, screaming out warnings from the vans to Peter’s left.

Whatever MJ is saying, Peter doesn’t hear it. He pushes past her, trying to see what the fuss is all about. Trying to see why his useless sixth sense is throwing the world’s loudest tantrum-

He feels it before he sees it. His hair stands on end, negative energy crackling and popping in the air.

Demons.

On steps out of a truck. Another from a car. And there’s one in the crowd and one by the exits and one on the stage and-

Too many. Peter doesn’t know where to go. He doesn’t know how to protect all these people. Especially when the demons are charging up, glowing energy surrounding their silhouettes. Peter has seconds - maybe less - to save everyone.

It’s a fool's task to even try.

With less than a moment left, Peter returns to MJ. “Get down!” he warns, doing all he can to shield her from the sudden blast that swallows them whole.

---

The sky is crying.

That’s the first thing MJ thinks when she opens her eyes. Because water and little pieces of cellophane tumble through the air. Ash and smoke quickly overtake them. And with smoke comes fire.

The world returns to MJ at hyperspeed. She rolls onto her knees and pushes herself up, wincing as her whole body expresses its displeasure. But she can’t worry about that right now.

“Peter!” she screams into the smoke. He isn’t beside her like she thought he was.

People rush past her, and MJ tries to pick through them, looking for a familiar face. But Peter isn’t running in the crowd. He’s not rushing around trying to fix things.

MJ finds Peter alright, but everything about him is wrong.

Because Peter isn’t saving people or controlling the crowd. He’s being dragged to safety.

“Peter!” MJ shouts, jogging to catch up.

The man dragging Peter along is panting, clearly too busy to answer questions, so MJ doesn’t ask him any. She just falls in line, trying to ignore how Peter looks like a chewed-up ragdoll.

They reach the next block over, taking shelter behind the bank. People are everywhere, some injured, some trying to find their friends, and all of them panicked. There's screaming, sirens, wailing. The air is so thick with smoke that it stings MJ’s eyes and makes her nose run.

The kind stranger sets Peter down and looks at MJ. “Are you hurt?”

Her head pounds. She's overwhelmed. Her side aches. But she's okay. She's surprisingly unhurt.

She shakes her head. “Thank you.”

And then he disappears into the crowd, and MJ is more concerned about Peter. About how pale he is. How blood oozes from a cut on his forehead. How he isn’t moving.

“Come on, Peter!” she calls, one hand on his chest to feel him breathing. But he won’t move. Won’t even flinch. MJ’s other hand hovers uncertainly, searching for a pulse.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

It’s there, but it’s slow. Struggling, even.

“Peter!” She shakes him, any sort of calm replaced by an all-encompassing panic. “Come on! Wake up!” Her voice cracks, and she ignores how wet her eyes are. “Wake up!”

Nothing. Like screaming at a car that just cut you off. Instinctive. Pointless. Rarely satisfying.

MJ looks around. Aren’t there supposed to be medics or something? What’s the point of the sirens if none of them are coming to help?

“Miles!”

MJ sees a disturbing reflection of her nightmare just to her right. A woman shaking a teenager, trying to rouse him. But the teenager groans and cracks his eyes open.

Peter stays deathly still. Deathly pale.

MJ’s shaking fingers find Peter’s pulse again.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

She’s relieved, but she can’t enjoy the relief, because there are still major problems to worry about. All of those problems being Peter.

“Come on!” MJ has lost the fight against tears. She can’t lose Peter. She just… She can’t. “Peter, can you please open your eyes? Or squeeze my hand or… or something! Say something!”

And then Peter groans, cracking one eye. MJ jumps.

“Peter?”

He watches her through half-lidded eyes, hazy and barely-aware. “MJ…? Wh-What’s…?” But he’s not panicked. Not like he should be. He’s tired and sluggish and-

And he’s closing his eyes.

“Peter, stay with me!” MJ orders. She squeezes his hand tightly - painfully, even - and Peter’s eyes flutter open again. “Stay awake!” Then she looks up, desperately searching the crowd.

“Someone help!”

Medics have arrived - they’re hustling around now, shouting orders and handing out colored cards - but there are too many people. They’re not even close enough to hear MJ.

So she waits impatiently, brushing the hair from one of the cuts on Peter’s face. Rubbing one temple with her thumb, trying to keep him awake.

“Peter, talk to me,” she demands.

Peter looks around, eyes not really focusing on anyone or anything. “Wha’s… Wha’s goin’ on?”

“Demons,” MJ tells him. “They attacked the award ceremony.”

Peter’s nose crinkles, eyebrows low in a scowl. “Sp-Spider-Man’s gotta… gotta help.” But he makes no move to stand. He just lays there, weakly gripping MJ’s hand.

“No. Peter Parker needs to stay awake. The first responders are on it.”

“Hm.” But Peter says no more, staring up at the sky. MJ squeezes his hand every so often, nudging him awake again.

“Are you hurt?”

MJ jumps again. An EMT is standing behind her, expression all business. “Ma’am, are you hurt?” he repeats.

“Me?” She shakes her head furiously. “No, no, I’m okay, but Peter is-”

“You can walk?” the EMT continues.

MJ nods hard.

The EMT hands her a card with a green label and kneels down to feel Peter’s pulse. Peter… Peter’s eyes are closed again. “What happened to him?”

“I…” MJ’s throat goes dry. “I’m not sure. He… He wouldn’t wake up at first.”

“How long would you guess?”

“I- I don’t know. Five minutes? Ten? I… I’m really not sure.”

The EMT’s expression remains the same. He calls Peter’s name, and digs a knuckle into Peter’s chest. Peter grunts, shifting slightly. “Can you open your eyes for me, Peter?”

Peter doesn’t move.

The EMT snaps a card with a red label around Peter’s wrist. (MJ reads the label: “IMMEDIATE.” Her heart rate speeds up.) Then he squeezes the radio mic clipped to his shirt. He mutters something unintelligible into it, before saying, louder, “Got an E1 on the southwest corner of Harrison Bank. Male, mid-twenties, GCS seven. Head lac with moderate bleeding. Requesting ALS transport.”

The radio crackles. MJ can’t make the message out over the sirens, but the EMT does. He gives a quick, “Copy,” and then is digging through his bag.

“Does he have any medical history?”

Peter still isn’t moving. MJ squeezes his hand so hard that her own shakes, but he doesn’t even flinch.

“Ma’am.”

MJ looks up. The EMT is staring at her. “Does he have any medical history?” he asks again.

“Oh. Right.” MJ wracks her brain, but nothing is coming to her. Nothing other than freak spider powers, but that’s not really something people should know about. “Um, no. No, I don’t think so.”

The EMT “hm”s. Forces a curved piece of plastic down Peter’s throat. Sits back on his heels thoughtfully. “Any allergies?”

He’s so casual that MJ feels nauseous. She shakes her head, though she isn’t answering his question. She hasn’t even processed the question. Her mind is reeling, lungs seizing as dread wells in her throat.

When two more first responders arrive with a stretcher, everything speeds up. Suddenly, there’s a tube coming out of Peter’s mouth and a neck brace supporting his head. Someone is squeezing a bag, providing artificial breaths. (Did Peter stop breathing? Is he… Is he dead?)

And then the medics are rushing Peter away, and MJ has to sprint to catch up with them. “Hey!” She’s running on panic and adrenaline alone. “Let me go with him!”

They look at the card in her hands. The green label, proudly announcing her status as a “MINOR” patient. And the medic shakes her head.

“Closest trauma center is Bellevue. Meet up with him there.”

MJ should have guessed, but she’s still overwhelmed with disappointment. And that disappointment lingers as MJ tries to find a way out of the disaster zone. It haunts her as she hurriedly signs a medical treatment refusal form and digs her phone from her pocket.

Swallowing back nausea, MJ searches her phone contacts and then makes the call. The rings sound like a death knell. They’re drawn out and nerve-fraying. And then a click and the dreaded-

“MJ? I just heard on the news-”

“Yeah,” MJ says. “Peter and I, uh… We were in it.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m… fine. But, May… Pete is… I don’t… I don’t really know. He wouldn’t wake up.” And as she says the words, her voice breaks. Sure, she did her best to hold it together when it was just her and Peter. But now? With a real adult asking her what’s wrong?

MJ can barely keep it together.

“Just hang on,” May says firmly. “Where are you? I’m picking you up.”

“Harrison Bank. Please be careful, though. There might still be…”

More demons? More bombs? Something worse?

“Hang in there,” May orders, undeterred.

MJ stays on the line. She doesn’t say much. Mostly, she just listens to May offer empty platitudes. She doesn’t hang up until May hurries up to her.

“MJ!” May hugs her and then pulls back, searching her for injuries. “Are you okay? “Where’s Peter?”

MJ nods, breathless. “He’s… um, Bellevue Hospital.”

May gives one sharp nod and starts back to the car. “They’ve got the roads blocked,” she warns. “I’m parked a few blocks down.” MJ follows beside her, a hole in her chest and concern in her eyes.

For a full block, they say nothing. May’s steps are quick and determined, and MJ has to hurry to keep up. Thinking about how scared May must be - thinking about what it would take for May to move this fast - makes MJ’s stomach flip.

“How bad is it?” May asks suddenly.

“I’m… not sure. He covered me when the bombs went off, and then… he just wouldn’t wake up. I mean, he… he did wake up eventually, but he wasn’t… wasn’t all there. You know?”

May knows. As much as MJ has dealt with Spider-Man’s mishaps, May has dealt with Peter Parker’s “clumsiness.” Sometimes MJ wonders if May hasn’t put two and two together yet. May’s smart - smarter than she’ll ever let on - and must have found Peter’s injuries (and their rapid healing) suspicious.

But May’s never said she knows, and asking her if she does will only reveal the secret if she doesn’t.

“Over there,” May says, rushing now that the car is in sight. MJ lags behind, so much so that the May is buckled in, engine running, when MJ gets there.

“Sorry.”

But May shakes her head. “Don’t be. I’m just…” She struggles for a word before shrugging. “Get in.”

---

By the time May and MJ arrive at the hospital, Peter’s already been admitted to the neuro floor. He’s pretty much waiting for them. Perks up when they walk through the door.

“Heeeyyy,” he slurs. “My fav’rit’ people.”

“Peter,” May says, hurrying to his side. “How are you feeling?”

“Me?” He laughs, but it’s forced and painful, cut off with a harsh cough. “Been… been better.”

May’s heart breaks at the sight of him, stitches lining his face and bruises decorating his skin. “Oh, Peter,” she sighs, taking his hand. “What happened?”

Peter pouts, his thumb running back and forth over her fingers. Just like she did for him when he was young and upset. “Explosions,” he murmurs. “I couldn’... May, I couldn’...” He searches May’s face, expression desperate. “There were too many. I couldn’ save ev’ryone.”

And May’s heart cracks a little more.

“You saved me,” MJ says, appearing on Peter’s left side. “You did everything you could.” And she says this forcefully, like she’s trying to pound it into Peter’s brain.

Something crosses Peter’s expression. Realization. Embarrassment. Tension.

But it’s a brief moment, and then the moment’s gone.

“Sorry.” His voice is so low that May has to strain to hear it. “I’m just… ‘m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Peter,” May insists. “There’s nothing you could have done.”

Peter sighs, eyelids drooping. “Yeah. Guess so.” He shifts slightly, but even that subtle movement makes him grimace and whine in pain.

MJ shushes him, murmuring comfort.

But May just loses her temper. “Did they give you any pain medication?” She moves towards the door. “Where’s the nurse?”

“May,” Peter groans, and he sounds so pathetic that May stops. “I’m… maxed out. I’m jus’... jus’ really banged up.”

He’s that hurt? He’s so hurt that he can’t breathe without being in pain while on the maximum dosage of pain medication?

May sees red.

“Who attacked the ceremony?” She looks between Peter and MJ, hoping one of them has an answer. “Who… Who did this?”

MJ looks at Peter. Peter, in a surprisingly lucid move, looks back, eyes uncertain.

“The Demons,” MJ says finally. “They’re… I’ve been researching them for an article. They’re a new gang, and it looks like they want to make a name for themselves.”

May’s jaw tightens. There’s only so much you can do about gang violence. Prevention is what May’s best at. Rehabilitation. But not fighting violence. That’s not in her wheelhouse.

“I’m… glad you’re okay,” May says simply, running a hand through Peter’s hair.

“Thanks, May,” Peter mumbles back, eyes slipping shut.

“Of course.” May drops a kiss in Peter’s hair. It hurts to see Peter hurt like this. He’s always been accident-prone, but an explosion? He’s outdone himself this time.

“He really scared me,” MJ says quietly.

May nods, allowing the fear to light her eyes. “Me too.” She reaches over and squeezes MJ’s hand. “Me too.”

[shions-new-blog-of-stuff]

"What If?"

Canon x OC, CW: zombies, gore/blood, canon typical violence

AN: this been in my head for a while, "what if Catherine met Leon during the Raccoon outbreak?"

Catherine's footsteps echoed loudly as she ran down the dimly lit alley, pushing trash cans behind her. She hoped to the higher powers that it would slow those things shuffling after her.

SOME TIME EARLIER

It happened so sudden. Catherine had just finished getting ready for a date. A blond guy named Benny, who she met while grocery shopping. They both were reaching for the last box of Hamburger Helper and got to talking. Dinner and a movie sounded great! Catherine returned to her small apartment to shower, relax and eventually get dressed--green blazer with black buttons, grey polo shirt, loafers and khaki pants. She brushed her hair, deciding not to braid it.

But during the drive, Benny swerved to avoid hitting some people wandering the street, appearing to be drunk. He stopped his car and got out.

"Wait here," Benny had said.

Catherine shrugged and pulled out a compact mirror to check herself. A loud scream and what she could identify as a squelching sound made her drop it. Gathering her things she exited the car, walking in the direction Benny had gone.

The people Benny managed to not hit were all hunched and crowded around him, Benny twitching and jerking as they tore chunks of flesh from his body.

They were eating him alive.

Catherine staggered back as one the group, a bald man in a torn suit, blood and bits of guts dripping from his mouth, looked up, and began to stumble and stagger towards her, moaning. A few others began to follow, arms outstretched and moaning in unison. Their skin was grey and eyes were either bloodshot or an eerie, milky white.

Struggling to form any sense of what was happening, Catherine turned and ran back to the car, hopping into the driver's seat and sped off. As she got closer to downtown, she could see crashed cars, fires spreading and the wails of police and ambulance sirens.

She had to stop at an overturned truck engulfed in flames. She looked around for something, any semblance of life.

"Is anyone out there?!" she called out, to no response.

She spotted a pay phone that somehow escaped the fire and damage. Frantically pulling a few coins from her purse, she inserted them and dialed the emergency number.

"C-C'mon, pick up...Plea-please?" she stammered, looking around nervously.

The phone rang seven times, and Catherine heard familiar moans and pained groaning coming closer.

She dropped the phone as two women approached, their lips nearly peeled off, one missing an eye and the other was on fire lurched towards her.

NOW

Nearly out of breath, Catherine took a left at a fork and reached the end of the alley, only to find a barrier of abandoned cars blocking the way. But they weren't ablaze. Maybe she could climb over them.

Slowly and carefully she climbed on the hood and then the roof of a Robin's egg blue car, looking to survey the area. Just a few yards away stood a large building with a small courtyard behind a metal gate.

R.P.D, displayed in large letters.

"The station..." Catherine murmured.

No one has answered her phone call, but she knew she couldn't go back.

She gasped as she heard loud thumping coming from the car she stood on. Jumping down to the other side, her eyes widened in horror as more people appeared from the shadows, the one in the car crawling on his belly, gnarled fingers reaching to grab her ankle.

Catherine sprinted to the large gate, left slightly ajar. With all her strength she pushed it open, ran through the courtyard and into the building.

The main hall was empty. Just a messy front desk and broken computer.

"Hello? Anyone?" Catherine yelled, "Please, I need help!"

Nothing.

Wiping away heavy tears, Catherine saw a few paths she could take. Taking out her last quarter, she sighed.

"Heads, I go this way, tails the other way," she spoke aloud as she flipped the coin.

The coin was heads.

"To the West I go..."

The corridor was a gruesome sight. She passed by pools of blood, broken glass and rotting hands reaching through the boarded up windows. She has to stop and hold back from vomiting--on the floor was a man in a bloodied police uniform, missing his head. Nearby the corpse of a four legged, skinless creature lay in the corner, upon closer inspection it didn't have eyes.

Oh god, is that a brain?

The hall reeked of blood, but Catherine could catch hints of a burnt smell. Like gunpowder.

"Hell's bells..." Catherine murmured to herself, "What is happening...?"

A loud crash behind her forced her to stand and nearly fall backwards.

One of the people outside had managed to break one of the windows, a man with raven black hair wearing a sports jersey and shorts, who immediately made a beeline for Catherine, groaning and gurgling.

She turned and ran, feeling pain and heat shooting through her legs. She practically shoulder tackled the nearest door, entering a room full of desks, cabinets and a whiteboard at the back. From the brief glimpse the nameplate she caught on the wall outside: Operations Room.

Catherine didn't know what exactly she tripped on, but her legs gave way and she skidded into a bookshelf, which wobbled and fell over, its weight knocking the wind out of her.

Unable to move, Catherine swore she heard loud gunshots as the world blurred and faded away.

"...up..."

*blink, blink*

"Plea...ke...up"

Catherine moaned, blinking rapidly. Someone was calling her? It sounded like a man's voice.

The heavy weight of the bookshelf had disappeared, though she felt as if she was hit by a bus.

When her eyes focused, she looked down to see a warm hand holding hers, the other on her shoulder. She was lying on the floor just a few feet away from the bookshelf, the desks all pushed aside from the center of the room.

The voice called out again. "Thank god...hey...you alright...?"

Catherine tried to stand, but the hands stopped her. Looking up, she saw a fair skinned man in full uniform kneeling beside her, his blue eyes filled with worry.

"Whoa, easy...easy," he said, lightly nodding his head, making the fringe of his hair sway back and forth.

"... Officer...?" Catherine whispered, blinking and shaking her head.

The man nodded, "Yeah. Kennedy. Leon Kennedy. What's your name, Miss?"

"I'm...My name's Catherine," she replied, "I tried calling here, got chased by the people outside but... what's going on...?"

"Was a mess when I got here..." Leon answered while helping her stand. "Just total chaos. But I intend to get to bottom of this."

Catherine nodded, looking down sheepishly. "This is probably asking for a lot...but can I come with you? Please...I just don't want to be alone..."

Leon thought for a moment and gave her an affirmative nod. "Stay close, ok?"

Catherine took his hand again feeling its warmth, relieved.

"Thank you."

@mishwanders @squashfics @resident-mercie @notrattus @the-resident-vampire @likesugarandcyanide

[abuffzucchinisvariousposts]

Mushroom Cloud - Original Poem

Wrote this one a while ago but didn't feel like posting it because it's like "too personal" or whatever but hey that's part of the fun? My mindset has changed so here's probably my best writing as of today

A mom, a dad and two kids

In a man-made pandemic

One wears no mask and catches custody 

Another is scraped away of his savings and declares alternating weekends

One believes in all kinds of ailments and ointments, poignant appointments, all perpetually anointed until medicine or man's expiration

Another deemed antagonist by Ursula herself, ink dressed swimming in an ocean of fluctuating temperatures, forces him into an oxygen bubble with no words in edgewise

Her ocean is polluted, her judgement clouded as hallucinogens are diluted in its rivers

Certain doom is set in stone, syringe-spiked boulder rolling as toxic chemicals burn, mushroom tea bag set to soak in scalding hot waters

Blaring sirens narrate a hundred insistent trips to the hospital, she shouts and wails, tales of bombs going off inside of her, telling her son in her living room that the fuse is lit, that she has few months left to live

Telling her son in her living room that even the aftermath of a nuclear family will soon be blown to pieces, an essential pillar crashing down to submerge a coliseum where two people who hate each other very much fight to the before-day death over someone else’s fate, to submerge it in gasoline and liquid plutonium

She describes her lungs slowly severed as a thousand poison particles ricochet inside of her as fast as light itself, burning holes in her as she burns through cigarettes, and tears a hole in her son’s heart as she tells him she doesn’t want to put herself through anymore hurt to live even a minute longer

The two kids go to live with their father, filled with misplaced guilt and grief and anger and something else that is definitely toxic as numbness greys out blood-red insides

The father is a hero, he saves two children from a burning building that not even the arsonist knows is on fire yet

That fire is the heat of a kettle, burning old tea tainted by bad judgement and psychedelics

The tea breeds a wretched and weary-eyed witch hunted by shadows so visible and engulfing only to her sharpened pupils, so serrated they could cut initials on a sports car

Her psychosis speaks in launch codes, she screams but of what she is not fully aware, sobs over familial falling outs while spewing fallout of her own through melted lips

And as all this is happening, tucked into the bottom bunk of bunker bedrooms two children curl up dazed by the stench of radiation, eyes paralyzed wide open

One son is filled with unwavering hatred stemming from a smell so familiar to home

Another son just wanted the people he cared about to get along, just wanted to pretend for a little longer that on her the shadow has not overwritten the self, that he could still see good in her and not just a melted ribcage out of a horror film

That son recalls memories torn from books and toms littered with glitter, promised fairy dust fueling the second stage of grief and leaving animals to rot and die

Memories of picketing with her against his will, protesting against explosives too lately-lit to be defused, fruitless fighting for frailty and fragility's susceptibility to entropy, being dragged into a war zone to watch sunburned suffrage

Memories before she was the spur of her own self-destruction

This mushroom cloud-induced zombie of a mother is sick and tired, every breath her last, clutching her chest as a tangled mess of green red and blue wires connects itself to a timer, reading numbers that make no sense as if being spoken from a manic geiger counter

Her self is poisoned, mushroom-clouded, a zombie praying forgetfully for forgiveness on vaporised ears because you can’t reverse a nuclear explosion

And the awful truth of it all is that

In a way, she was right, a bomb went off and killed her

What was left is just a fallout mom, a toxic waste of breath projecting her half-life onto her children, internally mutilated by the decaying wrath of her own mushroom cloud judgement.

[here2bbtstrash]

Tae likes cockwarming with his mouth. Dildos, strap-ons. It's comfortable and nice for him. He would look so pretty. He'd be good at it. (Imagine him teary-eyed though. Because you're teasing him)

*alarms blaring* *cars crashing* *sirens wailing* *people screaming*

HELLO???????? HOW HAVE I NEVER CONSIDERED THIS BEFORE THIS CURRENT MOMENT AM I OKAY??????? I WILL SELL MY SOUL FOR THIS HEADCANON ARE YOU ABSOLUTELY FUCKING KIDDING ME. wow. WOW. i need a cigarette. um. okay. thank you 🙇‍♀️

what headcanon(s) do you have for bangtan that you know - you just KNOW, deep down, all the way to your guts - to be FACTS???

[strangerthingfanfic]

A New Start: A Billy Hargrove Story

Nov.12, 1984: one week after the showdown at The Byers House

Billy Hargrove sat in his blue Camaro and finished his sandwich.

His stuff covered the backseat as well as the trunk.

His dad had kicked him to the curb when he heard what happened. Thankfully Billy had some money tucked away and got a room at a cheap but crappy hotel right outside town.

The plan was to come into town, get some fuel for the road and then head back to California. His friend said he could crash there and had a job lined up for him at a local resort as a lifeguard.

Billy loved the water since he was young, especially on a surfboard but his dad didn't care for him to be happy, ever and neither did his stepmom or sister either for that matter.

Throwing the sandwich wrapper in the little garbage can on the passenger side Billy started up the Camaro.

Just as he flipped off the little town in front of him he saw a familiar face starting to cross a street across from him.

It was Lucas Sinclair, his sister's boyfriend. He was with some younger girl who must be his younger sister.

He switched the car off so he wasn't seen and watched as the two stepped out into the street without even looking because they were arguing about something.

The sound of the engine roaring at top speed caught his attention and he looked over. The car was hurdling toward the two and he knew that the dumbass driver wasn't paying attention and neither were the two kids crossing the damn road.

The clock was ticking and Billy had two choices here, let Lucas and the kid get hit and more than likely killed or save their asses even though he knew they wouldn't save his back.

The screeching of tires and screaming caught the attention of all the other people out and about.

The driver of the car swore as sirens wailed. He was completely wasted and just hit a couple of kids. He was going to be jailed for life.

Sheriff Hopper arrived. “Hey man I didn't see them I'm so sorry” the man started pleading. “See who?” Hopper asked with a growl. “The two kids I hit in the crosswalk. Man, their blood is all over my windshield” the guy said, staring at his car. Hopper growled smelling the alcohol on him and from the blood, there was little chance the people he hit were alive.

Hopper cuffed the driver pushing him down into the police car and then slowly walked around to the front of the vehicle.

He was shocked by what he saw. Billy Hargrove was laying on the ground face first with Lucas and Erica Sinclair tucked into his body.

The kids had scrapes and were scared but they would be alright. Billy, on the other hand, Hopper saw no hope for.

Helping Lucas and Erica up after the EMTs got Billy on a gurney and covered so they couldn't see the full extent of his injuries, Hopper hugged them both.

“Let's get you two home shall we” Hopper said after both had been bandaged and given concussion tests. “Is that guy ok?” Erica asked, trying not to cry.

“Billy is probably not going to make it sweetie. I honestly don't know if he was alive when they took him” Hopper answered softly and that made Erica's tears finally flow.

“You ok Lucas?” Hopper asked the quiet kid next to Erica. Lucas just nodded but his eyes never left the gurney with the lifeless body of Billy Hargrove on it.

Nov.15, 1984: One week before Thanksgiving

Billy was still alive to the shock of the doctors but on life support. His spinal cord was busted and there was little hope for him to walk.

The brain damage was another issue. He allowed the car to hit him from behind and so the impact was great.

If he lives he probably won't be able to speak well or take care of himself. He will have to be in a care home since his parents have disowned him.

Lucas placed the flower vase next to Billy's bed as he listened to the doctors explain again to his mom they had little hope.

But Lucas knew differently. If anyone could overcome this it was Billy. He had to for the girl he loved so much, Billy had to get better for her, for Max.

Max barely left his hospital room. She held his hand and talked to him and cried and Lucas hated seeing that.

“Time to go” Lucas’s mom called and the two kids headed out. Sue went in and brushed the hair off Billy's face as she said a prayer. Kissing his forehead, Sue followed the kids out.

Nov.19, 1984: Three days before Thanksgiving

Billy opened his eyes slowly; it was the only part of his body that didn't hurt. He tried to look around but the brace on his neck wouldn't let him.

He tried to talk but the tubing attached to his mouth and face wouldn't allow that either.

He couldn't feel his arms and legs and panic started to set in. He tried to remember what happened but couldn't.

He felt the tears before he knew he was crying but didn't care. He was alone, in pain, and dying.

Closing his eyes he fell back into a deep sleep.

6 pm

Billy woke up again but this time he could move his neck a little. The room was faintly lighted and quiet except for the machines.

“I'm doomed to be alone” Billy thought as he remembered what happened. “At least if I die I might get to skip hell” he thought as he drifted back into what he thought would be eternal rest

Nov.22, 1984: Thanksgiving Day

That evening Billy was on his way back from physical therapy. He was glad no one could see him so beaten and destroyed. He walked a little on his own then fell.

He couldn't feed himself very well and his speech was greatly slurred. They had also shown him pamphlets of some of the group homes he might end up in.

He was in hell. He didn't even have to die. He fucked up and this was his eternal punishment.

The only thing he had to look forward to was whatever crap ass Thanksgiving wannabe meal the doctor would help him eat.

As he got closer he heard the sound of voices in his room. He thought he recognized some but others he didn't.

It wasn't until he heard the one voice he didn't want to, Max’s, that he tried to get up and get out.

“Billy how was therapy,” Max asked through tears while the doctor made sure he didn't leave the wheelchair. “Don't try to get up or move Billy” came an unrecognizable voice but he couldn't see who it was.

Suddenly he felt a hand in his. He couldn't mistake that hand for anyone else’s, it was Max.

“I'm so sorry Billy. I was so mad when I found out dad kicked you out and then I heard you were fighting for your life and they didn't seem to care but I do” Max said checking in tears.

Billy squeezed her hand. He didn't want to her to hear his slurred speech so he didn't talk but he could do that.

“Billy, I'm Sue Sinclair and I want to thank you for saving my children. I know that things have been tense between you and my son but I truly believe deep in your heart you're not a bad person” Sue said, placing a hand on his chest.

He heard his father's voice calling him a sissy but he didn't care and allowed himself to cry. He cried hard. Sue wrapped her arms around him and whispered “your no longer alone”.

“Thaan yoou,” Billy said allowing himself to show his weakness. Max wrapped her arms around him and said through her tears “We are going to live at the Sinclairs and they are going to make you better”.

Billy nodded and when he didn't think he could be any more surprised, Harrington brought over a plate of real turkey with all the trimmings.

“Eat up Hargrove, you owe me a rematch so you need your strength” Steve said with a smirk and went back to his plate.

“I could beat yoou in this cchaair Harrington” Billy said slyly and everyone laughed.

Lucas came over and put his hand out and said “let's make a truce. You stop hating on me because of my race and I will work on understanding the shit you were put through”.

Billy nodded and shook his hand and gently but firmly pulled him close and said “I am glad yoou and yoourr sister are ok but if yoou hurt Max in anyway I will kkil you and it won't be rrace related”.

Lucas nodded half scared and half happy. He hugged Billy and to his surprise Billy hugged him back.

The rest of the night was just everyone enjoying life. Billy let Max help him eat and was finally learning it was ok to need help.

Dec.15, 1984: Snowball Dance

Billy watched as his sister and Lucas shared their first dance and to his dismay their first kiss. He was happy for her.

He was still in the damn wheelchair and he still needed help with a lot of simple things but he was getting there.

He hoped by Christmas he would be on his feet and by summer he could help out at Hawkins pool as a lifeguard.

Feeling someone behind him he looked up and saw Patrick from the basketball team. He was a couple years below him but they hit it off and even with his father's taunts in his ears he was proud to be open with him.

Patrick kissed him and they watched the kids dance and enjoy themselves together.

[amiablyinept]

Well, if you're okay with it, and there's no need for apologies, then I kinda had an idea for how Heatwave meets Blades.

I don't really know the premise for this au like are we on Cybertron or Earth, so I'm gonna assume that all the (would be) rescue bots are on Earth.

It happened, it happened again, the same thing that had been going on each day, and each night, the same thing that tormented him, night and day, every waking moment.

Heatwave trudged down the road and found himself at the entrance gate of the park, where people were partaking in their daily activities, such as walking their dogs, going for a jog, or just doing yoga on the hill.

But he wasn't in a happy mood, nor did he have the energy to see others being active and lively.

He found a clearing in the park and stopped walking and he took a moment to gather his thoughts, before sitting down on the soft green grass, admiring the birds, which sang their happy little song, a quick fix, a temporary solution, or distraction to put it in better terms, of all the things which have been weighing down on him.

As he sat down he felt an immense burden, dragging him downwards, and causing him to lie down flat on the ground, in exhaustion, in defeat, and in acceptance.

He closed his eyes (or optics) and witnessed his surroundings fade to black, consumed by the void, and then recalled each vision he had over the week, which was strange, as they'd only appear once every few weeks or months if he was lucky.

He didn't understand what he had done to be "blessed" with this gift, his brothers had it much more easy, one being able to read minds, if only they could read his mind right now and offer advice as to what he should do.

The first vision appears, clear as day, a bright and sunny day, the crisp seaside breeze strikes his frame, the sun shining down on him, its gentle rays dancing on his arms, but this vision is not a cheerful one.

There's a cliff, a broken barrier, a car, crashed at the bottom of the cliff, smoke rising, a tire caught on a lone branch jutting out on the rocks below, the smell of spilled oil.

A man stands at the top of the cliff, looking down, laughing triumphantly, the sounds of sirens blaring in the distance, an occasional scream that pierces through the static atmosphere, all simply a paean of success to the man.

Heatwave doesn't know exactly where he is in this vision, usually he's in the backgrounds of his vision, having witnessed scenes as a bystander, before being yanked back to reality by the foresight, the name he has given to the force which he feels each time a vision has come to its end.

The man turns towards his left and lets out a big hearty laugh as he says "Well lookat you! Haven't seen you in a positive mood, let alone with a big ol' grin on your face, in a while!"

The words linger in Heatwaves mind, he still doesn't understand who the man is speaking to, nor does he have a clue where he is in this vision.

A dreadful thought surfaces.

Heatwave looks down and sees his own hands, clutching the metal barrier, bent out of shape and with one end in pieces.

He lets out a wailing cry.

Then before he's able to dwell on the situation any more, the foresight appears and he opens his eyes (or optics) to a new setting.

This time he's in a forge, there's a table with a bunch of metal ingots, different colored ones, a spectrum of rainbow laid out before him, a teal one draws his attention, lustrous and silky, with a forging hammer beside it.

He hears footsteps behind him, heavy and leaving an impression on the ground, "Hey. Do you mind handing me the forging hammer?" a voice calls out, it's gritty and quiet, with a cadence of country in it.

Heatwave goes to pick up the hammer and hands it to the mech in front of him, who appears blurry and everchanging, only able to make out their sun colored frame and fiery eyes (or optics), before walking off to investigate more about this forge he's in.

Beside the table there's a rack of armaments, a battered shield with scorch marks and a shiny exterior, a sharp sword with jagged edges and a mark in the hilt and a spear shaped like a cross emanating blazing heat sit idly on the rack.

Heatwave is just about to pick one up when he hears an enthusiastic cheer, "Yo, come over here and check out what I just forged!" followed by the sound of embers.

He walks over and sees the mech holding a staff which is veiled by a blizzard, "Check it out! A frost staff which channels the power of an eternally raging blizzard! I made it with the frost metal you brought back." the mech announces excitingly.

Heatwave is looking at the staff when the mech walks over and tells him to grab it and put it on the rack, but when he does the blizzards intensity increases and it crawls up the mechs arm and then spreads throughout his whole body.

Heatwave drops the staff and it creates a white fog that enshrouds the forge and takes a while before dissipating, when it does Heatwave sees that the staff shattered into pieces on the ground and the mech in front of him has been encased in a block of ice.

He can't believe what he's seeing and he calls out desperately to see if the mech is still conscious but his pleas just echoes in the icy room.

Then it happens again, the foresight manifests and he's taken to the next vision, where tragedy befalls upon him, vision after vision.

He's experiencing the last vision when he gets startled from his reverie by a feeling, a warm feeling, one that is gentle and soft, something that he's never felt before.

He opens his eyes(or optics) and sees an orange and white mech, with two pairs of rotors (I'm gonna assume that since Boulder is the medic, Blades is his RiD:2015 Frame lol), and a hand extended out for him to grab.

"Hiya! You seemed down, need somebody to talk to? Or if you were sleeping, then just ignore me, I wouldn't want to bother you taking a nap on this fine day." the mech in front of him offered kindly.

Heatwave didn't know who this mech was, he had to be on guard in case it was someone sent to take him out, but they seemed so sincere, and he couldn't sense any malice in this mechs words, but he also didn't trust them completly, so he took great caution as not to reveal too much.

"Ah, I'm fine, just needed to take some time and reorganize my thoughts. I've just been feeling tired lately and also" he thinks to himself an excuse, something related but not entirely the visions he's been having "I'm going through a rough time" he responds languidly.

Suddenly, a wave of sorrow washes over him, the unmistakable feeling of anguish and vulnerability, yet it's as if the burden he's been carrying has lightened up, "Oh no I'm sorry to hear that." the orange and white mech replies, sitting down beside Heatwave, "If you want to talk about it, I'm still here for you."

Heatwave is still on guard about the mech but he finds that he's loosened up a little, being near this orange and white mech is bringing him a moment of solace, a sense of tranquility, the feeling that his burden is being alleviated.

He's lost in his thoughts when the mech exclaims, "Ah, I should introduce myself properly. I'm Blades! I'm your friendly patrol/reconnaissance expert and I was originally here looking for my partner before I ran into you looking dejected and staring at the sky."

Heatwave decides that he should also introduce himself seeing that Blades took the initiative. "I'm Heatwave, thanks again for talking with me."

Blades seems to be radiating positivity because Heatwave has gone from dour and grim to bashful and chipper, "Heatwave huh? What a cool name! Well then if you'd like to keep sharing I'll be here listening!"

Hours pass by as Heatwave comes up with creative ways to tell Blades about the visions that he's having without directly saying that he can see visions. "So you think that you did something bad with someone else but they're being elated about it? That is a problem indeed. Maybe you were just in the wrong place at the right time? Or if you think that what you did was wrong but this friend of yours thinks that it is good, then maybe that you should distance yourself from that friend? If you try it you'll be able to see how much better off you are without them." suggests Blades, who is still as optimistic and radiant as he was when he first appeared to pull Heatwave out of the mire.

Finally the time had come for the two to part ways as the sun was setting and the people in the park began to leave. "Well it looks like the sun is about to set, if you have anything else you want to tell me then I'm okay with staying here with you at night." he offers amicably.

Heatwave responds by telling him that he's done and thanks Blade for sitting down and helping him through this tough time, "Oh any time! I really hope that you can get through this storm because at the end there will be a rainbow waiting for you! Now then I have to go find my partner."

They say goodbye to each other and walk their separate paths, except when Blades was leaving he agitatedly mumbles to himself about his partner not showing up at the spot they were supposed to meet at and then Heatwave is momentarily filled with rage, not the kind to incite wrath, nor a loathesome fury, just a ephemeral rage about his blessing.

Then as quickly as it grew, his temper subsided and he was met with the unfamilar yet yearned for calm and serenity.

A mystery indeed.

ok so my idea for Blades' outlier ability originally started as something I felt was a headcanon interpretation/ a characterization of Blades that I thought only I was attributing to him, but then I saw someone else "validate" my interpretation, which let me know that at least someone else feels the same way I do about Blades.

Basically, his outlier ability would be that he can manipulate the emotions of people around him, as an empath. Since he comes off as a very giddy and excitable person who has infectious positivity, but is also easily scared and cautious, mood swinging like a pendulum.

He's reading the emotions of people around him and when he senses someone sad or dour, he appears to cheer them up, with his jokes, easy going nature, and boundless positivity.

But then when he gets mad or scared, it affects other people around him, since he's so expressive about it. Always the first to think of the worse case scenario in a time of danger.

Uhhhhhhhhhhhh👀 I like it💖

It can also be very difficult or easier for him because of his work, in the Life of Rescue Bots fic, he first studied medicine and then became rescue bot, in the Outlier au maybe he didn't became rescue bot but continue his career as doctor, and as an empath it would be so much easier to calm people during a hard situation but it can also make things get out of control if he's anxious👀👀👀👀👀

[chiwithekiwi]

i feel like a lot of people play up "blasé dylan" way too much considering how vulnerable we see him become over the course of the game—or at least they don't explore this facet of him in-depth to show the layers of his personality. his flat characterisation is even more obvious when considering the amputation route.

losing an entire limb is a huge shock to the system, and with the addition of him losing it amidst such a traumatic event, i highly doubt any jokes he might make about it would ever have much heart in them. he uses humour to cope, but even speaking from personal experience, there are just some things that are impossible to cover up with a witty quip. he could try to make a genuine joke, and yet it would fall flat every single time. there's a sinking feeling that hits you whenever you think about these kinds of painful lived experiences, and dylan would not be an exception. it's frustrating! especially when your attempts to appear okay only earn you pity and/or uncomfortable looks. in the end, after several failed attempts to make light of his situation, i think he would resort to an avoidant tactic instead by completely ignoring the loss of his limb entirely. he's desperate to make people stop glancing at his wrist, and so instead he makes even more of a spectacle of himself so that they have no choice but to keep their eyes on him instead of what he now lacks. he breaks more often whenever he's forced to remember his acquired limb difference, and for those that witness this emotional fallout, it's nothing short of heartbreaking.

"no one's ever going to treat me the same" is right there! he is affected by this. please just let him be deeply affected by this.

[kpforpresident]

clexa 40

Honestly nothing can ever top the @dreamsaremywords response to this prompt but here’s my whack at it. 

It was a sultry, humid summer day when the beings from outer space made contact. 

Lexa had taken one look at the eerie hovering discs that had crash-landed in Central Park and ran, vaulting over her desk in her hurry to get out the door. She had almost decked another associate in her haste to get to the main floor but kept sprinting, down the twenty flights of stairs.  Cold sweat broke out on her neck as she kept her head down and ran. Maybe those five years of the Marines would pay off, after all.

She had never run the four blocks home as fast as she did now, dodging the confused passerby that had stopped to gawk at the slow line of shadowy figures that were pouring out of the opened side of the largest ship? Saucer? Car doors were left ajar, people slowly starting to panic as they realized that the newcomers might not be friendly. Frantic mothers tugged their shrieking babies out of car seats, tucking them in close. 

This was confirmed when a shimmering laser beam shot out of the hands of the tallest cloaked figure, instantly cutting three people down, their slain bodies falling like cut puppets. 

Lexa sped up, her heart thrumming against her ribcage as she fumbled for her keys, head down and hands shaking. She had never been so grateful that Clarke worked from home. 

She burst into their small apartment, throwing the deadbolt and every lock she could as she scrambled around the apartment, slamming shut their curtains. Lexa paused with her hand on the fabric as she saw hundreds more of the gleaming ships filling the sky, slowly blocking out the light from the sun. Lexa twitched the curtain fully shut anyway, closing out the ominous vision. The aliens swarmed the streets, absolute devastation in their paths. 

She took a deep shuddering breath when she tried the lightswitch in the kitchen, flicking it and accepting defeat when the light remained firmly off. In the distance, sirens wailed loudly as screaming began in the streets. 

“Baby?” Clarke’s worried voice floated out of the den, sketchbook tucked under one arm as she emerged holding a candle. The flickering light did nothing to soften the fear in her eyes, the frown that tugged at the gentle lines of her mouth. Her phone dangled in her other hand- No service scrolling across the glass screen.

“Clarke.” Lexa strode across the space in two seconds, folding her into her arms as she avoided the wavering candle. Clarke dropped her sketchbook and phone instantly, molding herself to Lexa’s figure. A large rumble shook their apartment, Clarke’s hands tightening in Lexa’s sweater as a tremble ran through her body. 

“Lex, what’s happening? The news flashed an emergency announcement but then it was just cut off, I was trying to reach you but my phone wouldn’t work,” Clarke’s increasingly frantic babble rose in pitch and volume as she clung to her lover, eyes searching desperately for reassurance in her gaze. She found none. 

“Clarke,” Lexa started slowly as she led her over to their couch, gently placing the candle on their wooden coffee table. She tugged Clarke into her lap, Clarke curling up willingly. Lexa felt a lump grow in her throat at Clarke’s trusting gaze. She had protected her, protected them from whatever the world threw at them in the decade that they had been together. But there was no stopping this. A heavier, more foreboding rumble cracked the ground as Lexa took a fortifying breath. 

“Baby, remember when I told you about the probe that was sent into the Goldilocks Zone last year by NASA? And how a few weeks ago they had gotten a ping?” She pulled Clarke even closer as Clarke nodded her understanding. 

“They're here, Clarke. Whoever pinged back arrived. And it’s not good.” She willed her lip not to tremble as Clarke looked back in terror. “And I think, my love, that we are out of time.” 

Clarke scanned Lexa’s face as she leaned back slightly, trying to understand. The wailing of the sirens outside grew louder, the screams rising in number. Another, higher pitched siren joined the pandemonium, the wind picking up as it whistled around their windows, the panes rattling in their frames. 

Lexa shoves a lock of hair out of her face, refusing to break Clarke’s gaze as she tries to soak in everything that is Clarke, everything that makes up the woman that she loves. The small dimple in her chin, the smattering of freckles that spray across her nose from the sunny days lazing on their patio. The deep blue of her expressive eyes. Who knows how much time they have left. Clarke nods slowly, clearly still terrified but trusting Lexa. Lexa had run special ops missions for three years while she was stationed abroad. She would have never said there was no option unless there wasn’t; Clarke knew that she had already ripped through every possibility in that beautiful mind of hers. 

Their entire building shook again, more omniously, as Lexa gathered Clarke in her arms and slid them both to the floor, tugging a soft wool blanket off the arm of the sofa and tugging it around them. She twines their fingers together, nosing against Clarke’s cheeks as Clarke clearly fights to keep her breathing even, pressing into Lexa so hard it feels like their hearts beat in sync. 

“I am with you, Clarke. I love you more than the galaxies combined. In every possibility, in every eventuality, in every world. If there is an afterlife, I will find you there,” Lexa vows as a single tear streaks down her cheek. Clarke wipes it away with a fond but shaking thumb, a watery smile stealing over her face as she recognizes their wedding vows. 

“As I you, Lexa,” Clarke breathes back as she wraps her hands around Lexa’s neck, pressing lips together in a familiar dance that they had perfected in the decade that they had loved each other. Salty tears mix into the gentle press of lips, both crying as they gaze and took comfort from each other. There they stayed, pressed in their small bubble of comfort and warmth, in the dark little home that they had made together, a single flickering flame illuminating the room. 

They are still kissing, wrapped up endlessly in each other as the world ends.

[smilesmayvary]

the accident | p.p.

pairing: tom!peter parker x fem!reader

summary: when you get into a car accident, peter is scared to death.

notes: this is actually based on a real experience of mine :,) it happened almost a year ago and i still get some anxiety about it so i thought writing about something like it might help lol

word count: 2.0k

WARNINGS: car accident, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort

It’s not as loud as you thought it would be, the crash. Usually the assumption is the sound of a car accident would ring out, would boom out over silence or a radio with no problem whatsoever. That’s not the case. The sound of two cars hitting each other at a decent speed is nothing but a pop, one that’s loud and long enough to ingrain into your mind long after it happens but that is all. No more.

Nobody tells you that the music stops and that you won’t be able to remember the song that was playing. Or that your car, new as it is, will begin to talk to you. Dialing 911, it says in a robotic voice that will refuse to leave your brain. Nobody tells you that the airbag hitting your knees will make you think that the front of your car has just caved in that much and oh my god the front of your car is touching your goddamn knees make it stop make it stop-

Worst of all, nobody tells you how much dust and smoke will appear almost out of nowhere, choking and suffocating you as if you hadn’t already been in enough danger. It burns your eyes, or maybe that’s because you’ve forgotten to blink.

The daze you’re in will not go away soon, not when you tell the dialing sound to shut up, not when you have to force the warped door open, not when you crawl out on the ground beginning to scream not intending for anyone to listen. The burns on your hands make themselves apparent by forcing your fingers to lock up until you notice the injuries. There aren’t any tears running down your face but still you wail uncontrollably.

The phone in your hand is useless. There’s no service right here, it won’t get through to anyone, no way. But you still have to try.

Peter is at the top of your call list, just like always. Some normalcy within this strange atmosphere that you were encased in. When you press his name the same ringing from earlier floods your system again, and you want nothing more than to make it stop. You don’t, you just let it play out.

He’s at school so he shouldn’t pick up but he does, because he always picks up for you. “Y/N?” The worry is apparent in his voice.

“Peter I just got into an accident, I-” The breath that forcefully entered your lungs cut you off.

“Where are you?” He speaks urgently.

At this moment Tony Stark runs up to you as if you were his own child. “I-I don’t know,” you stutter as you struggle to breathe.

Tony crouches down next to you where you are curled up next to your wrecked vehicle. “Hand me the phone kid,” he says, already reaching for it. You oblige, simply because you’re not really aware of your surroundings, only that you almost died. “There’s nobody on the phone.”

There are things you only notice when you are deprived of all your other happenings. Things like how you’re shaking so much that one would assume you were cold and shivering, and how you can hear sirens coming your way in the distance.

The other car is surrounded with people, you notice. The people were still getting out.

“Mr. Stark,” you gasp. “Is everyone o-okay?”

He had already put your phone back in your lap and you hadn’t noticed. “Let’s focus on you right now, let’s get you some air, does air sound nice? Yeah it does, come on let’s get up.” He speaks quickly like he’s trying to distract you as he stands up and holds his hand out towards you. You take his hand weakly, knowing he can feel the tremors running through every joint in your body.

When you stand up you don’t look at your car or at the other car or the smoke rising through the air. You stare at the ground, letting Tony lead you to the limo that Happy had pulled over in. Happy was standing by the door, waiting to let you in.

The air in the limousine is cold against the heat that is rushing through your body. What’s happening to you? You can’t tell. Sitting down in the back, the tears finally start to pour down your face to match the sobs that were already racking your body.

Tony follows in after you, asking Happy to bring over some water before closing the door. 

“Mr. Stark, I want to go home,” you cry. The worry in his face is something you had only ever seen directed towards Peter.

“Not yet, kid. They’ve gotta ask you some questions and then we’re gonna take you to the hospital. No buts,” he adds as you whip to face him.

“Please don’t make me go to the hospital, please. There’s nothing wrong with me, I just wanna go home, please, Mr. Stark,” you beg.

Happy returned with the water and Tony handed it to you gently. “It looks like you hit your head, we’ve gotta get it looked at.” You hadn’t even noticed. More sobs shake through you while you reach up and touch your forehead, coming away with a bit of blood. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” you apologize to no one. Tony lays a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“Things happen kid.”

---

All morning Peter heard gossip about you. “Did you hear about that Parker kid’s little girlfriend?” “Yeah I saw it happen while walking to the subway. Literally watched it happen.” “Is she okay?” “Yeah, she’s fine, I saw her sitting on the ground after.”

He tries to ignore the talking but he can’t, not after he hears Ned say something to MJ. “Y/N had an accident this morning, everyone is talking about it.”

Peter rushes to his friends. “What do you mean? Accident?” You would call him if you were in danger right?

Ned’s wide eyes meet with Peter’s. “You didn’t know? She’s your girlfriend…” Peter shakes his head, waiting for an explanation.

Before Ned has the chance to answer, Peter’s phone rings. Seeing your name on the screen, he answers immediately, walking to a quiet place with Ned and MJ on his heels.

“Peter I just got into an accident, I-” He hears you gasp in breath along with the panic infiltrating your tone.

“Where are you?”

That’s when the line cut off and he hears the three dings signaling that the call has ended. “Shit,” he says, running his hands through his hair. “I have to go, I’ll see you guys later.”

He doesn’t check with any teachers or any other faculty before exiting the premises, he’ll deal with the consequences later. Right now, he has to find you. He’s running as quickly as he can. Do I have time to change into my suit? He thinks. He decides against it, finding you is his top priority.

It doesn’t take long before his cell phone rings again, this time showing Tony Stark's name across the top. He picks up, only to say “I’m sorry, sir, this isn’t a good time, I have to find Y/N.”

“I have her here with me. She’s fine, her phone’s not working. We’re going to the hospital-”

“I’ll be right there, sir.”

“Peter, no, it’s only a quick check up to see if she’s got a concussion.”

“I have to go.” He doesn’t wait to hear Tony’s response before taking off towards the hospital.

---

The hospital visit really didn’t take long. Once they got you in they tested you for a concussion, finding that you don’t have one, and they let you go. Tony used the time to gather more information about the people in the other car.

“Everyone is fine,” he says to you once you’re finally making your way out of the hospital. “Nobody was injured.”

“Thank you, Mr. Stark. Can I go home now?” A sad smile spreads across his face, unlike any smiles you’ve seen from him before.

“Sure thing, kid.” He places a hand on your shoulder, ready to gently guide you out of the building.

“Y/N!” You hear someone shout your name. You’re not ready for people to see you looking like such a mess, so you look at Tony, who only shakes his head and continues to walk towards the sound.

Peter flies around the corner and you feel your anxiety melt away at once. Tony lets go of your shoulder, and you begin to speed walk to your boyfriend.

It was like the tears knew when to stop. When he threw his arms around you, the comfort you felt was like nothing you had ever felt before. The world stops spinning around you for just a second, or maybe forever while you’re in Peter’s arms. There are no more sobs, there’s no need for anymore. You’re safe, and Peter’s here with you. “I’ve got you, you’re safe,” he whispers into your hair. His voice echoes through your mind, replacing the screaming of the memories you received today. You bury your head deeper into his chest and he pulls you tighter to him. He could’ve lost you. He won’t let go of you again.

Tony takes the two of you back to your house, jokingly threatening to tell May Parker that her nephew is skipping school to be with his girlfriend. He doesn’t mean it though. He knows how he would react if Pepper were ever in a situation like this. Tony Stark does have a heart, of course. He canceled his plans for the day to make sure that the girlfriend of the person he considers a son would be okay.

In the comfort of your own home you still feel like you’re trapped in that car. That sensation won’t go away. It’s just that, Peter is in the car with you now. And he’s the one keeping you calm. He’s the one who checks to see if you’re okay before you climb out of the car. He’s the one who holds your hand while you panic. He’s the one who holds you tight. 

He holds you tight now, standing in the living room of your home. He won’t let you go.

Nobody tells you that you’ll relive the moment you wrecked for hours on end. Nobody tells you that you will flinch every time the initial impact replays in the movie going on in your head. But nobody also tells you that the one person you need to be there is not going to leave your side.

In one of the moments where you’ve calmed back down, you are lying against Peter’s chest with a blanket covering the both of you. He still hasn’t let go. “Peter?”

“Yeah?”

“How did you react? When you first found out?”

He squeezed his eyes shut. He hates that moment. He doesn’t want to ever see or hear about you in pain. It’s hard enough protecting you from people like the Vulture, he doesn’t want to lose you to a car. “It was one of the scariest moments of my life, I mean, I just heard people talking about it all morning and then I heard Ned and MJ talking about it so I knew it must be true and then you called and-” He stops himself from talking anymore. “When the phone cut off, I thought for sure I was going to lose you.”

“The phone cut off?” You weren’t aware that had happened.

“Yeah, right after I asked where you were.”

You didn’t talk about the accident anymore after that. Peter focuses on making sure you are calm. You focus on Peter. He’s the one keeping you grounded right now.

You kiss him, knowing that if he’s there, you will be okay. Maybe not now, or for a while even. But he’s there for you no matter what.

He sinks into the kiss, wishing for nothing more than to be your anchor.

With him, you are okay.

[lvckheart]

[GLASS SHATTERING] [CARS CRASHING] [EXPLOSIONS] [SIRENS WAILING] [PEOPLE SCREAMING] [BABY CRYING] [HELICOPTER NOISES] [GUNSHOTS] [SOBBING] [YELLING] [FLAT LINE] [TRAIN PASSES BY]

[rocorambles]

Chemistry Puns

Pairing: Kuroo x Female Reader

Genre: NSFW, College AU, Smut, PWP, Honestly just filth

Warnings: Underage drinking, rough sex, degradation, slight pain kink, terrible chemistry puns, mildly dub-con

Summary: How about we go back to my place and form a covalent bond?

Prompt courtesy of @nyxdelanuit “Jump, just trust me and jump!”

You could feel the bass thumping in your chest as you slipped through the sloppy mess of college students grinding in the living room. Usually the stickiness of sweat and spilled alcohol mixed with wandering hands groping you would be your cue to hightail it out the door, but the relief of finally being done with midterms combined with the three glasses of spiked punch spreading through your system has you winking flirtatiously at the boys and girls who try to dance with you as you make your way to the kitchen for a refill. There’s only a few people by the drinks and you take a second to enjoy the cooler air and quiet as you pour more liquid into your cup.

“Do you have 11 protons? Cause you’re sodium fine.”

You snort as you look up and see a familiar face grinning at you. “Do those pickup lines ever work for you, Kuroo?” The messy haired boy continues smiling as he shrugs his shoulders. “When you have a face and body like this, you can be speaking gibberish and still get laid.” You roll your eyes at his cocky words, but you smirk, amused by the banter, and you can’t deny that he’s right as you appreciatively scan over his figure. Long lean legs are encased in black skinny jeans and his black t-shirt only makes his tanned skin and hazel eyes stand out even more. Deciding to play along, you look at him from under fluttering lashes and slyly say, “If I was an enzyme, I’d be DNA helicase so I could unzip your genes.” His grin grows even wider and, for a moment, you’re reminded of the cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland, but your thoughts come to a screeching halt as someone screams that police officers are here.

Chaos ensues as college kids begin running in every direction, jumping out of windows, and pushing each other to escape as the sirens blare. Kuroo and you freeze for a second before he’s grabbing your wrist and pulling you with him. You run out the backdoor of the house, sprinting through the backyard until you’re halted by a tall metal fence. “Hurry and climb, Y/N!” Any hesitation you had vanishes as you hear the voices of police officers in the background and you are quickly clambering after Kuroo, but when you reach the top, your face pales. You’ve never been good with heights and all of a sudden the ground on the other side looks so far away. Kuroo’s already hopped down and looks up at you expectantly, waiting for you to join him. “What are you waiting for? Hurry up!” You really want to, but your body feels frozen as you cling to the top of the fence with all your strength. Taking in the fear on your face, Kuroo suddenly holds out his arms to you. “Jump, just trust me and jump!” Maybe it’s the panic of hearing footsteps drawing closer behind you or maybe it’s the way cat-like eyes look at you reassuringly, but you let go and shut your eyes as you feel yourself free falling, waiting for the impact of the harsh ground. But it never comes. Instead you find yourself encased in warm arms and when you open up your eyes, Kuroo is softly smiling down at you as he stands you on your feet and begins pulling you with him again. The two of you run for what feels like ages until you’re now in an entirely different part of town, panting for breath and laughing in nervous exhilaration. 

You both plop yourselves on the nearest sidewalk curb as you try to get your breathing and heart rates back to a steady tempo. A comfortable silence fills the air and you quickly check your phone to see what time it is. You sigh when you see how late it is and figure it’s time to call it a night. Just as you’re about to say goodnight to the boy beside you, Kuroo’s voice breaks the silence. 

“How about we go back to my place and form a covalent bond?”

You stare incredulously at him, but then both of you are braying in laughter at the terrible pun. When your cackles subside, he nervously runs his hand through his hair as he looks at you questioningly and you giggle as you sidle up right next to him until your mouth is right next to his ear. “Sure, we have such great chemistry, I think we should do some biology together,” you purr into his ear and he growls as he captures your lips in a hungry kiss, hands already hastily calling for an Uber on his phone.

The next few minutes are a blur of messy kisses and self-restraint as you hold yourselves back from jumping each other in the backseat of a stranger’s car, but soon enough your bodies are crashing through Kuroo’s front door and he throws you on to the empty table in the dining room. You grunt as your body roughly connects with the hard surface, but you hardly have time to register any discomfort as Kuroo’s mouth nips and bites along your jugular vein. Through breathy gasps you tease him as he continues his assault. “You couldn’t even wait until we got to your bedroom? What if your roommate sees us?” Your taunts are cut off by a loud moan as Kuroo bites down harshly on the sensitive junction of your neck and shoulder before pulling away to mockingly stare you in the eyes. “Chemists do it on the table periodically, sweetheart. Plus, Bokuto’s away for the weekend, so it’s just you and me.”

You don’t even have time to comment on the newest pun he spouted before Kuroo is making quick work of your clothes, practically clawing at you in his haste to rid you of your shirt. You hiss at the red streaks his nails leave behind, but the slight pain only fuels the fire building inside of you. Kuroo’s mouth roughly latches onto one of your hardened nipples as his hands work to slide your pants and panties down just enough to leave your most intimate parts exposed. You hiss when he teasingly bites the sensitive nub. “Aww, does the little kitten not like pain? I think you’re lying because your body is telling me differently.” He brutally thrusts two long fingers into your already sopping cunt and without even waiting for you to adjust, he begins to move at a rapid pace, curling his fingers and furrowing his brows in concentration as he searches for that spot...Bingo. 

Your back arches and your arms fling out to grip the sides of the table with clenched hands as he finds the spongy bump inside of you that has your eyes rolling back. Kuroo relentlessly continues rubbing against your g-spot as his cock twitches at the sight of you sprawled out before him, holding to the table for dear life as you let out a litany of beautiful cries. “Fuck, you’re absolutely dripping, darling. Look, your juices are running down my arm.” You sob as he rips his fingers out of you and brings his glistening forearm to your face and you flush a deep red at the sight of your juices coating his fingers and trailing down his hand and wrist. He forcefully sticks the drenched digits into your mouth. “Be a good kitten and lick me clean.” Kuroo watches you go to work with lust clouded eyes and he begins to unbutton his jeans and lower his boxers with his free hand, pushing the fabric obstacles down until his cock is released. You’re being so obedient, so good for him and he begins to slowly rub his throbbing length as he watches you suck his fingers like they’re the most delicious thing you’ve ever had in your mouth. His jaw clenches as you moan around his fingers and when those are clean, you lewdly lick every inch of his hand and wrist that’s coated with your fluids without any prompting. 

He cruelly chuckles at your whine when he removes his arm from your mouth. “Yeah, yeah. I know. A cumslut like you needs something in her mouth. Don’t worry, we’ll get to that later, but right now I need to be inside you.” He mercilessly grabs your hips, dragging your body down the table until your drenched heat is practically hanging off the surface. There’s a short pause and then you are wailing as Kuroo rams his entire cock into you in one swift motion. You feel so full, so stretched out, and the tiny tinge of pain lacing the forceful intrusion has you immediately cumming even before Kuroo begins to move. Kuroo stares at you, astonished, before he starts laughing. “Did you cum just from having my cock inside you? God, you’re such a fucking whore. I’m not letting you rest until I finish, so just hang in there, babe.” And all you can do is brokenly scream with tears and drool decorating your face as Kuroo savagely rearranges your insides. 

At first, it’s too much and you’re weakly pawing at his arms, unsure how else to handle the overwhelming sensation of being abused so soon after an orgasm, but Kuroo ignores you and something inside of you refrains from explicitly telling him to stop, so you lie back and take what he gives you. But soon enough, you feel a familiar stirring in your loins and your sobs turn into wanton moans for more. Kuroo feels the way your body tenses and the way your tight snatch clenches against him. His grip on your hips tighten even more as he shoves himself even harder, deeper, and faster into you and it’s too much. You’re screaming as you peak again. Kuroo continues to harshly thrust in you as he chases his own end and you lay there, brain mushed with pleasure as he uses you as a glorified sex toy. Nearing his end, Kuroo abruptly pulls out of you and he stands over your broken body, furiously rubbing his shaft until he’s painting your stomach with milk white strings. 

Exhausted, he leans over and places his hands on the table on either side of your head, hovering over you as he catches his breath. But any intent to rest vanishes in an instant as he watches you scoop his cum from your stomach and lewdly slurp down his essence between your pretty pink lips. You let out a surprised shriek as Kuroo throws you over his shoulder and carries you to his bedroom. “I hope you didn’t think we were done, kitten. I did say I’d make sure my little cockslut’s mouth is filled and it would be so ungentlemanly of me to not make good on my promise.” You exasperatedly smack Kuroo at those words, but a smile tugs its way onto your face as he tosses you onto his bed. You suppose you can put up with his terrible chemistry puns, you think to yourself, before you brace yourself for whatever else he has in store for you.