#gunshots tw

[comic-art-showcase]

Anakin and Ahsoka by Emma Kubert

[lucygxybaird]

one true time - billinea

love was when i loved you, one true time i hold to. in my life, we'll always go on. near, far, wherever you are, i believe that the heart does go on. once more, you open the door, and you're here in my heart and my heart will go on and on. you're here, there's nothing i fear. (my heart will go on - celine dion) Billy walks into the room where Pat Garret is waiting for him, one last time. Dulcinea went just ahead of him (very sorry about this :))

tw: major character death, gunshots, suicide (indirectly??)

He can’t make sense of what he’s seeing, at first. 

The door is open a just a little, revealing a ribbon of the room in the dim light thrown by the flickering flames in the fireplace — the mantlepiece, barely distinguishable from the darkness; the hearth itself, its intricate carvings invisible now; the flickering fire, almost down to embers. A sliver of carpet. He stops understanding things around then. His eyes are taking it in, but the sight won’t turn into anything that he can wrap his mind around. 

It’s for the best, he thinks. And he knows it won’t last long. Already he can feel the horror opening up a chasm inside him, a black, roaring emptiness that will take over everything he is. His breath is coming fast and shallow, as if it’s trying to use itself up, so he can just collapse to the ground and cease to exist. Hurry up, he tells his laboring lungs. Hurry up, hurry up and quit, hurry up, hurry up, hurry up. 

Her hand. 

Her hand, falling in the gap between door and doorframe. Her hand, fingers curled in silent supplication. Her hand, with its stained palm, the color on her skin almost pitch black in the gloom. Almost.

He can see well enough to know what it is. And he can see well enough to know that she’s completely still. A statue carved from his own grief. He wants to fall to his knees and crawl to her, take her bloodied hand, press it to his lips. His cheek. Leaving marks on his skin like lashes under a whip. He deserves it, this branding. He deserves worse.

God, he brought her to this. 

Does going back in time erase everything? Would he remember, even if she forgot? If he could return to that night, the night they met, and stop himself from calling out to her — would he lose her eyes meeting his for the first time? Lose the smile creeping into her voice when she said he could see her again? Lose the way his heart pounded as he watched her walk away? 

Maybe he wouldn’t go back that far. (He has to keep thinking about this, because he can’t think about what he’s looking at right now; or he’ll start screaming and he’ll never stop.) Maybe he would let them ride out together, that day he promised nothing would happen to her. He could stop at their first kiss, couldn’t he? Let himself have that one thing. 

He’d pressed a kiss to her lower lip, as if he couldn’t bring himself to stop tasting her. She was smiling. 

He can hear people in the room beyond, hissing at each other like a pair of snakes. He thinks of the serpent in Eden, offering Eve the apple. Her teeth had broken into the thin skin of the fruit, and unleashed sin. He’s always thought it was pretty ridiculous that it’s a woman who brought destruction into the world. 

In his experience, nobody knows how to ruin something beautiful quite like a man. Look at his father, dragging his mother from their home in New York, only to die curled up like a useless animal. (He can’t remember the last time he thought about his father, let alone with such venom; but this, too, is better than thinking about her hand on the floor.) Look at him. His presence in her life has been nothing but damnation from the start.

It should be his damnation, not hers. Not hers. 

Not her.

Not her, not her, not her. Please, anyone but her. 

If they come out here, they’ll kill him. His only fear is that they won’t do it right now. They’ll make him wait — the journey back into town, being bundled into a jail cell, sitting through a sham of a trial. The noose will slip around his neck and he’ll just be praying for it to tighten already. Better for it to happen in an instant. A bullet to the heart. 

It’s more than what he deserves, of course. But hasn’t he already proven that he’s a selfish man? There had never been a doubt that she was far above him, beyond him, as beautiful — more so — as the moon and just as out of reach. But he’d wanted her, so he’d pursued her, anyway. 

And he can’t go back. He can’t fix it. 

He swears he hears her father’s voice in his ear, risen from the grave to lay blame at the feet of the person who deserves it the most. You killed her, del Toboso says. You killed her. You monster, you beast, you foolish boy. She had everything before you came into her life. She had her family. She had her future. She would be better off if she had never met you. 

She would, specifically, be alive if she had never met him.

(How long has he been standing here? He doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter. Time is for the living, and whether his death is moments away or days, it’s just a matter of perspective. His heart is still beating, but he knows he is dead in the ways that matter.)

Not only had he brought her into this life, he’d brought her here. 

He should have left her with Manuela and the baby — he’d wanted to — but she had insisted. This new hideout was one of her family houses, after all; who knew the hiding spots, the ways in and out, the roads to and from the house, better than she did? He could have figured all of that out himself. But she’d looked at him with those pleading dark eyes, and he hadn’t been strong enough to resist her. Not with her hands clutching at his shirt, begging with her gaze. With her words, falling from her lips onto his own as she reached up to hold his face. 

“I do not want to be so far away from you. I would be sick waiting for news, I couldn’t bear it. Please, Billy…take me with you.”

There’s a footstep from inside the room. Another. Another. Spaced out, like a predator about to pounce. He wonders if they can see him. (He doesn’t care, really, but it’s a thought. If they can see him, is it well enough to see his face? Or is he just a lean shadow, looking like the ghost he is?)

The door jostles open a little further as someone kneels down next to her. 

He can see her shoulder now. Her chin, the line of her jaw. A bit of her cheek. Had it just been last night that he kissed that cheek? They had fallen asleep in the big bed upstairs, the one that floated like a jewel of damask curtains and dark, gleaming mahogany bedposts. The bedroom itself had taken up nearly the whole third floor, a chamber that probably could have fit the whole Antrim house inside it.

“Holy shit,” he’d said. “There are wagons smaller than this bed.”

“Don’t worry, lindo. It works just the same as a small bed.”

And then she’d grinned at him, taking him by the hand and leading him toward it. “Let me show you.”

They made love like they always did, as if they had all the time in the world, passion caged in caresses that stretched moments into years, kisses planted anywhere and everywhere they could reach. He only moved faster, harder, when she told him to — whether with her back arched, legs tightening around his waist, or by her feverish voice in his ear. 

“Billy, please…”

He knew she was getting close when she kept saying his name over and over again, the rhythm disjointed by desperation, but sweeter than any melody in the world for all that. Her fingers tangled in his hair, her mouth at his ear. Crying out until her voice peaked, broke, ebbing away into soft sighs and trembling breaths. 

Breaths.

She’s not breathing. 

Not breathing, not moving. Of course, he’d known that, but to see more of her makes it harder for him to push that reality away. He feels like Atlas, bearing the weight of the world, except he can already feel it crushing him. 

From inside the room, he hears a man say: “Dulcinea?” 

It’s Pat Garrett. He doesn’t need to see him to know that. He recognizes his voice. 

He can smell gunpowder now. 

There is a thunderclap in his head, driving out all thought, all sense of himself. He wants to scream and kick the door open, howling like a demon clawing his way out of hell. He wants to shout at Pat for daring to say her name. 

Why didn’t he change her name when he had the chance? They’d always wanted to get married. Maybe he didn’t feel worthy, as an outlaw. Maybe a part of him had never doubted it would end this way, except he’d expected to be the one to go. A piece of paper signed by a judge doesn’t change the fact that he was hers, and she was his. 

But still. 

He would have liked to call her his wife, if just once. Even if nobody else heard but her.

Was leaving a grieving lover behind better than leaving a widow? For her, it would be, at least. She wouldn’t be saddled with the name of a criminal. Besides, Dulcinea Bonney just doesn’t sound as good as her maiden name.

(It doesn’t matter. He knows that. But if he thinks about why it doesn’t matter, he’ll—)

“Who’s there?”

The door opens all the way. Pat stands in the doorway, his body outlined in dancing gold. Billy takes a step toward him.

“Quien es?” he responds. “Quien es?”

He wants his last words to be in Spanish. Her language. Maybe she can hear him where she is, falling with the tongue she knew first on his lips. It’s like a last kiss. 

Billy lunges forward, like he’s going to attack Pat, but he doesn’t care about laying a hand on him. The time for fighting is over. No, he just wants to be in the same room. He wants to fall next to her. If he times it right—

“Quien es?” It sounds like he’s begging. Maybe he is. He just wants it to be over.

He doesn’t look down. If he looks at her, fully, really looks at her, his courage will fail him. There will be too much guilt for him to be brave.

He sees Pat reach for his hip, and even though he can barely see the pistol in the dark, he almost smiles as the barrel gleams in the dim light. It’s a promise of relief. Just a few minutes more. 

“Who are you?” Pat says. “Tell me your name and put your hands up, or I’ll—”

From the corner of his eye, Billy can see her sleeve. He lunges forward again. 

A bang. Smoke. A flash of light. 

He doesn’t see the bullet, but when it hits him in the chest, he’s grateful for it, anyway. Billy takes a small step backward, another, and lets himself fall. He doesn’t feel the impact when he lands on the floor. He turns his head. He timed it perfectly. There she is, right next to him.

His hand brushes hers. Her fingertips are icy, but he reaches for them, anyway. 

Can she feel his warmth in the next life? 

(Is there a next life?)

There’s pain, but it doesn’t mean anything. It’s like the sun baking his skin on a hot summer day — a byproduct of being alive. It will only last a little while longer, he’s sure. In the meantime, there’s her face. 

He won’t look at anything else. He doesn’t want to know where she was hit. 

(In the heart? Like him?)

Her face. 

It looks like she’s sleeping. Her eyes are closed, her lips slightly parted. 

(Did she try to say his name? To warn him? To say goodbye? Just to say it, once more?)

His fingers tighten on hers. 

(Don’t leave me. I’m coming.)

He closes his eyes, too. 

Maybe it’s a dream, what happens next. Maybe there really is a life after this one, and somehow, he’s managed to find himself on the right side of the pearly gates. The last of him supposes that it could be both. There’s really no saying if one cancels out the other, or if they’re one and the same. 

There are rolling hills, so green that it makes his throat ache with how beautiful it is. The grass waves in the gentlest breeze he has ever felt, soft and warm. He sees a house. He doesn’t walk toward it, but finds himself inside, as if he’s just pushed the door open. 

They smile at him, all of them. 

His mother. His father. Joe. Tunstall. Charlie. Tom. 

And then, he sees her. 

Dulcinea takes his hand. “It’s alright now,” she says. 

Billy rests his forehead against hers, clasping her hand. He doesn’t say anything in response, but he doesn’t need to. 

It’s alright now. 

[a-reader-and-a-writer-for-all]

Blood

Winter Whumperland: Day 7. Bleeding Out

Fandom: The Amazing Spider-Man, Spider-Man, Peter Parker

Summary: When you wake up and see an unconscious Peter lying in a pool of blood, you fear the worst. However, this soon becomes a "good news, bad news" situation.

Word Count: 743

TW: Whump, Blood, Gunshot Wounds, Passing Out, Open-ended Ending

Blood. It is the first thing you see as you force your eyes open. Blood is all around you on the ground seeping into the pavement, soaking your clothes, matting your hair. The overwhelming coppery smell of it stings your nose and makes you almost gag. But you can’t escape it. It is everywhere. But where is it coming from?

Shifting your head slightly, you see another person laying in a pool of the same blood a few feet in front of you. You can’t see their face because it is obscured by a red mask with large black eyes but you instantly know who it is.

“Peter!” you gasp. 

Your body is sore and there is a deep throbbing in your chest, but you force yourself up onto your hands and knees. Crawling the short distance between the two of you, you kneel over him and tug his mask off, not caring who might see the identity of the man underneath. 

The feel of the cool night breeze on his face stirs the web-slinger and you sigh in relief when you see his eyes slowly open. Then he surprisingly sits up as if there is nothing wrong despite the blood.

Running your hand across his cheek, you ask, “Are you okay? It looks like you lost a lot of blood.”

His brow furrows in confusion and he quickly pats down his chest and sides. His hands come away dripping blood from the pool he had been lying in, but he shakes his head. “It’s not mine.”

“But then who–” You see Peter’s eyes grow wide, a horrified expression spreading across his face as his eyes lock on your chest. 

Lowering your gaze, your vision swims as you see three bullet holes still gushing blood from the front of your jacket. You had been so worried about Peter that the adrenaline made it so you never even felt them. However, as if seeing it makes it real, all the strength suddenly leaves your body and you collapse forward into his arms. Peter carefully rolls you onto your back and lays your head in his lap. And suddenly, it comes back to you. 

You were investigating a story and apparently crossed paths with some very dangerous people. They grabbed you and took you to the roof of a very tall building. Luckily, heights weren’t a problem for Peter. You managed to call him just before you were taken and he showed up moments after you were led onto the roof. He quickly took care of three of them but the fourth guy had time to pull his gun and fire off a few shots. Peter instinctually dove out of the way, not realizing you were standing right behind him.

You had been near the side of the building so when the bullets slammed into you, they caused you to stumble back and over the edge. Peter dove after you and grabbed you halfway down. But then his web snapped, causing you both to drop over ten feet and roll across the pavement. Which was where you were when you woke up.

You are roused from your memory as you feel a tight pressure on one of the bullet wounds, followed by pressure on another. Glancing down, you watch as Peter finishes by covering the final bullet wound with a thick layer of webbing. The white material slowly starts turning pink then red as more and more blood seeps into it, but it seems to be stopping it from actively bleeding out which is an improvement. Though you have already lost so much blood. Your head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton and the edges of your vision have started to turn black as the darkness creeps steadily in. 

Peter notices the way your head droops and your eyes flutter as they struggle to stay open. Cupping your face in his hand, he whispers, “Hey, stay with me. I’m going to get you to help, but you need to hold on, okay?”

You nod weakly even as your eyes drift closed even further. Peter is calling your name but you don’t have the strength to answer him anymore. There is nothing you can do but lay limply in his arms as he gathers you close to his chest and you feel the two of you lift into the air. 

The last thing you hear before the darkness swallows you is Peter begging you, “Hold on.”

[a-reader-and-a-writer]

Blood

Winter Whumperland: Day 7. Bleeding Out

Fandom: The Amazing Spider-Man, Spider-Man, Peter Parker

Summary: When you wake up and see an unconscious Peter lying in a pool of blood, you fear the worst. However, this soon becomes a "good news, bad news" situation.

Word Count: 743

TW: Whump, Blood, Gunshot Wounds, Passing Out, Open-ended Ending

Blood. It is the first thing you see as you force your eyes open. Blood is all around you on the ground seeping into the pavement, soaking your clothes, matting your hair. The overwhelming coppery smell of it stings your nose and makes you almost gag. But you can’t escape it. It is everywhere. But where is it coming from?

Shifting your head slightly, you see another person laying in a pool of the same blood a few feet in front of you. You can’t see their face because it is obscured by a red mask with large black eyes but you instantly know who it is.

“Peter!” you gasp. 

Your body is sore and there is a deep throbbing in your chest, but you force yourself up onto your hands and knees. Crawling the short distance between the two of you, you kneel over him and tug his mask off, not caring who might see the identity of the man underneath. 

The feel of the cool night breeze on his face stirs the web-slinger and you sigh in relief when you see his eyes slowly open. Then he surprisingly sits up as if there is nothing wrong despite the blood.

Running your hand across his cheek, you ask, “Are you okay? It looks like you lost a lot of blood.”

His brow furrows in confusion and he quickly pats down his chest and sides. His hands come away dripping blood from the pool he had been lying in, but he shakes his head. “It’s not mine.”

“But then who–” You see Peter’s eyes grow wide, a horrified expression spreading across his face as his eyes lock on your chest. 

Lowering your gaze, your vision swims as you see three bullet holes still gushing blood from the front of your jacket. You had been so worried about Peter that the adrenaline made it so you never even felt them. However, as if seeing it makes it real, all the strength suddenly leaves your body and you collapse forward into his arms. Peter carefully rolls you onto your back and lays your head in his lap. And suddenly, it comes back to you. 

You were investigating a story and apparently crossed paths with some very dangerous people. They grabbed you and took you to the roof of a very tall building. Luckily, heights weren’t a problem for Peter. You managed to call him just before you were taken and he showed up moments after you were led onto the roof. He quickly took care of three of them but the fourth guy had time to pull his gun and fire off a few shots. Peter instinctually dove out of the way, not realizing you were standing right behind him.

You had been near the side of the building so when the bullets slammed into you, they caused you to stumble back and over the edge. Peter dove after you and grabbed you halfway down. But then his web snapped, causing you both to drop over ten feet and roll across the pavement. Which was where you were when you woke up.

You are roused from your memory as you feel a tight pressure on one of the bullet wounds, followed by pressure on another. Glancing down, you watch as Peter finishes by covering the final bullet wound with a thick layer of webbing. The white material slowly starts turning pink then red as more and more blood seeps into it, but it seems to be stopping it from actively bleeding out which is an improvement. Though you have already lost so much blood. Your head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton and the edges of your vision have started to turn black as the darkness creeps steadily in. 

Peter notices the way your head droops and your eyes flutter as they struggle to stay open. Cupping your face in his hand, he whispers, “Hey, stay with me. I’m going to get you to help, but you need to hold on, okay?”

You nod weakly even as your eyes drift closed even further. Peter is calling your name but you don’t have the strength to answer him anymore. There is nothing you can do but lay limply in his arms as he gathers you close to his chest and you feel the two of you lift into the air. 

The last thing you hear before the darkness swallows you is Peter begging you, “Hold on.”

Taglist: @loverhymeswith, @babblydrabbly, @green-socks, @mayhem24-7forever, @merlehs, @lanatheawesome, @sunshineflowerchild789, @indig0nebula, @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy, @mournthewicked, @lucyysthings

[caliburn-the-sword]

"hur hur gabe wasn't as abusive as he was in the books" people can all shut up. percy's jaw TREMBLED when ares yelled at him, which had nothing at all to do with his god status - percy backtalks gods just fine. he had trauma response to ares yelling. ares didn't so much as lift a finger. that goes to speak volumes about what percy was experiencing at home

[seth-whumps]

hey. you're doing great :) I think that blorbo of yours should be shot in an alleyway with no one around, terrified and alone, and forced to struggle back to their home base trailing blood along the concrete behind them, and collapse in a shocked caretaker's arms, though. that's just my opinion. keep thrivin :)

[oblique-lane]

Pale

[120daysofsodomm]

dreampink🎀

[comic-art-showcase]

Deadpool by Sanford Greene

[ra3kiv]

[melatoninfairy]

i shot an angel with my fathers rifle

[one-time-i-dreamt]

My family was staying in a bad part of town and we started hearing gunshots and my parents were like, nope we’re getting out of here, except my brother was playing video games with noise cancelling on and didn’t hear us so we just sorta left him and he either died or started a new life there because we never saw him again.

[destiel-news-channel]

[Image ID: The Destiel confession meme edited so that Dean answers 'Shots have been fired at Trump. He seems to have suffered no severe injuries' to Cas' 'I love you'. /End ID]

source (tw prominent pictures with blood)

[doctorsiren]

“Almost Christmas” means it wasn’t Christmas!