#he wheezed he thought he was gonna bust a rib he was laughing so hard

[thecowboykatsuki-anon]

On the rare occasion I join the boys at the gym, Kats pouts cause I only let Eiji spot me. It’s completely his own fault though after nearly getting me crushed under the bar while I was bench pressing.

He glanced down at me mid-rep, arms crossed and went “I’m getting deja vu from this position, princess,” with a sudden wolffish grin and suddenly all I could think of was the night before when he’d had my head hanging off the bed so he could watch my throat bulge with his cock while Eiji fucked me.

The comment caught me so off guard I faltered and the asshole was laughing too hard to properly get the bar completely off, so Eiji had to rush over and help lift it so I wasn’t crushed.

He still grumbles about it not being fair everytime I borrow Eiji to spot me and it takes everything in me not to flip him off everytime.

[hellowkatey]

Febuwhump Day 14

Prompt: “I didn’t mean it”

Part 2 of Hell in Hoth

Read Part 1 here

Read on AO3

The Ground is My Halt

The Force feels wrong. Obi-Wan wrong. Without explaining himself, Anakin breaks out into a run and Rex reacts instantly. The mouth of the tunnel is just ahead, and as they run the figure of Obi-Wan comes into view. His saber is drawn, arms pulled back in the classic opening position of Ataru, which is the first clue that something is wrong.

The second is their old training bond tightening with such force it nearly makes Anakin trip over himself. Master? He says through the bond, and Anakin's chest tightens.

"Obi-Wan?" he yells, trying to get his attention, but his former master's eyes just widen, and his arms go limp. His lightsaber clatters to the ground, and Obi-Wan follows soon after, his lips moving but nothing that Anakin can make out. "Obi-Wan!"

He grabs Obi-Wan by the shoulders and turns him over so he's lying on his back. "I'm fine," Obi-Wan gasps, his pupils blown and glassy. "I'm okay."

Anakin looks up as Cody comes running. "What happened?"

"I was gonna ask you the same thing!" Anakin gripes. Obi-Wan's chest is rising and falling shallowly, wheezing with every breath. "It sounds like his lung collapsed." Anakin slips his hand from behind Obi-Wan's back to get a better grip but the dark red that now stains his glove catches him off-guard.

"Turn him," Rex says, also seeing the blood. They carefully flip a half-unconscious Obi-Wan onto his side, and Anakin draws in a breath at the sight of a quickly spreading stain of blood soaking through his parka. He curses under his breath, grabbing his saber and cutting through the material of the coat. What it reveals makes a new rush of anger slip through.

Pieces of fabric-- pieces of his tunic, it appears, though they are bright red instead of beige now-- hang sloppily off a wound in the center of the right side of his back.

"Why didn't you know about this?" Anakin asks Cody, not bothering to filter his annoyance. It's not the commander he's mad at-- it's his dumbass master who definitely tried to hide this without telling his companion.

"I don't... I don't know, sir," Cody says, muted. Anakin immediately regrets his tone, but he has no time to deal with that. From the blue tinge of his lips, Obi-Wan may not have time.

"We need to get him back to the ship!" He grabs Rex's busted commlink and pulls his own off his wrist. It was also broken in their fall, but Anakin assumes there are enough parts between the four of them to do a quick fix. It takes him only a few minutes to rewire the comlink, using the intact speaker of his and the localizer of Rex's. He hands it back to Rex. "Call for evac."

__________

It doesn't take long for the med unit to reach them in the ice lab. Cody stands out of the way, watching a Kix and Helix carefully load General Kenobi onto a stretcher and strap an oxygen mask across his pale face. Skywalker is pacing, and Rex is running alongside Kix, probably explaining the situation.

That should be me giving the brief, Cody muses, following behind them. I was with him.

Skywalker's harsh tone hit Cody harder than he expected it to. Usually, he is immune to the curt words of the temperamental Jedi, but the intensity he looked at him is what seems to be weighing on him. The slanted stare that is usually directed at their enemies suddenly aimed at him.

He's scared, Cody reminds himself. It's quite obvious that the Jedi aren't always good at practicing what they preach, and the Hero-Without-Fear or whatever the holonet likes to call Skywalker have obviously never met the kid. When it comes to Kenobi or Tano, there is only fear. Understandably so. Even Cody was thrust into a panic when he saw his general crumble. He didn't know if there were enemies hiding somewhere and managed to snipe him, or if the lab had been rigged. But now, the wound was already scantily dressed, and now Cody just keeps racking his brain as to what could have happened.

Why didn't you know about this?

They were falling. The ship became unbalanced and they fell from what felt like one end to the other. Cody knows Kenobi managed to use the Force to cushion his fall, but maybe... maybe he didn't use it for himself?

It sounds preposterous, but a part of him isn't surprised. General Kenobi is well known for having more regard for others than himself. Even when it comes to the clones. No matter how dispensable they are by principle, he never cared. It's why he's so respected, so fiercely beheld by his men.

Cody wonders how they would react if he didn't come back. They're in the evac ship, crowded around the stretcher while Kix and Helix try their best to stuff sterile bandages into the wound. Skywalker stands in the corner, arms crossed and face hardened, but his eyes are unfocused. He is somewhere else entirely right now. Rex puts a hand on Cody's shoulder but says nothing. Cody prefers it that way. If General Kenobi doesn't come back, it would be his fault. He knows that.

Everything happens in a blur. They get back on the ship and General Kenobi is whisked away before the gunship even has a chance to fully land. The urgency of their actions doesn't escape Cody. He watches them solemnly as they disappear in the direction of the medbay.

Focus, he shakes away the thoughts of Kenobi on the operating table. The mission. The lab. A science lab in the middle of Hoth is not something they see every day, and he suspects it can't be for a good reason. The blood was proof enough of that.

Distracting himself will do him some good, The least he can do is his duty. He heads to the bridge to deliver the scan of the lab to report to the Jedi council.

"Commander," a voice rings out hesitantly. Cody stops and turns to see General Skywalker standing a few meters away. He salutes.

"General, what can I do for you?"

Skywalker walks up to him, his eyes seeming to attempt to gauge his emotions, but buckets don't show emotions and Cody is thankful for that.

"What did you find in that tunnel? What was all that?" His tone is more sedate now. More normal but still obviously filled with worry.

"A lab, I believe sir. I'm about to take our findings up for briefing if you would like to join me."

Skywalker nods, and they start walking to the bridge. Cody can feel the strange tension around them-- he doesn't have to be Force-sensitive to pick up on that fact. Maybe Skywalker is still cross with him. Blames him for what happened. Cody looks down at his comm, expecting a blinking light containing an update on Kenobi's condition. His commlink remains stagnant.

"I uh," the general says, quietly at first. "I'm sorry, Cody. I was worried about Obi-Wan and... I didn't mean it."

An apology is not what he expected. Cody looks at him, not exactly sure what to say here. "No apologies, sir, I should have been more vigilant."

Skywalker scoffs. "Now you sound like him. Really, though. It wasn't your fault. He's pulled that stunt on me more than once. I don't know where he got so good at hiding stuff like this."

"I hear it's the secret to becoming a master," Cody says without really thinking about who he is talking to. It's a joke he has with the med crew because of the Jedi's propensity for recklessness-- and now he's just said it to Skywalker. I've been spending too much time around General Kenobi... Cody stiffens, looking at the Jedi Knight expecting a new reason for anger, but instead, he's smiling.

"Didn't realize you had jokes, Commander," he laughs.

"Senses of humor are part of our programming, sir."

It's a pleasant diversion as they reach the bridge. The Jedi council is already on the holo, and Cody's moment of relief is renewed by the many pairs of eyes that now watch him and Skywalker carefully. Cody sets the holoscan into the projector and begins his impromptu presentation of their findings.

__________

When Obi-Wan awakes, there is a tube in his chest and a mask over his face. His body is sore and still feels like it's defrosting. He reaches up to take off the mask, but his goal is stopped by the hand of his former padawan obstructing his pathing.

"Not yet," he says, and Obi-Wan begrudgingly lets his hand fall back to his side. "You are on O2 therapy for another ten minutes."

"What happened?" he asks, his words muffled significantly by the oxygen mask but Anakin seems to pick it up well enough.

"Oh I don't know, why don't you tell me? And while we're at it, we can discuss your field-medic abilities because honestly, Obi-Wan, they're horrendous." Anakin sighs, his emotion deflating. "You had a puncture wound that shattered one of your ribs. It was fine until you irritated it and a piece of your rib punctured your lung and caused some internal bleeding."

"Oh," is all he can say in response. That all sounds about right.

"That's not all," Anakin says. "The lab. We tested the blood on the floor and..." he lets out a deep breath. "It had a midi-chlorian count, Master."

Now Obi-Wan is determined. He reaches up, ignoring Anakin's pleas to leave the mask alone. He needs him to hear this clearly. "We must find Jenna Zan Arbor."

Anakin winces at the name. Rightfully so, she captured and poisoned him with a horrible drug that basically entrapped him within his own mind.

"How do you know?"

He slips the mask down to his chin. There's no point now. "I don't know if it's her or a copycat, but she's done this before," he swallows hard. "On Qui-Gon. Bloodlet him so he would have to use the Force to preserve himself."

Anakin takes a deep, labored breath at that information, sitting back in the chair beside Obi-Wan's bed. His gaze is far away, no doubt in the remembrance of his experience under her spell. Zan Arbor tends to have that effect on them-- suddenly they are padawans once again, trying hard to defeat an enemy that is not so easily beat with the blade of a lightsaber. The worst part of the delusional scientist is that she is cunning. She escaped the prison Obi-Wan helped put her in and has proceeded to evade them ever since.

Obi-Wan puts the mask over his mouth and nose once again, taking a moment to replenish himself.

"So we find her?"

"Yes, I believe that is our next step."

Though neither of them says it, they both know the thoughts of the other: this is not going to be an easy reunion.

[internalsealpanic]

I Will be Your Tim Drake for Tonight (3) (Jason Todd/ Reader)

Summary:  Preferring to do anything but your physics project, you decide to accepts Tim’s proposal. It’s simple. He does your project, you try to figure out whether Jason Sionis is criminal. Easy, right?

masterlist

A/n: This takes place in a world where Jason is adopted by Black Mask. Inspired by Building Interest by Zoeleo.The events and characterization in this story are very heavily based on Zoeleo's Long Term Investment series. It is fantastic and I really highly recommend all of her fics.

a/n: For clarification, Reader does have psychic powers but it only lets her sense people's emotions physically. No mind-reading. Her power is more like an overactive sense of empathy which may force her to dissociate into someone else.

There will be violence and mentions of alcoholism (used as coping mechanism for physical pain) and chronic pain.  

As for the additional warning, an animal is harmed but it is barely described. I could not bring myself to actual describe it but the aftermath is described.

I also just converted this from an OC so I apologize for any grammatical mistakes.

Without further a do:

Your stomach drops.

Fuck.

Of course, Damian just had to be the one to pick up.

"Hey baby bro, could you pass the phone to dad?"

"I'm sorry who is this?"

This little shit.

"You're such a kidder! Dami, it's me, Tim. "

“Ah yes, Drake-” You can hear Tim choke in the background. “What do you want?”

“Please Dami just pass the phone to dad, I- I really need to talk to him”

“Very well,”

“Tim?” The voice sounded like Bruce’s but the intonation was all wrong. The voice changer Tim and Babs were working on seems to have made progress.

“Hey dad, I- uh. I might have gotten kidnapped.”

Tim makes another choking noise. “Might have?”

“I was at the party. I think I had around 13 drinks. 13 ! Can you believe it? I felt like a right sailor after that, like the harbor workers, y’know? Anyway, I was taking a smoke-”

“Enough!” The large man roared, snatching the phone from you. “Send us $100 million by tomorrow or your kid’ll be shark bait!” Who says that anymore?

“Of course! Of course! I’ll have the money sometime this evening. Please don’t hurt him.”

Tim, God bless him, does not laugh. Tim’s acting needs some work but he sure does know how to act worried.

The line dies and they tie you back up to the post.

“What the hell?!”

“We have to make sure you don’t just runoff.” The large man says tightening your bonds. Truthfully, you’ve felt far worse. After all, corsets exist. However, this was still a close second.  

“Do I look like I could outrun a snail?”

“He’s got a point boss. He looks like he hasn’t even seen the sun in ages.”

This, you decide, is true for Tim. When was the last time he went out before dark? Maybe he got sunlight when he stayed over at Eddie’s place.

The large man grabs Jason by the collar and throws him to his men.

The 3 men kick and curse at him. They mock him and beat him down. They wail on him with their fists, their steel-toed shoes, and sometimes brick. Jason takes it all with a crooked grin and a sharp tongue. You watched in awe. Even on the floor, Jason looked sturdy, ferocious, and indomitable.

"They all break, sweet girl."

Jason is on a tiled floor. No, he should be on concrete. His blood is on the tile. They’re hitting him. They’re hitting him with a bat. No. They aren’t supposed to be holding a bat. They were kicking him but now they’re holding a bat. No, She’s holding a bat. There's supposed to be three of them, three men,  but their forms coalesce into her .  You can hear his ribs cracking. Next are his legs. His legs are always next. Then his arm. She'll break each bone in his arms and his hands.  He’s wheezing. His voice sounds hoarse. His voice is too hoarse. He sounds like he’s been starved and dehydrated for at least a day. They’ve only been here for an hour. That isn’t right. Oh God! Now she had a cleaver in her hands.

No!

No!

He doesn’t need to die. She can’t.

no.

No.

No!  

 The scene crescendos as the tall, dark, sinewy silhouette towering over Jason raises the butcher's knife above her head.

“Harder, daddy!”

“Son?”

The scene of the kitchen fades and the shit-eating grin on Jason melts into view which shifts from amusement to confusion then back to amusement.

You blink seeing his stupid grin far too clearly.

You let a bark of gut-busting laughter out as you strain against the rope. Your brow pinches with concern but based on the scowls you’re receiving they're more focused on the fact that you were laughing like a mad man.  

Jason looks like he’s about to laugh from the absurdity as well when the man in charge picks him up again tossing him into a chair. The other men tie him down binding his wrists and ankles.

"I've had worse." He spits out.

The phone rings again, the dial tone echoing. Jason looks like hell with his face swollen and bruises beginning to bloom on every surface but he still looked like he was 5 seconds from starting a fight.

The large man punches Jason hard in the gut knocking the air out of his lungs as the dial tone cuts off.  “Hear that, Sionis? Your little bitch is pretty soft.”

Oh God, are they serious?

“Who is this? Nevermind. You ok there, sweetheart?” Roman Sionis’ ‘concerned’ voice carries over the line.

They are.

“Nothing I can't handle, daddy.” Jason chuckles with the utmost casualness. You, on the other hand,  instantly want to disinfect your brain. Thankfully, before your mind could wander somewhere it can't return from,  the big man growls into the phone.

“Don't you recognize the voice of the man whose life you've ruined?!”

“You've gotta be more specific than that. I've ruined quite a few lives but I would like to know whose brain I need to put a bullet in.”

“IT'S ME  BRUNO HARDIN!”

“Doesn't ring any bells.” Roman deadpans almost sounding completely disinterested. “Sweetheart, you remember anyone like that?”

“Nope,” Jason replies letting the p pop. It seemed like a strange sort of triumph before it all crashes down with another swift punch to the ribs.

You stare at the strange scene torn between amusement and horror.

“Take this seriously!” Bruno roars.

"I'm taking this about as seriously as it deserves."

A part of you thought 'yeah this is ridiculous enough to warrant nonchalance' while the other part wanted to scream.  On one hand, even you found his identity anticlimactic. Doesn’t he know just how many small-time businesses Roman has ruined? He’d be lucky to get into the top 50. It’s not like he was running a pretty ethical establishment either.  On the other hand, your freaking kid is getting the shit kicked out of him. Emote damn it.

“Jason. Don’t you worry. Daddy’s going to take care of this. Your Uncle D happens to be in town. He’s on his way to pick you up. Love you, baby. See you soon.”

The line dies. Your stomach sinks further somehow. You don’t know if the nausea is due to the fact that the line died, the threat, or the number of times the word ‘daddy’ came up. Who the hell is Uncle D? How is he supposed to help? Your gaze trails to Jason who is now lowering his head to the floor seemingly tired. Maybe that last punch finally drained the fight from him.

“You're all so fucked.” Jason barks out in a fit of laughter. The men around him, jumping from the volume of his voice.  

Bruno grabs Jason by the collar and begins to shake him as if the  “Shut the fuck up you little bitch! Whoever your Uncle D is he's-”

“Deathstroke”

You feel like someone kicked you in the chest. First of all, Uncle D? Really? You guess that there are worse hills to die on. This was somehow weirder than hearing Faust and her siblings call him pops. Second of all, Fuck. You'd never gotten your asshanded to you by Deathstroke but based on how banged up the Titans looked after fighting him this wasn't gonna be pretty.  All you could hope for was that you wouldn't get caught in the crossfire. Although, the image of Deathstroke grudgingly letting a kid call him Uncle D lightens your mood a bit.  

Bruno throws Jason on the floor hard enough for his body to bounce. Like Jason earlier, Bruno is radiating murder.

Just run, you thick motherfucker.

You, being the ‘nice’ Wayne kid that you are,  try to tell him as much but sadly that was halted by shattering glass. A flurry of black, orange, and metal crash through the glass and cut through the crowd of men.  

They fire at him, panic making their faces even paler. They hit him, bullets sinking into his flesh, blood splatters but none of it fazes him. He skewers and cuts them down with ease. His swords and suit are liberally decorated with their blood when it’s all done.

He steps over Bruno’s body. From the grunt that comes out, Bruno is still alive. Dumb bastard doesn’t know how to play dead. He’ll die from blood loss anyway.

“Hey, kid-” Deathstroke greets tersely,  picking up Jason’s nearly limp body.  “We’re gonna get you home.” He slings Jason’s arm over his shoulder.

“Wait!”  

Deathstroke stops sounding slightly annoyed.

Jason turns to you, who’s still unhappily tied to a post.  “We gotta get him out.” He rasps.  

“Kid, you’re the only one I’m getting paid to rescue.”  Deathstroke helpfully informs as he carefully adjusts his hold on the struggling young man. You blow out a breath somehow more irritable than scared.  “Just cut me out. I can make my way back just fine.”

“Walk in Gotham, are you stupid?” Jason hisses. The concern bleeding through.

“Which one of us charged at their captors while they were armed?”

Jason scowls at you with a petulant twist in his lips. “Yanno what,  Leave ‘im.”

“Ok, ok, I’m sorry and yeah I’ll be fine. I know where to avoid. Just please don’t leave me with them” you plead, throwing away any pride you held as you glance at the most likely dead bodies. Deathstroke cuts you out. Your skin feels raw but you’re otherwise unharmed.

You walk out of the warehouse and Dick practically throws himself at you. “Oh thank god, they didn’t shoot you in the head.” He mumbles into your wig.  

"Why would you think they would shoot me in the head?"

Dick pulls back and frowns at you through the domino mask.  “You aren’t exactly the most pleasant-”

“ We were model hostages.” you squawk.

Jason snorts far too loudly to be helpful.

You glare at him but you weren’t about to say fuck off to him while he has one of the world’s deadliest assassins right next to him.

Deathstroke coughs.  “Well if you don’t mind we’ll be taking our leave.”

Dick holding you protectively, glares but says nothing. Maybe he does but you faint before you can hear it.

A/n: Thanks for reading!

[cle1024]

dead loss | hhj

member: hwang hyunjin 

genre: fluff, angst 

summary: life was an exhausting and pointless ride for hyunjin, but you managed to make it a little more bearable while you could.  delinquent!au, friends to lovers!au, coming of age!au 

warnings: smoking, alcoholism, swearing, violence, death, drug-dealing (no usage), lots of illegal stuff my dudes 

disclaimer: there are ships within this story. i am NOT trying to force these relationships on any of the boys, nor am i trying to use them as anything other than an aspect of the story. these are purely fictitious scenarios and relationships, i feel the need to add this disclaimer because some people take ships w a y too far (insisting they’re real to the point where it’s uncomfortable and borderline fetishising) and i don’t want to come across as one of those people. 

a/n: anyway i’m gonna go disappear for another 5+ months 

Life in a small town was peaceful in the outsider’s perspective ― everyone knew everyone, there was a strong sense of community and unbreakable bond built on reliability and trust. People who believed that shit clearly didn’t live in a small town, or at least not your small town. No, in your hometown everyone was a stranger. If you look at them for too long ― alternatively referred to as “looking at them the ‘wrong way’” ― they wouldn’t hate to get aggressive, borderline violent or just straight up violent. There was no trust in this town, how can you trust a stranger? It was a shady and hopeless area that people struggled to escape. Many of you have accepted your future, stuck in this abysmal hellhole, but some things just aren’t easy to come to terms with―especially when you hate the future you’ll inevitably be trapped in. 

A slight metallic scent tainted the air as Hyunjin leaned against the wooden planks of the treehouse, a huff passing his busted lips. He had managed to drag his sorry ass back to the rickety treehouse after sending a simple text to you ― something optimistic and charming: “im going to fucking die. treehouse” ― in the hopes you would come fix his wounds. That’s what you always did after Hyunjin had been in a fight, regardless of whether he asked you to or not. Though he had to ask you this time, even if it was the ass crack of dawn, because he genuinely thought he was going to die any second now. At this point, he wasn’t sure if it was because he’d used all of his energy in the fight, his wounds bled too much, or the result of not sleeping in thirty-seven hours. Hyunjin didn’t think he really cared about dying, everyone has to go at some point, but he did care about whether he would be in pain or alone when he died―and right now, he was both. There was a faint pattering of footsteps in the dewy grass, growing louder until they were gently working their way up the wooden ladder to the treehouse. Hyunjin opened his eyes lazily, watching as you pulled yourself up and into the structure. He smirked slightly and wheezed out a chuckle, “on a scale of one to ten, how dateable am I right now?” You stared at him blankly, scanning over his injuries before huffing slightly and shifting towards him. 

“Losing fights isn’t a personality trait, dipshit.” 

“Yeah, but it makes me seem like a bad boy, huh?” Hyunjin chuckled hoarsely at your immediate eye roll, tilting his head to give you better access to his bleeding face wounds. He winced softly as pressure was applied to the bloody mark on the top of his cheek, a fresh bruise blooming under his soft skin. He couldn’t see all of his wounds, but he could undeniably feel them. His cheek was bruised and bleeding, his bottom lip was busted with blood seeping into his mouth occasionally―he was just loving that―while there were numerous pains to his abdomen, mainly in his ribs and lower stomach. 

“Jeez, you need to stop picking fights you can’t win,” the corners of his lips twitched upwards momentarily, a tinge of smugness painting the action. 

“This is the prime of my life, darling.” 

You scoffed at his excuse, “yeah, you’ll only be young once but you’ll be stupid for the rest of your life, Hwang.” 

“Touche,” he shrugged nonchalantly as your eyes widened in mock offence. 

“Oh, do you want to bleed some more?” The two of you chuckled at the threat, though Hyunjin’s sounded much more breathless and painful than yours did.  

“Nah, only other people are allowed to hurt me. How else would I get your attention at night?” Hyunjin’s comment elicited another eyeroll and soft smile from you. He knew you’d drop everything to be with him, regardless of how sleep-deprived it made you, because that’s what friends did. 

Hyunjin is a delinquent, down to the very definition: “(typically of a young person) tending to commit crime, particularly minor crime.” He does that a fair bit, stealing from different shops run by tired and aging people who can’t be arsed to chase after the mischievous teenager. He smokes, despite his youth, but won’t take a swig of alcohol ― something Jisung often laughs at him for, but that boy was a borderline alcoholic. The tall boy also happened to be involved in fights at least one a fortnight, you sometimes have the displeasure of witnessing them and almost always have the duty of taking care of him afterwards―no one else was willing to do it. You don’t approve of Hyunjin’s lifestyle, frankly you never have, but you know he has his reasons. Besides, he’s a stubborn boy and wouldn’t change even if you tried to force him. He’s reckless and usually impulsive, which became undeniably obvious when he was fifteen, stood in front of a train until the last second so he could dodge it, all with the undying support of his former enemy Jisung ― “You got this, man!” 

“All he’s got is a one-way ticket to the afterlife,” you’d deadpanned, earning a scoff from the other boy. 

“As Teddy Duchamp once said, ‘train dodge, dig it’.” 

“Yeah, but he didn’t stay around long enough to dodge it, nor is he a real person!” 

At the end of the day, it really didn’t matter how Hyunjin acted, he would still be your best friend. He’d filled that position since the two of you were kids, it came naturally when you lived one street away from each other and had fathers with a similar friendly relationship―until work got the best of them. Now they don’t have enough time for their children, let alone each other. They differed in some ways: your father harbours expectations far too high for you, meaning he spends most of his free time reprimanding you for not trying hard enough, whereas Hyunjin’s father was always busy and didn’t really care for his son. As a result, Hyunjin spent most of his time away from home, locked inside that treehouse his father built for him and his childhood friends ― many of them had moved on to other things: moved away, became too good for him, or died, but you and Minho always stuck around, later adding Jisung to the bunch when he and Hyunjin outgrew their petty mutual hatred. Smoking, playing cards or watching scenery while he played with a lighter, it was enough for Hyunjin. 

Sometimes you think about Jisung and Hyunjin’s weird friendship, it’s an evolution you all laughed about from time to time. When the pair were younger, the age of twelve during middle school to be exact, they harboured a burning mutual hatred that continuously burdened their mutual friends ― namely upperclassman Lee Minho; at least, he was the only one of the bunch who stuck around. There was an incident where the pair were ready to throw hands at one another, but Minho and some of his older friends stepped in and told them to squash it, even if momentarily. After Jisung aided Hyunjin in a fight with some older boys from the next town over, the two sparked a short-lived ‘frenemies’ type of relationship ― of course the older boys weren’t scared of two kids who had only just figured out the ego-boost of developing muscle, they were more fearful of Jisung’s older brother as they knew damn well how ruthless he could be; they didn’t want the risk of dealing with someone from the same genes, but Hyunjin and Jisung maintained it was their intimidation that warded the boys off. Jisung initially brushed off Hyunjin’s thanks, but there was a definite shift in their relationship: their sharp insults became sarcastic remarks that garnered a teasing response after the other, then after one incident they were friends. Hyunjin never told you the specifics of the incident and you never pushed, but it was essentially Hyunjin paying back Jisung for saving his ass ― though you later found out the only threat to Jisung at the time was himself. Regardless, Jisung and Hyunjin had discovered their compatibility and Minho had never been happier to see drama fizzle out. He wasn’t a fan of such petty disagreements, “all problems can be solved in this world, either with a fist or verbal expression.” 

“Are you recommending violence?” 

“It’s still honest communication.” 

Lee Minho was truly one of a kind―all three of them were, but it was their varying ability to believe in themselves that set them apart the most. 

The Hwang boy was smart, but he had no faith in himself. At the age of fifteen he’d already accepted that he wouldn’t go far academically, telling you “I’ll become one of those tradies that gets wolf whistled when I’m trying to do my job, and no one will say a damn thing because I’m a male,” you could remember him taking a short drag of the nicotine stick, “that’s my inevitable future.” That was one of the many ways you contrasted Hyunjin. You wanted to make your father finally accept you as his child again, and the only way to do that seemed to be success ― but at this point you weren’t sure what that looked like in his eyes; everything you perceived as a success was a comical failure to him. You didn’t smoke ― you tried once when you were fourteen and found it dreadful ― and you certainly didn’t shoplift chocolate bars or ‘train dodge’ like Hyunjin, but you still had your downfalls. Rather, you bury yourself in work you couldn’t understand, got pent up over the possibility of failure, and then turned it all in like nothing ever happened―nothing’s wrong. There was a lot wrong, Hyunjin and you both knew it, but neither ever voiced it. All you wanted was to make your father proud, but you always wanted to run away from this godforsaken town and never come back. Hyunjin wanted you to stay around, the kid couldn’t afford to lose another person in his life, but he knew it was your choice at the end of the day―you had to do what was best for you. It was just difficult to accept. It was like life had kicked Hyunjin and rolled all over him, yet you managed to bring a tiny little spark of life in his soul, something that brought him to carry on. You were his rock, you understood him more than he understood himself most of the time. He loved you, not romantically, but in the way people who have no one else who get it love each other, you know? 

He realised he loved you in that way when he was thirteen, after he had his first existential debate with you ― it became a monthly tradition after that: one night you’d silently climb into the treehouse with puffy eyes and a red-tinged face, and he’d never question it because he knew you’d tell him it was fine. Then you’d wonder what happens after death and where you went. Hyunjin had always been firm on the idea there was a Heaven and Hell due to his long standing religious beliefs, and he always assumed he was going to Hell, but those midnight talks always made him realise just how unsure he was about everything ― he didn’t know what or who to believe, but he eventually decided he probably didn’t need to. 

Hyunjin realised he had fallen in love with you when you were sixteen, after Jisung and Minho had convinced the two of you to spend your Saturday doing an ‘adventurous hike’ with them ― you didn’t know it at the time, but the two had found out some pricey drugs had been dropped in the woods, and neither of them were in a situation to refuse the money that would come with selling those substances. The two boys were energetically bounding ahead of you and the tallest boy, Hyunjin and yourself dawdling on the train tracks to avoid any shattered glass mixed in with the gravel surrounding the rails, trying your best to avoid being cut through the thin and worn soles of your shoes. Hyunjin squinted at the sunlight, distracted by his own thoughts and daydreams, too distracted to realise Jisung and Minho had stopped dead in his tracks. He bumped into the older of the two, startling him back to reality with confusion, “dude, what the fu―” his voice trailed off as he watched five men ― as in full grown, adult, ‘probably from a gang’ type of men ― snarl at the four of you. Though, their eyes seemed to be trained on Minho. 

“Lee Minho. You said you wouldn’t come around here anymore, didn’t you?”  

For the first time in his life, Hyunjin saw genuine fear on Minho’s frame as he shifted his eyes and gulped softly; clearly they’d made a grave mistake. 

“Y-yeah,” for you, that was the moment you became alarmed. Lee Minho, the self-proclaimed ‘King of Confidence’, doesn’t stutter, “I know, man. I-I must’ve lost track of where we were, you won’t see me around here anymore. I’m not here to cause you any trouble, nothin’ like that,” he spoke rapidly, desperation seeping through his usually nonchalant tone. One of the men eyed the four of you suspiciously, straining his vision on you for far too long―Hyunjin sensed it, pulling you out of his line of vision with a glare. He was always one to protect his friends, reckless enough to put himself in danger to do so, it was nothing new for any of you. 

“I better not see you around these parts anymore, Lee. You got it?” Minho nodded firmly, “good. Now go,” the man waved his hand in a dismissive motion, “run along with your friends.” 

To Hyunjin, Jisung and yourself, that was your que to turn around and never look back; but Minho knew these men, you didn’t. The oldest knew it would never be that simple, and that became evident when he saw the shining tip of a dagger being pulled from one of their pockets. The four of you reacted fast, running purely on fear; Minho frantically pushed whoever he could reach, without looking, in the opposite direction, urging you to run as fast as you could to get the fuck out of there. Hyunjin grabbed your wrist securely, tugging you in the other direction and refusing to slow down for a second, even when he heard Minho and Jisung yelling distantly. Your legs slowed down slightly until the both of you stopped in your tracks, much to the dismay of Hyunjin. 

“Hyunjin, we have to go back.” 

“They can handle themselves, Y/N.” 

“We can’t just leave them!” You pleaded, gesturing to the distant figures of your two friends. 

“And I can’t lose you!” Hyunjin yelled back, startling you into a momentary silence. It was built on uncertainty, confusion and hung heavily in the air for a few seconds, until the sound of approaching footsteps, the sound of frantic running to be exact, and Minho’s frantic yells of “move your fucking asses! Run!” broke the tranquility. 

You didn’t find out what Jisung and Minho had argued about until you were twenty-one years old and attending Minho’s funeral: “When I was sixteen, he was going to risk his life to save myself and my two other friends. We yelled at each other; I couldn’t leave him behind to get beat up or blatantly killed by the people who confronted us, but he couldn’t let me in harms way. I only found out why he cared so much and risked his everything, all the time, three years after it happened. But, that’s a secret we all promised to take to the grave.” 

All four of you promised to keep that secret ― you’d all promised Minho that you wouldn’t out him, have his parents disown him during or after his life, and you all took that to the grave. Jisung lost the ability to love romantically when he was twenty-one; he’d given it all to Minho and allowed it to be buried with him. He wouldn’t have it any other way, though. 

You were officially eighteen and two months, not that the months meant anything. Both you and Hyunjin were anxious about turning nineteen, yet he didn’t want to voice it and destroy the wall he’d built around a certain part of himself―his fears. Being nineteen meant he had to act like an adult: get a job, support his family until his parents found out he had enough money to survive on his own and kick him out, settle down and have his whole life figured out. Nineteen would mean the death of his youth: no more skipping chemistry because it was insufferable or only showing up for woodwork classes, no more train dodging because it was ‘immature’, no more stealing or the shop owners would actually make an effort to ensure his actions had repercussions since he was no longer a delinquent teen. The worst of all was the thought of losing his friends; he already saw Minho significantly less than he used to due to his two jobs ― a barber during the daylight and a bartender during the hours between ― Jisung would probably continue secretly writing poetry ― though the three of you secretly knew he did it ― and work as a truck driver, or something, to escape the dullness of your hometown for a little bit. You, Y/N the bright one, would probably go on to do great things with your life and be added to the list of friends he lost due to not being good enough anymore. Hyunjin wasn’t sure whether you or Jisung felt the same ― Minho excluded since he was already passed nineteen, with Jisung endearingly referring to him as ‘hag’ ― and a part of him didn’t want to know because he didn’t really want to think about it. Of course, that didn’t stop it from being the only thing on his mind twenty-four-seven. Hyunjin groaned inwardly; losing friends. You were just a friend. Hyunjin couldn’t help but scold himself. He could steal from stores without a second thought, stand in front of trains without fear, yet he couldn’t admit his feelings to you. Then again, your friendship spanned across most of his life, and losing that would mean he would lose you. And, frankly, you were the only thing that mattered to him in life. His parents neglected him, other friends had abandoned him over time or just failed to be there for him, but you never left. You stayed, even when you became far more intelligent than him and practically radiated potential. No matter how much he wanted to, he wouldn’t dare risk losing that. He couldn’t lose you, he’d told you that before ― although, when he thought about it, and he absolutely thought about it, he’d lose you regardless of what he did or didn’t say. 

But, he had to put those thoughts aside. It was a fresh summer, after all, and there was supposedly no room for sadness in summer. There was only room for happiness, laughter, good vibes, getting high on the good vibes, or just getting high and conforming to the sickly summertime syndrome people were often infected with. Thus, Hyunjin had tried to spend the new season conforming to such a syndrome―excluding the fight where he was beaten within an inch of his life and had you fix him up, that probably didn’t fit the mold of a fun summer. It’d been successful to an extent ― the local pool had far too many people, including neglectful mothers attempting to flirt with the underage lifeguard Kim Sunwoo, and the beach was littered with shattered glass, plastic and cigarette ash mixed amongst the sand ― but the weather was still nice, and Hyunjin did play a soccer game in the park last weekend. That was it, though. The rest of his time was spent mowing the lawns of other houses for some extra cash, pocketing cherry lollipops and dealing decks of fifty-two cards for games that would be inevitably cheated in―like you were now. Hyunjin, Jisung and Minho were in a heated game of Go Fish, a cigarette dangling from Hyunjin’s plush lips and intoxicating the midday air, while you half-focused on the game in amusement, half-focused on the dusty comic book you’d flicked your way through. It’d been buried under many other prints of various comics, all neglected as time and puberty had lowered your interest in the bright illustrations. You couldn’t remember ever reading this one though, it was probably one of the rare collections Hyunjin refused to share through his childhood. A huff passed the lips of the oldest as he lost yet again, mumbling something about disrespectful youths and how they had obviously cheated. Jisung snickered, earning a wack in the gut from an agitated Minho. He scooted over to sit beside you, reading over your shoulder in an attempt to show his disinterest in the card game ― though it really just made him look like a sore loser, and it was quite clear he had zero interest in the childish story you held. A frustrated groan sounded as he threw his head back against the wall, as dramatic as ever. 

“I want to go outside,” he complained. 

Hyunjin scoffed, “there’s the door,” gesturing to the entrance with sass. 

“No,” Minho hissed and narrowed his eyes. Man, he was really spending too much time with those cats, “I want to go outside outside. Like, camping or something.” 

Jisung threw his hands up in defeat, “well, why didn’t you say so!” He exclaimed in exasperation, “I’ve got everything you need to go camping! No one in my house uses it.” 

Oh, Jisung’s house. What a nightmare that was―or, rather, looked like. It was dilapidated with a rusty truck parked in the driveway, a large shed in the back acting as storage for years of hoarding, of course there’d be something for camping in there. Jisung had once told you that most of the stuff in the shed belonged to past owners who never returned to get it and he’d, for some reason, seen it as a tradition that has to be carried through each owner. You didn’t press the idea or criticise it, the boy seemed really excited about it after all. 

“Welcome to my shed of wonders!” Jisung introduced. It was so, so, dusty. You were almost certain some of the junk within the metal sheathing dated back to the 19th century, maybe the 18th if you really analysed the dilapidated furniture and crumbling artefacts. Jisung hummed in thought, “there’s gotta be a tent in here somewhere…” He strolled into the shed, seeming to know exactly what to move and how far. The rest of you stared at the collection in awe―you kind of understood why Jisung prided himself on the contents of his shed, some of those things would make a good buck on Antiques Roadshow and keeping them must’ve given Jisung some sort of positive emotional release, perhaps a feeling of “I have a get rich quick scheme, I’m just choosing to be poor”. Probably made him feel better when people gave him crap for not being able to afford cool toys as a kid. You’d never seen the torment Jisung received, nor did he ever desire to speak about it, but Minho had been vocal numerous times in his distaste for the way the younger was treated. Jisung had a heart of gold, something Hyunjin could acknowledge even when they didn’t get along. He was the kind of boy who deserved nothing but greatness; he was destined for greatness. You could always pray the town didn’t suck the potential out of him, as it did to most others, but you knew those kinds of prayers go unanswered. Jisung’s epiphanic “a-ha!” derailed your thought train, your eyes shifting to see the brunette male pulling a large tent from one of the many, almost overflowing, storage units. 

Hyunjin squinted his eyes in confusion, “how did you even find that?” 

“It looks a hundred years old,” Minho added. 

The youngest male rolled his eyes at their comments, dusting off the green tent. An excited smile graced his face as he turned to face the three of you, “alright, where should we go?” 

The sun beat down on you, a light sheen of sweat glistening over your burning skin. How long had it been? Thirty minutes, an hour, two hours? You hadn’t a clue. The last time you ventured down railway tracks you ended up running in fear of men who had a vendetta against Minho―for reasons you’d soon find out. The oldest had evidently learned his lesson, guiding everyone in the opposite direction and away from any men with reasons to stab him for walking in their ‘territory’. Hyunjin dawdled beside you, eyes trailing the railway the four of you walked along. Minho was leading the group, Jisung chewing his ear off in a conversation that probably didn't interest the older, something about the spirits in the woods you were approaching. You could barely make out the faint scoff that passed Minho’s lips, but the younger seemed to hear it clear as day. 

“I’m serious! If we don’t get murdered in our tents then we get murked by demons in these damn woods!” 

“Is there an outcome where we don’t die on this trip?” Hyunjin questioned with amusement, effectively closing the younger’s mouth and halting more words from spilling out. Minho rolled his eyes at the short bickering, trudging through the forest with an impatient yell, “come on! I want to get there before the sun sets.” It was a dark and dank environment, the air felt musty and thick around your lungs. Trees were overgrown, roots seeping along the dirt trail and serving as tripping hazards. Light dimmed under the cavern of green leaves, yet shadows still managed to dance in the slivers of golden rays. It was tranquil, but also unnerving. In retrospect, it was probably the childhood tales of drug deals gone wrong that put you on edge. Even if it was pure fiction, naive belief was enough to trick your mind into feeling unsafe, watched, hunted. If you ventured alone your fear would have pushed you to the other side of the trail at a much faster pace than you currently maintained, but, of course, you weren’t without company. The aura of discomfort and fear gently wafted in the air ― stronger from the likes of yourself and Jisung, though minimal to non-existent from the two other males. Those two had been fearless since you met them―Hyunjin stood in front of trains for an adrenaline rush! Then again, you weren’t entirely sure as to whether that was fearlessness or recklessness. They were one and the same to that boy. 

The group passed through the forest until you found a clearing, a large field with a distant fence to halt you from further adventuring. It appeared to be the outskirts of town, past where anyone would travel for purposes other than hiking or illegal business. Hyunjin stood still with his hands rested on his hips, observing the area, “oh, this’ll do. This’ll do just fine.” 

Your eyes rolled at the antics of your best friend, trust Hyunjin to say something straight out of an 80s movie―at least, it sounded like it would be. Jisung strolled ahead, hot on the heels of Hyunjin as they ventured through the long grass. Minho eyed the ground suspiciously, hesitance floating through his orbs before mumbling, “there better not be any snakes around here.” His words clearly weren’t as quiet as he had hoped, as Jisung stumbled away from the grass with a sharp gasp at the announcement. A huff passed Hyunjin’s lips at the other boys’ dramatics, causing you to shift an eyebrow in question―he had no right to be judgemental, he was the most dramatic of all. 

“Chill out, you buffoons. There’s short grass ahead, we’ll set up there,” well, that made sense. Clearing his throat awkwardly, Jisung stumbled to his feet and worked to catch up with Hyunjin’s footsteps. 

The process of setting up a tent had been… difficult, to say the least ― “Jisung, how the fuck do we set this up?” “Just read the instructions?” “They’re in Russian!” ― though the four of you eventually managed to successfully pitch the tent. Though, in all honesty, the sun had started to set by the time it was standing. That was at least an hour ago. Now, you lay still in your sleeping bags and mumbled descriptions of distant memories and under-developed universal theories. 

“Hyunjin, move your irritatingly long legs so they’re resting somewhere other than my feet,” Minho grumbled. 

“Yeah, yeah.” 

Your mind wandered back to the adventures of that day, dawdling across train tracks and praying none of the smoking vehicles came running up behind you. The memory struck you like lightning; you remembered the time you dawdled down the wrong train tracks and ran for your life. A slight laugh passed your lips at the image of your younger self frantically running, “hey, do you remember when we tried to almost got murked by that gang on the outskirts of town?” Hyunjin mumbled an agreement, a fond smile on his face. Jisung piped up to laugh about how he almost ‘shit his lungs out of his ass’. Although you were able to laugh now, you all knew there was nothing funny about the primal fear you felt in that moment. The fear of the unknown; of death. Silence settled over the four of you momentarily before Minho voiced new information softly. 

“I almost killed one of them.” 

Jisung just about shot up in his sleeping bag, “what?” he exclaimed. 

Minho maintained his characteristic calm composure as he explained, “yeah, it was a few months before we went down there. I was still hanging out with Hongjoong and that gang,” ah, the days of Minho being a gang. They were fond―somewhat fond―memories, “one of them had beat up Mingi, got the wrong guy or something, so Hongjoong and I went after him.” 

In all honesty, you never knew Kim Hongjoong very well, nor did you remember much about him. You were never close with him and he’d moved away before any sort of friendship could bud, but you knew Song Mingi well―rather, you knew of him. He was a bubbly kid, tall and friendly with a goofy smile. There was something about him that exuded innocence and happiness, like he was crafted by embers of the burning yellow ball in the sky. 

“We didn’t mean to get him that bad, but we couldn’t stop ourselves,” Minho mumbled softly, his mind wandering off to a different space as he blurted out the words, “Mingi didn’t do anything.” 

The three of you shared a look before turning back to focus on the oldest, his face blank as his eyes clouded over with thought, concern, nostalgia. Hyunjin cleared his throat awkwardly, “well, it’s in the past now. We learnt to never travel down those tracks again,” he shifted around in his sleeping bag and closed his eyes. 

Jisung had proposed the idea of keeping someone on lookout, claiming he didn’t want to get “fucking murked by a coyote or something”. There was the initial suggestion of taking shifts, but Jisung didn’t seem willing to take up the role and Minho said he was “too old to skip sleep”. Hyunjin didn’t give you a chance before saying he’d stay up all night ― of course he wasn’t actually planning on staying up all night, just until Jisung had knocked out for long enough to be unaware of the lack of surveillance. It didn’t matter, though, you both ended up out there after you tossed and turned for a solid thirty minutes. The wind was howling, the tent thrashing from side-to-side at the sharp movements of air. Hyunjin sighed with discontent, “why didn’t we check the forecast before we left?” A light chuckle passed your chapped lips. 

“Because the forecast is never correct,” Hyunjin rolled his eyes at your matter-a-fact tone, a slight smile gracing his moonlit features. It was very clear in that moment — and many others, if you were being honest with yourself — why so many girls had thrown themselves at him over the years. All of that started in your first year of school, when a pigtailed girl claimed it was Hyunjin’s neat cursive writing that attracted her, not his cute face—of course that was a crock of shit, it had always been about Hyunjin’s face. It shouldn’t have been, but people were shallow like that. 

His visuals had never crossed your mind, not until your early teenage years at least. You were thirteen when it first struck you, bundled up in sleeping bags in your best friend’s lounge room watching some teen movie. It wasn’t something you focused on, your eyes had drifted to your giggly friend and refused to move. His hair was black, dark eyes curved into crescent moons as he attempted to stifle laughter at the current scene. Skin smooth, blue winter pyjama shirt buttoned up to the collar and a pillow clutched between his arms. With a tilted head, he turned and stared back at you with curiosity, “what is it?” 

You look perfect. “Nothing,” you smiled tightly. 

“What are you thinking about?” The question passed Hyunjin’s lip in a voice of honey and warmth, comforting in the midst of the vicious whipping wind. 

You shrugged slightly as you formulated an excuse, “just the future. What I’ll do after school,” Hyunjin hummed solemnly. He didn’t like talking about the future, mainly because it brought in thoughts of losing everyone and everything he’s ever loved. He didn’t want to think about a world where that happened, even if it was inevitable, though the words manage to spill out before he could catch them. 

“Will I ever lose you?” 

You were dumbfounded. Lose you? Of course he’d never lose you, “how could you ever lose me? I won’t let you, Hwang,” you attempted to brighten the glum atmosphere. 

Picking at his cuticles, he shrugged his shoulders slightly, “I’m not good enough for you, I’ll never be enough for you.” A frown formed on your lips at Hyunjin’s pessimism, eyebrows furrowing in satisfaction and sadness. You never knew he felt so little of himself. 

“Hey,” the word was spoken gently from your lips, hands reaching out to cup Hyunjin’s face and turn him towards you. He still had a scratch on his lip from that last fight he was in, “you are more than you think, Hyunjin. So much more,” the glaze of your eyes held such sincerity and honesty, “you can do anything you want, man,” yet Hyunjin still couldn’t make himself believe you. 

Eyes downcast, “yeah,” he mumbled distantly, “anything.” 

The four of you walked home in a comfortable silence the next morning, accepting it would be the last time any of you felt this free. 

At the age of twenty-one, Jisung became distant. It was understandably so, Minho had been found dead and was buried within a week of the discovery. There was no proper time to grieve about the loss, everyone expected you to go back to work as if nothing had changed—nothing’s wrong. Everything was wrong, so fucking wrong. Jisung and Minho were never ‘official’ because neither of them had the bravery to face discrimination for being something other than straight. You never knew whether Minho was homosexual or bisexual, even pansexual maybe, but it never mattered. All you could wish was that he was happy, at least once, before he was laid to rest. Jisung closed himself off, became a silent and reclusive man who lived on the outskirts of town. He was a truck driver, swinging between different towns before inevitably returning to the one that seemed to have something against him. It sucked the life from him, it took everything from him; he hated that fucking town. You didn’t see him after Minho’s funeral, not in the way friends see each other, at least. Of course you’d spot him in town occasionally, exiting his house or driving back home after weeks away. Yet, you never spoke a word to him. Never said a ‘hi’, never wanted to speak in case it pushed him too far—broke him, if you will. Rather, you let him seclude himself and suffocate in loneliness; if only you didn’t make that foolish mistake. 

When you were twenty-three you bid your goodbyes to Hyunjin, planning to move away and pursue a career that, frankly wouldn’t make you happy, but it would give you enough money to pay rent for a good place. That’s all you really needed, you supposed. Hyunjin bid his last goodbyes with a letter. It was written in his beautiful handwriting, the calligraphy style he liked to brag when he was younger, but seemed to have forgotten about as he emerged into his teenage years — he never forgot, he still prided himself on such perfect penmanship. It was a letter that contained words you never expected your best friend to say, though always secretly hoped to hear. It was a letter that slapped you across the face for being so blind and cowardly. It was a letter about how he fell in love with you, too hard and too fast, and how he always knew you’d be too good for him, one way or another. You hated when Hyunjin put himself down with such words, but you hated knowing that you caused most of them. The boy was incomparable, so unique and one-of-a-kind. There would never be another Hyunjin in your life, never one to take your heart and treat it as his own. Hyunjin was more than he thought. So, so much more. 

“I love you, more than you know. In more ways than a platonic-friendship-type of love. The kind of romantic love that’s, probably, unrequited,” Hyunjin, you foolish boy, your love has never been unrequited. 

Perhaps you were the fool, not Hyunjin, for keeping your mouth shut about your secret attraction for years. Heaving a sigh, your hands folded the letter closed, you were such a fool. 

In your life, you had three great friends that taught you many lessons — many lessons they failed to learn themselves. 

Minho often preached about staying true to who you are, exuding confidence in your identity and being fearless of others. Yet he failed to accept who he was, though that was fair enough in your opinion. He had his own struggles, many struggles, but never wanted to confront them. Minho never wanted to confront, let alone accept, the possibility of being subjectively weak; he struggled under the pressure to conform to masculinity—no weaknesses whatsoever. Gosh, that boy was one of the strongest you knew. One of the kindest, too, a heart of gold, truly. That boy didn’t deserve to die, none of your friends did. 

Jisung often told you to be careful with your feelings, yet easily gave his away to Minho. The boy had always had an eye for detail, noticing the veins in leaves and miniscule dirt stains on a vintage photograph in his shed, but he tended to overlook the bigger ideas. The things that were right in front of him, you supposed. He failed to notice how he gave away his feelings to one person so easily. He never noticed that he left no room for the regrowth or reacquisition of those feelings, but maybe he just didn’t care. Minho made him feel so peaceful and at ease, how could he find it within him to care? 

Hyunjin, where did you start with Hyunjin? Your friend since childhood, your first love, someone you’d never be able to forget—someone you’d never allow yourself to forget. He taught you to be bold, a little reckless to spice up life — though not ‘stand in front of a train’ type of recklessness. He spent years teaching you to overcome your struggles, though you felt as if you failed to tend to his. Of course, he’d never see it that way, but he was head over heels for you. Just as you were for him. The boy had always been talented, insanely so, with perfect handwriting and a unique perspective on the inner workings of life, ambitions and dreams. There was so much potential held inside his body, marked with scars and bruises from the fights he’d had through the years. He’d always told you to never settle for anything less than perfect. Perhaps that’s why he never wanted you to settle for him: he never saw himself as perfect. You wanted him to do the same, go as far as he possibly can to fulfil his limitless potential. But, that didn’t happen—life could never treat him kindly. Hyunjin never made it out of that shitty town. It pained you to think about it — he could’ve been anything, anyone. He had so much potential, yet that place sucked it away and kept him in an iron grip. When you thought about it, you realised none of your friends got lucky like you. One way or another, they all stayed in that town—dead or alive, it didn’t matter, they all remained. Many would’ve seen that as luck being on your side, but without at least one of them by your side—without Hyunjin by your side—what was the point of going? 

Walking back into that town had never felt so eerie. Nothing was the same as you remembered. Visually, nothing changed, yet at the same time everything had changed. You were no longer a young adult searching for opportunities, no longer a teenager stressing over school work, or dragging yourself to the treehouse in the middle of the night to tend to Hyunjin’s wounds. You wondered if that thing was still intact. That’s not why you were back in town, far from it, but something ate away at you. Was your rickety hangout still standing? Or had it fallen apart after all of you left, in more than one way. 

There was no noise coming from within the wooden confines of the treehouse. You were glad it was still there, even if no one used it. It felt like you were running on autopilot, your feet guiding you up the ladder as you opened the hatch to pull yourself into the space. You swore it was bigger than this. Eyes darted around, taking in the old drawings on the walls, outdated comics and dusty packs of cards. Nothing had changed. You gasped, startled, as you made eye contact with another person, sat in a slightly slumped position across from you. The corner of their lip was slightly bloody, a cigarette dangling from the other side. A reminiscent smirk crawled on their lips, it couldn’t be. 

“Long time no see, darling,” he hadn’t changed one bit, “and just in time! You can patch me up before the service.” 

There was a bitterness in his tone, one you could taste on your own tongue as you contemplated the right words to say. It was mockingly cheerful, like he knew everything was falling apart and there was nothing that could stop it ― who are you kidding, that’s exactly what was happening ― “because that’s the only reason people ever return to this town, right? To mourn the ones that’ll never leave.” 

Words couldn’t pass your lips. There was so much you wanted to say: questions, nonchalant agreements, apologies. It was bittersweet, really, to be meeting like this. It was like old times. A bloodied Hyunjin sat against the wall of the treehouse, nonchalant in the pain of being beaten up, fully prepared to be patched up by your delicate, unbruised hands. But everything was different. Minho no longer whinged over losing a card game, Jisung no longer cheated his way to success in said card games. They’d stopped doing that years ago, and it was an activity they could never engage in again. Hyunjin noticed the despair clouding your gaze, guilt etching your face. A frown creasing his face as he caught your train of thought―you had a habit of blaming yourself, feeling guilty about nothing. 

“It feels weird, doesn’t it?” 

You nodded slightly, “almost... wrong.” 

Hyunjin tossed aside the cigarette, crushing it under his shoe before he opened his arms welcomingly. You didn’t realise how much you’d missed him until the moment you crawled into his arms―you missed all of them. All you wanted was to say one last goodbye to Minho, one last goodbye to Jisung. To thank them for everything, tell them how hard they worked, how incredible they were to be around. Fuck, you missed them so much, you couldn’t help it. Tears were already falling and staining Hyunjin’s t-shirt before you could even attempt to keep them in. A solemn sigh passed his lips, hand stroking your hair as a form of agreement. He’d always fantasised about having a solid friend group that lasted into adulthood, then into the elderly ages. A part of him knew it would never end that way, but he didn’t think this would be the outcome of your friendship circle. When he pondered the potential loss of contact he always assumed it would be a result of moving on to better things, better places and people. He couldn’t help but think back to that camping trip; it was the most carefree time in his life. None of you could’ve ever imagined this outcome ― you could imagine moving away and losing contact over time, you couldn’t imagine being pulled apart by something out of your control. You didn’t want to, but who would? The idea of your friends being taken before their time―before you deemed it to be their time―was almost as upsetting as it actually happening. Life and death, it was a torturous cycle for everyone involved. Hyunjin squeezed his eyes shut as fear bubbled in his chest, the fear of losing you all over again. He tightened his grip on you, what tragic lives we’ve led. 

“And then there were two.”

[trashmenofmarvel]

Devil’s Backbone - Chapter 22

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x S.H.I.E.L.D. agent!Reader

Summary: With your team dead and your mission failed, you’ve been taken by the assassin to an unknown location and are at the mercy of your cruel tormentors. (This fic is explicit, 18+ only, dubcon in earlier chapters)

Chapter Warnings: Violence, blood, references to past sexual abuse, general Hydra creepiness

Word Count: 2.7k

AO3

(gif by @dailymarvel​)

Step three: Once the highest threat is identified, eliminate it.

You rounded the corner and pulled the trigger over and over, giving Rumlow zero opportunity to return fire. You charged forward and quickly took cover behind a desk to your right; wood and glass dividers shattered above your head from bullet impacts.

On your knees, you shot around the corner of the desk in his direction, pulling back when you saw movement from his side. Even with the fresh pistol, you soon ran out of ammunition, but so did he. Once silence filled the room, Rumlow shouted.

“You’re out!”

“So are you!” you yelled back.

He chuckled. “That’s my girl.”

You saw red. The hurt, the betrayal, all of it flowed into your spine, and all you could imagine was Rumlow’s body at your feet.

“No! You don’t get to say that! You betrayed S.H.I.E.L.D.!”

“We are S.H.I.E.L.D.,” he responded in an amused tone.

“Then you betrayed our team! You betrayed me.”

Your voice shook from the force of your anger, and that was fine. What you hated was how easily the hurt bled into your words. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how deep his betrayal had wounded you. Because it hurt fucking bad.

“This isn’t what I wanted.” There was a pause in which you thought you heard Rumlow sigh. “You were supposed to be with us by now.”

Your vision blurred and you blinked away the tears, refusing to shed them on his account.

“Did you do it?” You wanted him to say no, even now. “Did you order the hit on the convoy?”

His voice drifted over to you from across the room, and for a moment, he was your commander again. You could almost see him in your mind’s eye, pacing in front of the team with his hands clasped behind his back as he gave a mission briefing.

“Kartal was working for us. Or he was, until he got cold feet, or a conscience, or whatever the fuck. Pierce couldn’t have him going to the feds, though, could he? And I needed to weed out the weaker members of the team who I knew wouldn’t make the cut. More importantly, I made sure you were kept alive. I had you spared, Williams, because I knew you’d come around. With some persuasion.”

Your stomach roiled and your throat burned.

“I will never be a part of HYDRA,” you spit out.

“Kid,” he laughed, “haven’t you been paying attention? You’ve been HYDRA all along. You just didn’t know it.”

You couldn’t listen to one more word or you would scream. You pushed off from the desk you had been sitting against and stepped out into full view.

Maybe he heard you, or maybe he just knew you that well, because Rumlow did the same. He pulled the combat knife from his belt, twirling it between his fingers, his voice almost sympathetic. “It’s not too late, you know. Pierce wasn’t lying when he said he was impressed.”

Another twirl of his fingers, his smile just as razor sharp.

“Of course, he doesn’t know how sentimental you get. You’re a scrappy little shit, like a mongrel that just won’t die no matter how often it’s kicked and starved. First I thought it was really fuckin’ sad, but then I saw the one thing no one else did. Your potential.”

You tried not to react—failed—and your frown turned into a grimace. Rumlow’s smile widened to a grin.

“But in order to get there, you had to have the softness beaten outta ya. So I toughened you up, cut off all the baby fat. You gonna resent me for that, kid? After all I’ve done for you, you’re gonna turn this around and pretend I didn’t make you the best damn agent since Romanoff?”

His grin faded and dark clouds gathered over his eyes.

“You fuckin’ owe me everything, girl.”

Something within you broke, and you launched yourself at him before you could rethink your strategy. Your ferocity caught him by surprise; he nearly dropped the knife when you kicked at his arm. Rumlow held tight to his weapon and moved backwards, dodging out of range of your attacks.

You knew what he was doing, drawing you out and trying to exhaust you. The only way to counteract that was to close the distance, but then there was the knife to consider.

You picked up a filled three-inch binder from a desk, charged at him, and used the book to shield and deflect the slash of his knife.

It was no vibranium shield, but it worked; you got close enough to kick him hard in the gut. Rumlow rolled backward and stopped at a crouch, slowly standing up as he wiped the blood from his torn lip. His expression wasn’t so controlled now—there was real anger there.

“Pierce had such high hopes for you. You were gonna be our golden goose. HYDRA’s greatest project in history, until the asset went fucking nuclear and killed everyone on the goddamn medical team.”

The asset. The phrase stuck in your throat, tarry and sick and foul.

“What did you do to him?” you asked hoarsely.

Rumlow raised his knife again, readying himself for another round. You didn’t think he was going to answer, until he did.

“Same thing we were gonna do to you,” he said with a smirk. “Pump you full of super soldier serum—a special Soviet blend—and break your mind into itty-bitty pieces.” His smirk faded into a frown. “But then he fucked it all to hell, and we still don’t know why.”

He lunged.

You had been so shocked by his words you didn’t react in time. You managed to deflect his knife once before he slung his arm around your neck and pivoted you around, slamming you against his chest.

You wheezed, barely able to breathe as he held the knife in front of your face.

“How’d you do it, huh? How’d you get inside his head?” His warm breath hit your ear and you tried to twist away, but he held you in an unbreakable vice. “The asset was compliant one day, batshit crazy the next. Pierce was gonna wipe him that night, you know. Said you were a goddamn nuisance, a distraction. Some fuckin’ bullshit that was, weapons don’t get distracted. They have a purpose. They get used. And boy, did we use that fucker until he couldn’t be used anymore.”

Icicles trickled down your spine. Your mind couldn’t grasp the meaning of his words, wouldn’t grasp it.

“He killed the doctors, the technicians, almost everyone in the prison. I expected they’d find your body in a ditch somewhere, battered and broken, but there you were at the safe house, alive and whole. So, how’d you do it? How’d you take control?”

Rumlow’s warm breath hit the side of your face and you turned away, wincing. You struggled again but he had you trapped, helpless to do anything but listen to the horrible things he was saying.

“The guys on duty did say he visited your cell a few times. Is that why he’s outside right now, tryin’ to help Cap? You femme fatale’d him into obedience?”

You said nothing, baring your teeth and trying to pull his arm off your neck. It was pointless, given that the limb was almost pure, corded muscle.

Rumlow gave a bark of sharp laughter so sudden it startled you.

“Or… no. No, you didn’t do anything to him at all. It’s what he did to you.” Another laugh, delighted in a way that made your stomach twist. You said nothing, more focused on clawing at his arm then entertaining his nasty accusations. He ignored your struggles, you wondered if he could even feel the bite of your blunted nails.

“Shit, I didn’t know he had it in him,” he continued on, grating. “Christ. If you had any idea what Pierce had in store for you two, you’d realize how fuckin’ ironic that is. He got his dick wet and they didn’t even have to order him to do it. I mean… shit. That’s all sorts of perverted—“

You slammed your elbow back into his ribs and felt a satisfying crack. He howled in pain but somehow still held on as he stumbled backward, his grip even tighter now around your neck.

You wanted to cover your ears or scream or do something. Anything to make him stop.

And still he kept fucking talking.

“Yeah, got under your skin, didn’t I?” he growled through his staggered, labored breaths. “Not that it matters. The asset ain’t gonna remember you once we get our hands on him again. I can’t tell you how many times his brain has been scrambled. It’s a goddamn miracle he’s not a drooling vegetable at this point.”

You would have screamed at him if you had the air for it, but Rumlow had shifted his grip and the edges of your vision were starting to recede. The world was going quiet, distant… but not enough for you to miss the sensation of Rumlow gently stroking your hair.

“You don’t gotta worry about that, kid. I won’t let any of ‘em touch you,” he murmured into your ear. “When you belong to HYDRA, I’ll take good care of you.”

He fisted your hair tight enough to make the burns on your scalp light up with electric pain. You gasped as he slightly shook his fist, tears blurring your vision.

“And then,” he murmured, low and sinuous in your ear, “you’ll finally learn some fuckin’ gratitude.”

The thing that took hold of your body wasn’t you. It couldn’t be, because no single person could contain that much hatred.

You grabbed his wrist and jabbed it downward. The knife sliced through your side and cut straight through your jacket and down into Rumlow’s thigh.

Rumlow’s earlier scream was tame compared to the wild noise he made now, and he released you on reflex. He also made the mistake of letting go of the knife, and you yanked it free of his leg and whirled around, slashing at his shoulder. He stumbled backwards, red flowing over his corded muscles and smooth skin like a river through a dune sea.

You coughed and gasped for breath. Your face felt like a mask, unfamiliar and tight, and you couldn’t imagine what was across its surface.

He grinned at you, a red-tinged smile from his busted lip.

You could do it, right now. End it. He was off-balance, wounded, and no matter how disciplined he was the pain would slow him down.

Adjusting the knife if your grip, stalked forward, chest heaving as your muscles bunched for the attack—

A shadow blotted out the sunlight cast through the windows. It was moving fast, alarmingly so, and you skidded to a stop when you saw what it was.

A Helicarrier hurtling out of the sky at a steep angle, directly toward you.

Without a second look at Rumlow, you dropped the knife, spun and stumbled on the smooth tiled floor, and bolted. You didn’t turn to see if he had spotted the impeding airship.

You stabbed a finger into your ear comm and shouted, “Wilson! Please tell me you’re nearby!”

“Where the hell have you been?!” he shouted back, sounding very put-out. “We’ve been looking all over for you! Tell me where—“

The impact of the Helicarrier slamming into the Triskelion was enough to make you stumble and skid across the tilting floor, and it was more than enough to give Wilson his answer.

“Shit! You still there, Agent?”

“Not for long!” you yelled as you somehow managed to avoid a collapsing pile of building falling from the ceiling. “Forty-first floor! Northwest corner!”

There was no time to wait for confirmation. You hurled yourself at the window and curled into a ball just before impact. The glass shattered around you, the sound drowned out by the massive airship cleaving into the side of the building.

Your stomach twisted as you free-fell through the air, the ground rushing up at an alarming rate—

Wilson appeared just below you, rolling onto his back and grabbing you as you slammed into his chest. He managed to wrap his arms around you as he flew out from under the shower of collapsing tile and glass.

“Jesus Christ!” he yelled over the comm despite the fact he was also right in your ear. “Are all your S.H.I.E.L.D. agents this crazy?!”

“What happened to the Helicarriers?” you shouted, ignoring his first statement. You tried to twist your head around to look, but you couldn’t see anything but the river below. Panic rose in your throat. “Where’s Bucky?!”

Wilson banked and you gripped him tighter, feeling like a small lizard clinging to a very large bird. From your new vantage point, you saw there was only one Helicarrier still airborne, and it had been the one that had just sliced through a portion of the Triskelion and was now heading directly over the Potomac River.

“We’re still onboard,” Rogers answered, sounding out of breath.

“What? Why!” you cried out. “You’re heading for the river!”

“There was… falling debris,” he said, voice strained. “Bucky’s trapped. I’m digging him out.”

“Why are you doing this!” Bucky yelled over the comm. “Leave, Rogers!”

“Not gonna happen, Buck,” Rogers responded, his voice oddly soft. “Not without you.”

“We have to get to them!” you shouted to Wilson.

He must have agreed because he yelled, “Hold on, man!” He held onto you tight as he tilted through the air, the wind hitting your face and making your eyes water as he picked up speed. “We’re coming!”

“No, Sam, you gotta stay back. It’s too dangerous. This thing is falling apart around us.” The same resignation that had been in Bucky’s voice earlier was now in Roger’s.

“Don’t ask me to do that,” Wilson responded quickly. He sounded as anxious as you felt. He was approaching at a parallel angle to avoid the smoke and falling debris, and you could see the underside glass dome of the bridge and the damage inside.

“Move closer!” you yelled.

“I can’t!” he yelled back. “Too much shit in the air!”

“I don’t care!” You shouted hard enough to crack your voice, struggling in his arms now, trying to twist around so you could see the carrier better. “Move us in!”

“Woman! Knock it off or you’re gonna get us both killed!”

Despite his protests he angled his wings and banked toward the drifting carrier.

“Rogers!” you yelled into your earpiece. “We’re almost there!”

You were fifty feet away, close enough to see details inside the dome. It was a warzone, strewn with heavy crossbeams and collapsed walkways as the air filled with smoke and tongues of flame.

“There’s no time!” Rogers yelled, suddenly urgent. “You have to—“

An explosion ripped through the back of the ship. It was so hot and expansive that the shockwave hit you and Wilson like a solid object, causing him to tumble back through the air. He gripped you tightly around the waist and all you could do was hold onto his arms as the world spun sickeningly around you.

By the time he was steady again, the Helicarrier had split in two.

All the air left your lungs. The horrific sight above you blotted out the sky with fire and falling debris.

Wilson descended and landed on the riverbank nearby. You wanted to scream at him to take you back up, that it wasn’t too late. Instead, you watched the Helicarrier fall in broken pieces into the river. Your legs gave out and you collapsed onto your knees.

“Steve?”

Wilson’s voice was shaking. Desperate and pleading.

“Steve… are you there? Come on, man… Answer me.”

You touched a trembling finger to your comm to make sure it was on.

“Bucky?” Your voice was even more broken than Wilson’s. “Bucky, say something. Please? Bucky?”

You were both met with the finality of silence. The only sound that floated to you on the wind was the quiet rumble of the remnants of the Helicarrier falling into the Potomac.

Next Chapter

[mia-madness]

Hi all. Not sure why I wrote this. A scene popped into my head while at work, and it demanded to be written. Ive never written fanfic before (rdr2 is taking over my life i s2g) Hope you like 💚

•FemaleReader

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It'll Be Okay

*February 19th, 1899*

A single lifeless body lay sprawled on the ground, staining the snow red. The cabin behind him belched smoke out of the windows framed in shattered glass; the door hung haphazardly from a single hinge. The roof groaned from the heat of the blaze, caving in and sending sparks into the sky. A group of rambunctious young men whooped and hollered, firing pistols into the sky, riding horses around the property in celebration.

"People'll think next time about messing with the O'Driscolls! Ha! Steal from us and we'll make you pay!"

A lone figure watched from the treeline. Soot-smudged face streaked with tears, hair a tangled mess, a mass of bruises already forming on her arms and face. A frightened filly stomped a hoof next to her, echoing muffled sobs.

The fire continued to rage through the night, but the hatred that seethed through the woman's veins burned even brighter.

*4 months later*

"Do you think Dutch'll want the strawberries or the pineapple?"

You held both in your hands, halfheatedly looking in Tilly's direction. She shrugged, and continued to focus on the selection of candies and assorted sweets.

It was just a quick run into Valentine. You,Tilly, and Uncle were tasked with food and general supplies. Arthur wanted to look for a new horse. John needed a new pistol.

Placing both cans on the counter, you wandered over to the open window. It was a beautiful early summer day, the sun was finally shining after 3 days of torrential downpours.

You were glad to get out and do something. The last few days had been tough. With everybody holed up hiding from the rain, it gave you plenty of time to mourn, and think back to the months before. Before you were introduced to the gang. Before, when the O'Driscolls murdered your husband, when they burned your picture-perfect home to the ground; When they took everything away from you.

You were told it was a similar situation to Sadie's. She offered her condolences and a shoulder to lean on. You never took her up on the offer, instead turning to Charles.

Charles had a way of always being able to calm your thoughts. A smile, a quiet song in what little of his Native tongue he remembered, or a steady hand on your shoulder. There wasn't any sort of romance blossoming, nay. He just knew how to help, what to say to calm the rage or quell your tears.

A sudden flash of white-blonde hair caught your eye, snapping you out of your thoughts. You had seen that shade before, a few months ago. Rage blossomed in your chest and you quietly slipped outside, leaving Tilly and Uncle to debate the pros and cons of different fishing baits.

The blonde man strolled down the main street, chatting with a friend. You stepped down to the road, turning away a bit and pretending to be interested in a spot on the ground.

"Michael, you know Colm's not gonna be pleased if we don't make this bust," you heard his partner say softly. "Joshua botched the last one, but we ain't planning on taking him this time."

You waited until the pair was almost past you, then grabbed Michael's arm. Using as much strength as you could muster, you punched him square in the temple, then shoved him onto the porch.

He staggered, tripped onto the stairs, then climbed up onto the porch front with a snarl. His anger only lasted for a moment, before his eyes lit up as he recognized you, a smirk tugging at his lips. He waved a hand, almost nonchalant, and his partner holstered the pistol he had withdrawn seconds earlier.

"Was wondering when I'd see your pretty face again," Michael drawled, leaning against the railing. "Yous were out by Lake Isabella, right? You and your no-good, thieving husband."

Face twisted in anguish, a cry tore from your lips as you pulled out your knife and rushed him, practically leaping up the steps. Michael was ready though; He grabbed you by the throat with one hand, the other holding your wrist so tightly you feared it would break. He laughed, spit in your face, and threw you down the steps.

You landed hard, mud soaking into your pants and spattering your face. A familiar voice shouted a short distance away, but you were abruptly distracted by a boot bending your ribs. The breath was knocked from your lungs and you rolled onto your side with a wheeze.

"Uncle get her out of here!"

John, bless his soul, had tackled Michael and was struggling to hold him in a headlock. You knew John was stronger than he looked, but his lean frame twisted as he fought to keep the brawny man in check.

You could feel warm hands gently lifting you to your feet. Through bleary eyes, you could see the crumpled form of the second man, and Arthur shaking his hand with a grimace.

Shoving yourself away from Uncle, you bolted towards the 2 men now going punch for punch.

"Whoa there, you need to get out of here," Arthur caught you as you ran past him, spinning you around and trapping you in his arms. "Uncle, take her back to camp. Make her stay there." You struggled to break free, but Arthur held you easily; he was almost a foot taller, with muscular bulk brought on from hard living.

You thrashed and screamed obscenities as you were passed from one to another, and Uncle all but dragged you towards the wagon. Tilly held the reins, watching with a sense of nervous readiness. A yelp of pain, followed by a groan that sounded suspiciously like John sounded behind you.

"Leave!" Arthur snapped, rolling up his sleeves and turning towards Michael. "Tilly, go!"

Your vision blurred as you sank, sobbing, into Uncle's arms. One hand was half-supporting you, the other awkwardly smoothing hair away from your face.

"You'll be okay. It'll all be okay." Uncle kept murmuring to you, pulling you into his arms, repeating over and over as reassurance, or perhaps in prayer.

You couldn't bring yourself to reply. Your heart was breaking all over again. The pain of losing your beloved was rekindled, burning with the heat of a red-hot iron.

Some day it would be okay.

Not today.

But perhaps some day.

[boogiewrites]

Choking On Sapphires 18

Title & Song:  She’s Thunderstorms

Characters: Alfie Solomons x Genevieve (OFC)

Word Count: 4000+

Summary: Genevieve is a force to be reckoned with. An intelligent, independent and brutal businesswoman. She’s been intrigued by Alfie since she met him. But where will she draw the line between business and pleasure now that they are working so closely together? Growing more comfortable with each other, will Gen showing her true self work to her advantage or be her undoing?

Warnings: Language. Side character death. Fighting. Injury. Nudity. Mentions of gore.

A/N: Every chapter of this story will have a song to work as the title and as a soundtrack. Chapter song is She’s Thunderstorms by Arctic Monkeys.  Positive feedback is MUCH appreciated! Reblogs, likes and comments feed this artists beast to write more!

My Masterlist. (Includes Parts 1-19)

He hears raised voices outside of his room, waking him from sleep. He pulls on a shirt and trousers, slippers scooted on as he shuffles quickly out of his bedroom towards the sound.

He see's you being walked down the hall, a maid on each arm holding you. His eyes dart around, taking in the scene. One maid is crying by the front door, your car still open and running visible through the wide open door as he hurries past it, towards you.

Aggie's leading the way, door open to your wing, barking orders at the younger maids.

"Gen, what's happened?" he calls out as he gets within arms reach of you, he mumbles an excuse to the maid on one of your arms as he pushes her away to replace her. The weight being taken off your beaten up body was immediate and earned a groan of relief from you. You stop and he moves to hold you up by your ribs and you gasp and let out a shrill whine at the touch and he holds you as you choose to lean into him instead.

"Get me to my bed." you whisper out with shallow breaths.

"I'm gonna scoop ya up, Genny. It'll hurt just a moment, yeah?" he says as he's bending you carry you under your knees and back carrying you swiftly to your room and sitting you slowly on your bed. "Can ya tell me what happened?" he requests politely, masking his desperation for information. A swarm of maids, warm cloth's and bandages in hand push him away and he bumps against your vanity.

"Looks like you aren't the only one with someone out to kill you in this house, Alfie." you say with an expression that's past disbelief and just exhausted. "Two men attacked me." you say after shushing the maids and parting them with a shaky arm, motioning for him to come closer. He can hear you wheeze as he stands directly behind a maid taking off your dress.

"Weren't Jacks with you?" he asks, an anger burning at the thought he hadn't done his job.

"He was." you emphasize the latter word, groaned through clenched teeth, your brow furrowed to the point a cut on your face has started bleeding again.

"Where was he during this then?" he says in a rushed voice.

"Well you don't see him here with me so what do you think happened?" you state in an obvious tone, letting out a small sigh.

He answers you with silence. Realizing this meant he was dead.

"I managed to get him in the car. They shot him in the head. It's a bloody mess." you say as your voice inflects and squeaks, pausing for moans and groans as you're left in your underwear as the damage to your body is unveiled. You can see the red and purple marks blotched across your thighs, you know it's worse on your torso and you don't even want to look. You continue the painful task of breathing. It wasn't just your ribs that burned, your lip that felt very split stung with every movement, you were assuming the hit to your face would be translating into a black eye after the amount of time that had passed. He's made his face stone, keeping it focused on yours, you can feel the anger coming off of him. It's not meant for you.

"You moved that big boy all by yourself?" he asks, his brow furrowed.

"I'm stronger than I look." your voice strained and heard through the muffle of a tight jaw as your body is examined by multiple sets of hands to assess your injuries.

"I'd be inclined to fuckin' agree," he says in astonishment. You let out a helpless yelp that makes his chest ache. "Don't think about what they're doing and it won't hurt so bad. Look at me, Gen." he holds your hand. "Tell me what happened." his eyes are calm as they look into yours with intent.

"They shot Jacks after he drew on them. Only one had a gun, I knocked it away and went hit for hit," you explain, crying out again, your face tense, eyes shut,  breathing through your flared nostrils. "Got me down and kicked the absolute shit out of me." your voice is higher pitched in your anger. "I got my knife and got them," you groan, teeth together "le connard." you growl out in anger born from the pain you found yourself in.

"They're dead?" he asks, his hand rubbing yours.

"Ils sont morts?" you mock him in misdirected anger. "Quelle question stupide!" you spit out. "Of course they're dead!" you shout out in frustration, grinding your teeth. His face, full of pity frowns down at you. "Their papers are in the car somewhere, I took what they had on 'em. Didn't take the time to look at who it was."

"I'll get 'em, Gen, don't even worry about that right now." he says quietly, his tone indifferent to not agitate you further.

You nod and exhale with a whine. "I have to get this fuckin muck from the canal off me," you say in angry growl. "If I'm not fucking dying can I just have a bath and sleep this off? I just want to get this horse shit over with," you say, pulling your hand from his, pushing maids away. "This is going to hurt like a mother fucker tomorrow." you say already exasperated, your lip snarled in annoyance.

"Your ribs are bruised something awful, child. Those boots got you most everywhere, but nothing seems irreparable. Your cuts are all superficial, this is going to hurt like hell for a bit but you'll be fine if you rest and see the doctor." Aggie says with the hesitancy of delivering the news to you.

"Just get out then." you groan. "I need a bath and some tea after and to fucking sleep then you call a doctor for tomorrow. In that order." you look up at the maids still not moving. "What are you waiting for? Fucking GO!" you shout, your bloody and busted hands in fists.

"Ya know I ain't being cheeky when I ask if ya need me to help ya, yeah?" he asks, having backed away just slightly as everyone left the room but Aggie, coming from the bathroom after drawing your bath.

"Some fucked fever dream dalmatian I've let myself get turned into." he can tell you're only mad at yourself right now, your eyes looking over your arms and legs. The body language you'd been holding strong for the view of everyone else had gone. You were now slumped, eyes barely open as you spoke in hushed words.

"I know Aggie can get you up but that don't mean she should, yeah?" he asks, moving closer to you.

"I'm entirely too exhausted to act like I don't need the help." you admit with words even though your body language had already admitted defeat. You look up at him, resembling a sad stray kitten. "Now that everyone else is out of earshot." you let a small grin come across your face as you move your weight to your feet in preparation to rise, one of his hands moves to your back.

"You sure, sweetheart?" Aggie asks, pushing your hair off your face.

"We're both adults Aggie. I'm not the first woman he's seen naked before, I'm sure he'll behave himself." you huff out in teasing of her concerns. "I went and pushed myself too damn hard with draggin' Jacks and drivin' to get here and I can barely fucking function." you confess with closed eyes. "My heads full of angry marbles. My ribs feel like boa constrictors trying to kill me." you groan out weakly, letting yourself feel some pity for the situation you found yourself in. "I need someone strong to move me about and our Alfie here just so happens to be just that." you say your head tilting up at him. "What ya say old boy?" you ask humorously with tired eyes.

"Oh you know I've been dying to get ya naked, haven't I Genny?" he jokes with you, moving to pick you up as you move your arm over his shoulders. You let out a very loud cry of pain and small gasps as you plead with him.

"For fuck's sake don't make me laugh Alfie you absolute wanker!" you squeak out, tensing in his arms.

"Sorry, luv. Sorry.  You're proper banged up aren't ya?" he says, showing his distaste for the fact in his voice.

You nod and moan when you exhale. "Near fucking pulverized."

Aggie clasps her hands together in front of her as she watches him carry you, already forgetting she was in the room. She sighs with optimism and hesitancy to your willingness for nudity around the man, but since your childhood, you'd never found nudity to be an issue for you, and you certainly weren't the bashful type.

You're naked and you've gotten your feet in the tub, which is half the battle. He's holding your upper arms, you have your head against his chest, your hands gripping his shirt at his sides. When you weren't trying to hold back moans, which only made them hurt worse, the room was so still. The house quiet again, the doors shut making the splashing of the water against the edges of the tub sound like waves crashing on a shore.

"Ya got it?" he asks after your loud noises of pleasure and protest were sobbed against his chest at the feeling of the hot water against your battered body.

"No." you whisper, shaking your head without lifting it up. "My legs are cramping, can you lower me in?" you ask your voice raspy and strained, your head pulling back but not looking at him, your eyes bloodshot and hidden behind mascara smudged lids. Your split lip was pouted out against clenched teeth as your brow knitted in pain. Your hands settled on his chest for support.

"'Course." he says softly, taking your elbow to hold you steady, moving to the end of the bath and setting your hands on the lip of the tub. His arms, rocks under yours as he took in all your noises of pain as his face pressed against the side of your head. He shushed and encourage your progress gently as you sobbed and shook, getting caught in the cycle of pain and trying to recover from it.  As he finally feels your body lessen it's tensioning as his forearms rest in the water, now being held against yours, your hands on his wrists squeezing as the pain came and went as you moved. In the few moments he allows himself to close his eyes while you breathe in easier soft gasps, the only noise in the room, he can't help but want to hear these sorts of sounds coming from you in a different set of circumstances. He pushes back the thought, a moment of weakness that had snuck up on him from the heightened emotions of the night. He returns to the task at hand. You'd helped him so much, he knew he was in no position to deny you if you asked for his help. He hadn't found being in your debt to be a bad thing thus far.

"Let me lean my head back on the tub for a bit," you instruct as he slowly pulls away. "Thank you." you whisper. Your wet, trembling hands rubbing your face.

"Think nothin' of it," he says, his hands in his pockets as he stands over the tub. "You need me to stay in here?" he asks, his finger pointing the floor. "Or you want me to wait while you-?" he drags out the word, his thumb pointing to your bedroom.

"Just get a chair from my room," you say, your shoulders rolling. "I'll need help with my hair." you say, your wet lashes fluttering as the color came back to your face slowly.

He does as you suggest and settles as you rest. He can't see under the water from where he sat. Although you were curled up in a way that wouldn't have allowed him to see much if he had been willing to be the type of man to try such a thing in this situation. The type of man who wasn't already overstimulated by the visual of you running your hands slowly down your neck, a quiet moan of discomfort escaping from your parted lips as your head tilted back on the lip of the tub. But what man wouldn't be, he thought. The contented sinking into fantasy wasn't even entertained as an option as your fingertips, now showing their paint that was hidden under the muck and real blood, cascading in light sweeping motions across your neck, checking the demented sunset of bruises that  were concentrated in a ring at the base of your throat, moving delicately down, exploring the mixture of violent colors that were appearing on your skins surface.

"You find yourself getting hurt like this often?" he asks, voice not holding any judgment.

"No, I do not. Which makes it that much worse. Both in body and mind." you say with a sigh, picking underneath your fingernails.

You both turn to the doorway as you hear your bedroom door open and the quick-hitting sound of feet moving across the floor in your direction. Claire stands in a full glamourous dress, eyes wide and breathing fast.

"They told me you were hurt." she says, looking over to Alfie and back to you over and over again.

"I am but don't worry, Alfie is being a good boy and helping me move since I find myself not being able to do it on my own worth a damn. Not what with the boots I've taken tonight." he gives a polite nod to Claire, his arms crossed, elbows on his knees. "I'll be in the bed for a few days at least but I'll be fine." you explain with a lazy half smile.

"So you are..." her hand, open and moving back and forth at the two of you. "You're okay here then? You need anything?" she asks in a rushed voice, Alfie had never seen Claire's face to be so expressive as her worry was worn so clearly.

"Cancel the appoints for next week. Adjust our security accordingly for a hit attempt, check that none of the new hires are the problem,  get the papers out of the car. Make sure anything that needs to be done for Jacks is done because he's dead." you instruct calmly. Alfie blinks slowly as you list off the things to be done so articulately, your eyes shut but moving underneath the lids as your thoughts rushed to cover all your bases.

"Okay." she nods, processing the information. "I can do that. Just let me know what else you need tomorrow, alright?" she asks, only looking at you.

"I'm fine, go on." you shoo her away, turning your head to Alfie after you hear the click of your door close. "Help me with my hair?" you ask with a slow, lazy blink.

He can't help but admire your level-headed reaction to this situation. He could see why you were so good at your job if this is how you handled a death of an employee from an assassination attempt on you. He couldn't help but be hit with the fact as to how lucky he was to have someone like you on his side, both professionally and personally. You'd handled the events of the evening better than the men he'd seen go through the same. With you laying so completely at ease around him alone and so unabashedly naked, he can't help but be enchanted by the calm and confidence that you emit.

You slink beneath the water, mess of hair and all, as he pulls the chair across the tiled floor, sitting behind your head. The dragging of the wooden legs on the textured floor sound grating and louder than they are. A sudden screech in the intimate quietness of the room. The water leaking out of the facet in plinks, hitting the surface of your bath, rippling out and meeting the peaks of your knees, islands in the water. The plop of drops perspiration dripping down the mirrored surfaces from the steam of the bath makes it look and feel as if the heat of summer has followed you inside. His fingertips tap against the lip of the tub, watching your bubbles rise as you hide under the surface. You emerge with a gasp, his hands are open, awaiting for your return.

He reaches over and grabs your bottle of shampoo after you gesture in its direction. You make a disgusted sound as you pick chunks of dirt from hair and toss them towards the other end of the bathtub.

His fingers dive in, sudsy and busy as they move around your hairline and you see the water start to get murkier. You let out a moan that isn't from pain, your head lolling on your shoulders as you hear him let out a chuckle at you.  "C'est mieux que le sexe." you mumble, your lips making bubbles in the water before letting your head fall back at his hand's suggestion, pushing your forehead back. "Yes mains sont magiques." you praise.

"Good?" he asks, his voice full of amusement, you assumed his face was full of the same but you kept your eyes closed as he washed out your hair. You wished you found yourself in this position when you weren't made entirely of bruises and tenderness, letting yourself enjoy the feeling, you felt like you'd earned it.

"Oui." you say with a soft smile. He's sucking his teeth at you, shaking his head at how at ease you seemed to be. Not quite knowing how to feel about it.

"That's got ya finished, luv." he swipes stray bubbles away from your face.

You sit back up slowly, hands gripping the edge of the tub. "Let's get this over with." you groan, bracing yourself to be lifted again.

"Rise out of the muck little lotus, c'mon now." he says with a grunt as he hoists you up too quickly for your delicately balanced inner ear.

"Hold me close a moment." you whisper with eyes shut.

"I think it's hardly the time sweetheart." he teases, holding steadily for you as your head spun.

"You're lucky I'm incapacitated you cheeky fucker." you scold, nose scrunched slightly.

You weigh against his chest, his other arm grabbing a towel and wrapping you up carefully after your head stops spinning. "Put your weight on this chair while I go fetch your gown now, yeah?" he moves the chair to your hand and he moves so smoothly, laying the gown on the back of the chair, removing the towel and squeezing your hair, letting the gown fall over you, moving your hair for you again.

"Hand me the hair ribbon." your voice comes in sighs from your exhaustion, knowing you still had to get to and in bed. He pulls a black textured ribbon off the sink and hands it to you. "Wouldn't happen to know how to braid hair, would you?" you ask slowly, a slight smirk on your face as he holds a hand to your shoulder and stomach to keep you from falling as you separated your hair to braid it.

"'Fraid not sweetheart. Sisters never taught me that one." he says with a warm smile that makes you slowly blink, taking pleasure in anything that came your way as you couldn't remember the last time you'd been in so much pain.

"No matter." you yawn cautiously as you braid your hair into two sections. You wince and moan, small shallow breaths as you raise your arms to twist the strands back and wrap them in ribbon securing them back. You exhale noisily and slowly as you lower your arms.

"Carry ya to bed?" he asks, looking down at you, his face has fallen again, but his eyes still looked at you with fondness despite their pity you didn't want.

You begin to raise your arms towards him and give him a nod as your eyes are closed before your face even lands against him.

He lays you on the bed, his frown changes to a subtle smile as your pained moans turn to happy mewls as you let yourself settle into the pillows he'd just fluffed.

"Never had anything so soft hurt so much." you say in a whisper, your face relaxing.

"It alright?" his voice a bit louder, more insistent.

"Oh, yes I'll be fine. I'm only whingin'." you dismiss with a scrunch of your nose.

"You sure? You took on two men trying to kill you tonight, sweetie. You watched your man get shot and all that on top of being badly hurt yourself. 'At's a lot on anyone, 'at is." he speaks slowly, thoughtfully.

"I'll recover. Not the first or last time I'll lose a man and have someone try to kill me." you say light-heartedly, taking a slow breath, your eyes fluttering shut gently for a moment.

"Ya sure? Ya ain't gotta put the big face on for me, do ya now?" he says gently rubbing your hand.

"I'm more worried about the physical pain right now. The rest will come with time." you reply softly, with a less enthusiastic smile but he knew it was genuine.

"Well that's a right smart way to deal with it, innit it?" he praises, giving your hand a small squeeze before he retreats. "I'll have 'em send in yer tea, luv." his voice hushed and warm.

"Nah, I'm fuckin' knackered." you say with a shake of your head.

"Have it your way." he says with a pleasant inflection, moving to stand up straight and begin to leave. Your hands grab his fingers, slumping him slightly as you pull him towards you.

"Thank you." you say with a small hesitant smile.

"What was I gonna do, not help you?" he says with a grin, his chin extended at you, moving back and forth. "Don't act dull." he suggests, pointing his free hand at you.

"Look, I have no issue admitting when I'm hurt and I am very hurt right now. So I'll need your assistance from time to time over the next few days. Not to the degree of tonight but-" you pause with a frown. "Consider it preemptive thanks because once I'm able to move around on my own I'll be back to being an annoyance instead of a burden and you will be so sick of me by that point that you won't be within earshot for me to thank you." you grin, squeezing his fingers.

"Eh, we both know that ain't true," his voice is warm and his face is kind and it makes your chest ache with the invisible weight you feel from it. "You gone and taken care of me so it's my turn now innit? Gotta look out for each other now, don't we?" he says in a warm tone that makes your worry about asking him for help falter. "So whatever you need you just let me know, yeah?" he gives your thigh a gentle pat.

You grunt in response.

"You want me to bring ya those little round pastries of mine ya like, eh? That cheer ya up?"

"Now you're spoiling me." you give him a smile that fades into a bitten lip fast as you almost laugh at his words.  

"Eh." he says, shrugging and moving his head. "You're a good girl Gen, you deserve to get spoiled from time to time, yeah?" he says with another kind smile, making you pout slightly. He waits for a response from you that doesn't come. "I didn't hear a no on those pastries." a charming grin shoots across his face.

"Of course I want 'em, ya silly bastard!" you exclaim in a playful cry.

"Oi! There she is." he says with enthusiasm, brushing back the hair from your face. "I think ya gonna be just fine, Genny bee." he moves to switch off your lamp. "You get your sleep. Ya little bell is by the bed there, yeah?" he grabs your foot, covered by your blanket, shaking it just slightly on his way out of the room. "I'll see ya in the morning, won't I?" he muses, padding towards the door and shutting off the light.

"Fanks." you grumble out as the darkness makes your eyes suddenly incredibly heavy.

Pt 19 Lonely Boy

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[beepbeep-losers]

FOR THE WRITING PROMPT THING DO NUMBER Y FOR RICHIE AND EDDIE I AM SO SORRY IN ADVANCE

I’M ASSUMING YOU MEAN #6 WHICH IS “DON’T DIE ON ME” YOUCRUEL, CRUEL HUMAN but it’s okay I love writing angst. This is SO LONG I apologize. It’s a solid 1.4k. I got carried away and wrote an entire one-shot. Also they’re ~17yo.

***

Richie and Eddie were never affectionate in public. Theylived in Derry, for Christ’s sake. Eddie was okay with it. He’d accepted thatthey wouldn’t be able to come out until they left and went to college. Theyonly had a year and a half to go in this hell hole, then they could bethemselves.

Richie was less okay with it. All he wanted to do was leanover and kiss Eddie on the cheek when they were in public, and everybody elsecould go fuck themselves. But he controlled himself, for Eddie. Usually.

They had gone to see a movie with Mike (who never mindedbeing a third wheel). They were outside the theater, now almost entirelyemptied, waiting on Mike, who was flirting with one of the girls who worked atthe theater. It was chilly for March, and Richie noticed that Eddie wasshivering. He put his arm around the smaller boy and pulled him to his side.

“Rich-“

“C’mon, Eds, just for a second,” Richie shushed, and hekissed Eddie on the forehead.

Eddie frowned up at him and opened his mouth to speak, butwas cut off.

“Lookey here, boys,” a familiar voice sneered. “Our favoritehomos have come outta the closet.”

Richie and Eddie froze, Richie still looking at Eddie’s faceand feeling his heart stop when he saw the fear in his boyfriend’s eyes. Slowly,they broke their gaze and turned their heads to see the Bowers gang. Bowers,who had spoken, had a cigarette dangling between his teeth and the smokeclouded around his face.

“Maybe we should put them back in their place,” Hocksetterhissed. “Remind them what the good people of Derry think of fags.”

“How about you go fuck a duck instead, asshole?” Richiesnapped, stepping forward so that he was in front of Eddie. Eddie grabbed athis sleeve, trying to tug him back.

In a second, Richie was pushed against the wall of thetheater, Patrick’s hand fisted into the collar of his shirt. Richie scrambledto grab hold of the older boy’s arm, trying to rip it off him. “The fuck didyou say to me, gay boy?”

“I said to go fuck a duck you –“

Patrick slammed him further against the wall, his handmoving up to circle his neck. Richie gagged, his eyes wide behind crooked glasses.

“Leave him alone – please – c’mon guys,” Eddie pleaded,trying to squirm toward Richie from where Belch held him back.

“Shut up, Eddie,” Richie said quickly, wanting to get theattention back onto himself.

The opposite happened. Patrick gave Richie a long glare,then turned back to Bowers, Belch, and Criss.

“Hey, the little one will be easier. Less fucking annoying,too. Get him instead.”

Not arguing, Belch immediately released Eddie, only to punchhim hard in the stomach. The breath knocked out of him, Eddie fell to his kneesand gasped for breath.

“Eds!” Richie yelled, choked. Patrick still had one hand onhis throat and the other on his shoulder, holding him back. “Leave him alone,you fuckers. Leave him the fuck alone!”

But he couldn’t do anything. Hocksetter held him still, andwhen he started to fight too much, the older boy let go of his neck and drughim off the wall, forcing his arms behind his back. He held him like that, andmade him watch while Bowers and Belch beat up Eddie and Criss kept watch.

They’d thrown a few punches and kicks at him, taking turnsholding him still, as Eddie tried his damnedest to struggle against them,clawing at their arms and kicking at their legs. He was wheezing, and Richieknew he needed his inhaler. Richie could feel hot tears against his cheeks andknew he was crying.

“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, I hope you all fucking burnin hell,” he chanted through clenched teeth. “You deserve to rot you bastards,you fucking-“

“Shut up!” Bowers snapped, looking up to glare at him. Whenhe turned his attention back to Eddie, he grabbed one of the small boy’s armsand pinned it down. He took the still-lit cigarette out of his mouth. “Gonnagive the little guy something to warm him up. Cold outside, right, guys?”

Eddie wheezed loudly, his eyes flicking from the cigaretteto Richie, who was staring in abject horror.

Bowers lowered the cigarette to Eddie’s arm and Richiestruggled with renewed energy against Hocksetter, a new string of obscenitiesflowing from his mouth. He heard Eddie scream and paused for a second to seehis boyfriend in tears, writhing beneath the bullies holding him, and acigarette burning into the skin of his forearm where they’d pulled up hissleeve.

Richie twisted against Patrick and finally squirmed himselffree, landing a luckily placed kick to the boy’s groin that distracted him. Helunged at Bowers, knocking him off Eddie, and started throwing punches.

It was a valiant effort. There’s no denying that. Richie was,if anything, protective. Richie was also lanky and about half the size of HenryBowers, and about a third the size of Belch.

Belch dragged Richie off Bowers, allowing Eddie to scrambleaway and make a break for the theater (only to be grabbed by Criss). By thetime Belch had Richie, Bowers and Patrick were both fuming and on their feet. That’swhen the real trouble for Richie began.

He felt his nose break and his lip bust. He was pretty surehis ribs would crack from Patrick’s boot. Maybe they already had. He couldfaintly hear Eddie screaming – sometimes for Richie and sometimes for Mike,desperate to be heard so that their friend could come to their rescue. He washolding his arms up to protect his head because they kept hitting his head andhe was sure that wasn’t good. He suddenly felt the ground, felt his skull smackthe concrete, heard the Bowers gang yelling, heard Eddie sobbing.

When had he closed his eyes?

He opened them and tried to make them see properly. There werethree Eddies and three Mikes above him. He tried to talk, tried to say that itmust be his lucky day to have three Eddies to pick on, but when he tried hejust gagged and spit up blood.

“We’ve got to take him to the hospital, Eddie, go open thedoor to the car.”

Was that Mike that spoke? How unfair that Mike could talk toEddie and not Richie. Eddie was his, after all. He tried to point it out andspat up more blood. Eddie had left. He didn’t want Eddie to go, he needed Eddieback. He whimpered.

“Ssh, buddy, you’ll be okay, we got you,” Mike whispered,leaning toward him. Was Mike going to kiss him? That was weird. Oh no, he waspicking him up. Oh, God, his head felt like it was going to roll off of hisbody. Maybe it would hurt less if it did. He was moving, he thought. He couldhear Mike talking to himself under his breath. “This is so fucking bad, this isso bad, holy shit, this is so bad, I’m going to kill those fuckers.”

The next thing Richie knew, he was laying across the backseatof Mike’s truck. His head was in Eddie’s lap. He could feel tears falling ontohis face. He tried to lift his arm up to wipe Eddie’s eyes, but his arm wouldn’tmove and he just groaned pathetically.

“Ssh, baby,” Eddie said between sobs. “We’re taking you tothe hospital, it’ll be okay.”

Richie forced a smile onto his face, even though his bustedlip screamed in protest. “Eds,” he croaked, through the blood in his mouth.

Eddie sobbed again and leaned down to touch his forehead toRichie’s.

“You’re so fucking stupid, Richie Tozier. So fucking stupid,”he whispered. “Always have to be a fucking hero. God, you’re such an idiot. Don’tyou die on me, Richie, just because you had to be fucking chivalrous.”

“Hey!” Mike yelled from the driver’s seat. “He isn’t goingto die.”

The next time Richie could speak was when they were rollinghim toward a room, Eddie walking quickly beside the stretcher. “Eds,” hegroaned. Eddie looked down at him with a panicked look. “If I die, I need youto do something.”

Eddie grasped Richie’s hand, biting his lip. He nodded. “Anything.”

“Tell your mom I’m sorry she’s –“ he coughed as he tried tolaugh “- losing her man.”

[withered-pages-blog]

Foggy (Junkrat/Jamison Fawkes Imagine)

The first thing you felt when you woke up was the dull ache of your ribs, you rolled over with a quiet groan and sucked in a harsh breath of putrid air.

Blinking away the haze of sleep from your eyes, you turned your attention from the ceiling and to your right, where a tall, lanky lump lay sprawled beside you. With a snort, you raised a weak arm to shove at the lump with your elbow to spare yourself some room to get up - you didn’t expect said lump to retaliate by rolling over and catching you in long, lanky yet still somehow muscular arms in a cage.

“Ja - ” you wheezed at the sudden crushing weight that surrounded you, desperately wriggling around on the dirty mattress in an attempt to escape your captor. “Jamie, wake u - oh god,” letting out a loud, erratic fit of laughter, the blonde turned himself onto his back, dragging you with him.

He acted as some sort of half man, half machine hammock that gently swayed back and forth on the thin, yellow mattress, tracing bony fingers against the small of your back gently. You shifted to escape the tickle that Junkrat’s touch was bringing you and he noticed this, smirking softly.

“Somethin’ botherin’ ya, darl’?” He asked mischeviously, and you pressed your hands against the expanse of the junker’s chest, pushing yourself up to face him. “What happened last night?”

Unkempt brows raised at you as you slowly forced yourself into a sitting position, slowly taking in your surroundings. The dirty mattress you had slept on wad entirely unfamiliar, as was the dark, damp room that homed it. With another groan, you forced your back to arch and cringed at that same ache in your ribs.

“Ya don’t remember? I thought you enjoyed yourself, too. Shame, Roadie and I put our backs into last night’s night out.” Jamie sat up with you, arms outstretched and back arched flexibly. “I don’t, but it must’ve been a big night.”

Junkrat frowned, feigning offense as he spoke again, “Breakin’ my heart, sweets. Breakin’ it in two.”

Rolling your eyes, you shoved him by the shoulder playfully and turned your back to him, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed and inhaling slowly. “Well when you’re done weeping, let me know who busted my ribcage,” you grimaced, lifting your baggy shirt to inspect the damage there.

“D'ya mean, darl? Somethin’ bruised?” Jamison’s tone deepened with concern as he crawled to your back on all fours and rested a cold, metallic hand on your shoulder.

You shrugged softly, twisting yourself at an angle to show your jittery companion the dark blotches lining your stomach and ribs. They curled up your torso and around your back to your shoulders. Junkrat took this opportunity to clutch the fabric of your clothes and rolled it up your back and over your head.

“I don’t remember giving you permission to do that,” you furrowed your brows but allowed him the continue his inspection - not like he’d be able to do much.

You hissed at the blonde as his cold, metallic fingers prodded at your tender flesh carelessly, “Watch it!”

Another fit of giggles was your reply - and as you twisted further to shoot him a glare, you whimpered in pain and your hands flew to clutch at your aching self.

“S'alright, love, we’ll get you wrapped up in no time, c'mon.” Junkrat was quick to take you into his arms and even scolded himself for handling you so roughly. “How did this even happen? It looks like someone used me for target practice.”

The blonde snorted and took a strand of hair between his fingers, toying with it as he aided you out of your shared room and into an equally filthy kitchen. Beer bottles scattered across the dirty tile floor, the stench of sweat, vomit and god knows what else completely filled your head and made you dizzy.

“I think I’m gonna be sick.” You warned, and Junkrat hummed playfully, “It does smell in here.”

You closed your eyes and tried to swallow the nausea that was creeping up your throat, it felt thick and made your head spin. “Outside,” you said, “quick.”

With that, Jamison dragged you across the room and threw open the sliding door to the balcony and you opened your mouth to thank him. All that came out was a loud groan and the feel of hot stomach acids emptying onto the marble floor and over the balcony into the street below. Your eyes watered furiously as you heaved, the muscles tensing only bringing you more pain.

You didn’t even register the hands on your back, or the soft whispers at your side or even your now sticky with sweat locks of hair being pulled from your face. You only felt that painful lurch of your body, it buzzed intensely and your whole body trembled as the last of your stomach’s contents dirtied the street.

With a low groan, you opened your eyes to inspect the damage you’d caused. Seven stories below you on the street were several angry pedestrians that all either looked at each other or up at you in utter disgust.

“You really let ‘em have it, aye!” Junkrat let go of you to wrap his longs arms around himself, stomping his feet and laughing furiously. “Its not funny, you ass - ” another round of vomiting and you were a shaking mess.

“Take me t-to a hospital.” You whimpered, turning to face the lanky man. “You’ll be right, darl’. Just need somethin’ to drink and some toast.” You shook your head and immediately regretted the simple action as it brought your head back over the balcony.

“I’ll go get ya some grub, yeah? Stay right there! Aim for any suits!” The junker was gone in a flash and you simply let your upper body sway over the height of the building.

What had the three of you gotten up to last night? You woke up black and blue and now you were puking your literal guts up, which only intensified your pain. Hearing a low snort from behind you, you grunted, unable to even open your eyes to investigate.

“Never again.” You said slowly, the throaty chuckle you heard somehow soothed your aching belly.

“Can’t handle that much grog yet. Too puny.” You wiped your mouth on the collar of your shirt and moaned, “What happened last night?”

“You were hit by a truck.” Junkrat laughed, balancing a plate of over-cooked peanut butter toast and a tall glass of water with him. “I was what - ”

“Ain’t no trucks ‘round here. Bar fight happened.” Roadhog assured you, and your tense shoulders slumped with a sigh. You glared at the blonde junker and snatched the toast, shoving it into your dry mouth without a second thought. After that was gone you chased down the taste of burn with the water and you cracked an eye open to give Jamie an appreciative wink despite your sour mood - which he giddily accepted.

“Bar fight, y'say?” Junkrat raised his brows at his larger companion and the man grunted, nodding as a big beefy hand crept past his gas mask to scratch his face, exposing his chin and lower lip-line. “Ya just had to go startin’ somethin’, right, Y/N?” Junkrat nudged you with his elbow and you practically jumped out of your skin.

“Would you please be careful!” You cried and shuffled to Roadhog’s side, looking up at him with pleading eyes. “He’s trying to kill me.”

“I’m doin’ no such thing! Not my fault you keep getting into trouble, you dirtbag.” Jamie cackled at your angry scowl only to have an enormous hand envelop his face. “Oi!”

It was your turn to cackle now, and you pressed your palms flat against your stomach to try and ease your fit - it didn’t work. “I never stuck a toe out of line before you two came along.” You defended, catching a glimpse of golden iris from behind Hog’s gigantic fingers. “What happened? Tell me the other guy has it worse.”

Junkrat, finally released from the hard, sweaty grip of his captor took this opportunity to sling his arm around you carelessly. “Y'think we’d let anyone get away with that?” Long fingers yanked at the shirt covering your bruises and you frowned, crossing your arms over your stomach.

“So what happened, then?” You stared up at Jamison, who’s cocky expression drooped in thought. You could practically hear the cogs in his head beginning to turn and you rolled your eyes at him, annoyed at the sudden close proximity.

Junkrat brushed his nose against yours playfully and hummed, “Donno, darl’, it’s all still a bit foggy.”