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inej-ruination-ghafa · 2 days ago

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NEXT OF KIN - J.T

Warnings: hospitals, near death experience

Pairing: Joaquin Torres x fem!Wilson!reader

Summary: the one where Joaquin nearly dies and you finally have to tell your father

Wordcount: 3.3k

Footsteps echoed through the building, the methodical clicking of heels ricocheting off of the walls. Everyone watched as you ran through the doors, yanking them open and scanning the sign on the wall.

Before the staff behind the desk could stop you, you were storming into the room and that’s where you stood for a moment, eyes glued on the window.

A doctor followed you in, holding his paper to his chest as he looked at you. He just watched for a moment as you reached a hand up to the glass, unable to take your eyes off of the scene.

“Excuse me,” he cared his throat and you turned your head to look at him. There were tears brimming in your eyes and you hoped he wouldn’t notice, “You can’t be in here without authorisation,”

when you said your name, the doctors eyes went wide. Your last name held a lot of power in places nowadays. Wilson. Your father had been apprehensive about you keeping the last name since his rise to fame, not wanting his daughter to get in trouble. Yet, here you were, with the same determined look on your face, willing to get in trouble if you have to

“I, um, I’m Joaquin’s next of kin, you called me,”

the doctor seemed to have gotten over his shock because he nodded his head intently, almost like he remembered calling you, “His fiancée, is it?”

“Girlfriend,”

“Miss Wilson, the injuries are extensive,” the doctor said as he walked over, looking at the scene in front of him.

You looked over again, staring at the surgery. He was under the knife and you just watched as they chopped into him, over and over again. They were keeping him alive, a ventilator on, blood bags ready in the corner.

Your heart was racing as you wondered if this was it. This could be the last time you saw him alive, covered in tarps and surrounded by doctors with bloody scalpels. He looked so fragile.

“I can see,” the words were hoarse coming from your throat.

You had cried most of the way over here. You had been in the middle of a work meeting when your phone had rung and you ignored it for a few moments before remembering that you had said goodbye to your boyfriend and father a few days prior.

joaquin had come to say his goodbye to you before he left, the two of you parting with a kiss before he drove off to work that day. He knew he wasn’t going to be back any time soon. And now here he was, lying on an operating table.

Your heart felt like it was splintering every moment that he stayed on that table. Tears pooled in your eyes as you looked at him in that condition; he seemed so fragile.

“He has been in rough condition but should be out of surgery within the hour, they’re just fixing him up. He broke a few ribs, has a few first and second degree burns, a broken arm,” there was a weight in your chest as you listened to the doctor explain it all, “His heart did stop but there should be no long lasting issues,”

Your eyes went wide and you turned to the doctor, a sharp pain in your chest, “He died?”

“Miss Wilson,” he tried to reason with you.

Your head was spinning and it was like you were drowning in all of your thoughts. You had nearly lost the love of your life, the one person who had ever cared for you so much. He had nearly died and you couldnt do anything about it.

“He died?” You repeated, breath heavy.

“Medically speaking,”

You choked back a sob, hand coming to cover your mouth as the tears spilled over your cheeks. He had died. He had died. That was all that you kept repeating to yourself.

You turned and looked back at Joaquin. You remembered meeting him for the first time at an awards ceremony two years ago. He was standing alongside your father and he had caught your eye in moments. He had come up to you, nervous, hands shaking, yet he kept that suave smile on his face as he introduced himself.

Now, as you stared at the man on the operating table, you realised just how much he meant to you. You would not be the same person if you had not met him that day.

You were so consumed with your thoughts as you stared at the operating table hat you didnt hear the footsteps approaching.

In the glass, you caught your fathers reflection and realised that he was going to see you standing there, crying your eyes out over nearly losing your boyfriend. A boyfriend he didnt know you had.

You and Joaquin had been together for around 18 months now and had decided to hide the relationship from your father because it was easier not to get him involved. He was so overly protective over you and you knew he would be mad if he saw that you were falling in love with someone with such a dangerous occupation.

as discreetly as you could, you wiped the tears from your cheeks with the sleeve of your cardigan, checking yourself in the reflection to make sure you didn’t look too bad before you turned and saw him.

”Kiddo, what are you doing here?” He furrowed his brows at you, giving you that familiar judgemental look, like he was concerned with your wellbeing but was disappointed that you were there, “I dont want you getting caught up in this,”

You shrugged, not sure what to say, “I got a call,”

“As Torres’ next of kin, it is procedure, sir,” the doctor stated, thinking that he was solving the issue.

Silence fell over the room and you locked eyes with your father. He had that look on your face that you hadn’t seen since you were 17 and sneaking Billy Newsome out of your second story window. He was so angry at you that you could feel it in the air.

The doctors eyes went wide as he realised what he had done, exposing something that he had wrongfully assumed was common knowledge.

He took a deep breath, tilting his head as he looked at you, eyes narrowed, ”Excuse me,”

The lack of words made it even worse. Those two very simple words sent a chill down your spine and even if you were 23 years old, you could still feel the panic in your chest, like you were a little girl about to be reprimanded again.

“Dad,” there were no words that you could think of that would fix this.

If your heart wasnt already pounding in your chest from how nervous you were about Joaquin, it was definitely racing now as you realised you had been caught in a lie.

“I am sorry, I, uh, Mr Captain America, I will be back in half an hour when the surgery is complete,” he explained before rushing away.

Neither of them moved as the doctor fled the room, horrified at what he had just caused. You couldnt care less, all you could care about was that Joaquin was going to be okay.

You looked at your father, the man who had raised you, your hero. Now he was giving you that disapproving stare and you were uncomfortable standing in the tension.

“Spit it out dad,”

He folded his arms across his chest, “What do you want me to say?”

“Hey, how are you doing?” You mimicked his voice.

There was that tension again, even if you tried to make a joke. In any other circumstance, he would have laughed but he just narrowed his eyes at you.

“No. Who called you?” He quizzed.

You rolled your eyes as you realised that he was really angry, “The hospital,”

“why?” Sam knew the answer. It was obvious at this point what was going on and he kicked himself for not having noticed it sooner.

He should have noticed how whenever Joaquin would come round for dinner, he would always sit beside you. Or the way that he would watch you at the galas that you would attend, his eyes always following you around the room and tracing your curves.

“I am his next of kin,” you said.

For a moment you weren’t sure what would be the right thing to do, whether you should try to explain it or just rip the band aid off. At the time, the latter made more sense but now as you stood there, looking at the shock on his face, you wondered if it was right.

After the two of you had been together for six months, you had both put each other as emergency contacts. He lived such a dangerous life and you would never forgive yourself if you werent there for him when he needed you.

”I heard that the first time,” your father said angrily, almost as if hearing you say it made it real.

“Then why did you ask again?” You scoffed, furrowing your brow. You’re sure that if anyone had seen the two of you, you’d be mirrors of each others annoyed expressions.

“I thought I was hearing things,”

He folded his arms across his chest and then looked to his right and stared at the operating theatre. They were starting to pack things away and you were glad that he was going to be out of surgery.

You followed his eyeline and the two of you were both silent for a moment as you looked at the scene. Joaquin meant a lot to the two of you so to lose him would have broken you.

You sighed, shaking your head as you remembered the situation you had gotten yourself into. Your father turned to you, giving you that look again, “What is wrong with you?”

that was the final straw. You were sleep deprived from the flight over to the Indian Ocean to see your boyfriend and you were scared out of your mind and you were angry at your dad and all of it just bubbled up at that moment and you exploded.

“Wrong with me! My boyfriend just fell out of the sky. He was hit by a missile and nearly died in the Indian Ocean and you’re asking what is wrong with me!” You yelled it out, hands waving around as you tried to convey just how awful this all was.

Although Sam was still angry at you for not telling him your biggest secret, he could see how much you loved Joaquin just from how mad you got. He had seen you stand up for yourself all the time but never like this.

“Calm down kid, I’m your dad, I am allowed to be mad that you didn’t tell me you were dating my protégée,” he said, shaking his head.

“For this reason,” you brushed your hand over your face, trying to calm yourself down.

“What?”

You scoffed, not understanding who he couldn't see what was wrong, “You are overreacting. You don't approve,”

“Its dangerous to be in love with a superhero,” he stated.

Sam would know. There was a reason why him and your mother didn’t work out, and that’s because of his time in the army. He couldn’t imagine trying to make that relationship work as a superhero.

He could see Pepper sobbing over Tony’s body, or Steve having to leave Peggy. All of those things were because of their superhero powers. He would never wish that fate on you.

“I love him dad,” it was all you could say, all you could think of to try and convince him that this was worth it.

“I can see that, it doesn't mean I approve,” he explained.

“That's why I didn't tell you. Joaquin, he wanted to, he hated having to lie to you,” you reasoned with him.

You thought back to a few weeks ago as you lay in Joaquin’s arms, before everything had gone to shit. He had asked you whether you wanted to tell your father now about the two of you. Maybe you should have done it then.

“He still did it,” Sam shook his head. He saw Joaquin as the son he never had, and he thought that maybe he was the only one worthy for his daughter. Yet he still lied to him for 18 months.

“Dad. He loves me and I love him. I will spend the rest of my life loving that man and the second i found out he had been hurt, I rushed over. I cannot lose him daddy,” your voice broke at the end.

There was silence. You never called him that, not since you were a little kid. He could see the fear, watched as the tears pooled in your waterline, threatening to spill over.

Although he wished his little girl would never grow up, that you would stay that innocent child forever, he knew that you and Joaquin were in love, just from the fear in your eyes.

“Come here kid,” he held his arms out.

It was like all of your lies didn’t matter and he just embraced you, holding you close as you sobbed into his shoulder.

For the first time since you heard the news, you gave yourself a moment to cry, hands clenched onto his jacket as you cried. You had nearly lost Joaquin, your dad could have died as well. Sometimes it was too much.

There was no conversation as you composed yourself, pulling back, wiping the tears from your cheeks. He placed a hand on your cheek, smiling at the woman you had become.

“You are going to live a very long life and so will he, you will get to do that together. I wish you would have told me,” he said.

Although you hated to admit defeat, you knew he was right, “You would have been more worried about him,”

“I am worried about him,” he said, eyes flickering back over to where he was being wheeled away into another room, ready to be transported back to the states, “He’s gonna be okay kiddo,”

“Thanks dad,” you smiled, knowing this was all going to work out.

Joaquin was transported back to the states within a few days, still fast asleep. You had barely left his side, the news constantly on by his bedside so you could see what your father was up to. You were sat by Joaqquin’s bedside as you watched Sam fight the Red Hulk.

“What ya watching?” A voice asked and you whipped your head to the side to see him opening his eyes, looking at you.

A sob racked through your chest and your hand flew to your mouth. You were happier than you had ever been before as you looked at him. He had been awake sometimes with the doctors but you hadn’t spoken to him yet.

“Dad on the news, hes sorted everything out,” you explained, knowing he wouldn’t want to be too sappy.

he hummed in response, closing his eyes for a moment. You watched him, that peaceful look on his face and you thanked whatever God was out there for saving the man you loved.

“You nearly died baby,” you whispered, almost like saying it out loud made it real.

He opened his eyes and looked at you, really looked at you. There were bags under your eyes from his lack of sleep and your eyes were red like you had been crying for days.

Almost like he hadn’t been in a near death experience, he lifted his hand up and brushed a hand over your cheek, almost like he was making sure that you were real and not some kind of dream.

“I’m sorry,”

you shook your head because there was nothing to be sorry for. “You’re here now,” you smiled at him, a tear rolling down your cheek that he quickly wiped away with the pad of his thumb.

“I should have been more careful,” he said like it would have changed it, someone would always get hurt in these situations.

“You wouldn’t be the man I love if you didn’t work so hard, didn’t go out there no care for everyone else,” you said.

that was one of the reasons you fell in love with him, his devotion to his job and his dedication for what is right in the world.

“I should be more careful,” he repeated, “I couldn’t stand not coming home to you,”

You took his hand in yours and placed it in your lap, brushing your fingers over his knuckles absentmindedly. There was something so domestic about the moment, in the way that he looked at you with pure adoration.

“I always knew you would come home,”

He nodded, tears burning behind his eyes but he didn’t want you to see him like that right now, especially when he is already so weak, one hand strapped up in a sling, burns healing over his neck.

“Dad knows,” you broke the silence.

You watched as the fear fell over his face, eyes widening. This was what he had feared for so long, of not being good enough for your father, his mentor, his idol.

“And?” He waited for your response, eyes still wide.

You smiled at his reaction, “He was angry, but he knows how much we love each other,”

Joaquin let out a sigh of relief, “I’m glad, so hes not angry?”

“Just a little bit,” another voice said and you turned to look over your shoulder to see Sam standing at the door, looking at the two of you.

You couldnt tell for a moment if it was a look of shock but then you saw the smile on his face, the way that he looked at the obvious love between you and Joaquin and you knew he approved.

“Sir, I am so sorry-” he started to defend himself but Sam held his hand up, shutting the boy up.

“As long as you look after my daughter then I will not be angry,” he chuckled to himself, “But if you ever lay a hand on her, I will kill you,”

“Yes sir, I would never,” he looked at you, a smile pulling at the corner of your mouth, “I love her,”

Sam smiled, “I can see, son,”

Joaquin’s face lit up like he had always wanted that approval from him. You leaned down and pressed a kiss against his temple, avoiding the cut on his forehead that was still fresh.

“Can you give me and Joaquin a minute to talk, we have to discuss his new roles,” Sam said and your boyfriends eyes widened. He wasn’t sure what this meant but it could be about your relationship, or his role as the new Falcon.

“Sure dad,” you leaned down and pressed a kiss against Joaquin’s lips, a chaste kiss that promised that you would be back. When you pulled back and saw your dad’s disgusted face, you laughed, “Go easy on him,”

as you walked out of the room, you looked back at the two most important men in your life and wondered why it took you so long to reveal the relationship.

#joaquin torres #joaquin torres x reader #joaquin torres x you #joaquin torres fanfiction #danny ramirez #captain america brave new world #ca:bnw #brave new world #fatws #fatws joaquin #joaquin fatws #joaquin ca:bnw #marvel #marvel fanfiction #marvel fanfic #mcu fandom #mcu fanfiction #captain america: brave new world

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skzdreamer13 · 2 months ago

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LeeKnow Cuddle Time 🖤

Minho x Reader

Minho's turn for the cuddle time Chapter!

Thank you @intrikatie, my love for ideas! ♥︎

Cuddle Time Masterlist ~ Here

Info ~ fluff, cuddling

“Ugh, Finally!” You shout as you step out of the passenger side of the car, leaning back with your arms up in the air to stretching your back with a loud ‘ahhh’

Two hours in the car isn’t very long but it was uncomfortable nonetheless.

"I'll get the tent set up" Minho says as he walks around from the drivers side and plants a quick peck on your cheek.

He smiles fondly at you and walks around to the trunk of the car to start unloading.

After about an hour and a half of setting up you both finally rest in your respective chairs, next to one another with a campfire blazing a few feet in front of you.

"Oh, I almost forgot!" You say getting up excitedly and running over to the car.

Minho raises an eyebrow at you, but you are too preoccupied to notice. When you return you have a large thermos in your hands and as you walk towards him, the inquisitive look on his face still hasn't dissipated.

"Hot chocolate silly! Remember I packed it this morning." You say and excitedly plop back down in your camping chair to pour a cup of hot cocoa for each of you.

"Oh yeah! That's what you were doing? That's sweet." He smiles at you softly as you hand him his mug, and he takes it. He may not be as expressive as most but you cherish when he is, as it's such a rarity. Almost like an occasion. They way his lips curl upwards and his teeth peak out, a cute soft gummy smile that makes him look like an adorable bunny.

For awhile you both sit in a comfortable silence, drinking hot chocolate, watching and listening to the crackle of the fire. One of your hands are intertwined with one of his, dangling your arms slightly over the armrest of your chairs. Anything to be closer to one another.

His thumb is softly rubbing circles into the skin on the back of your hand as he takes a big sip and finishes his drink. As he lets go of your hand to set his cup down, a loud clap of thunder sounds around you.

You jump slightly not expecting the loud, almost booming sound. A wide smile paints his lips and a chuff leaves him as he finds your reaction endearing.

Your eyebrows knit in annoyance and you push his arm slightly as a small laugh leaves him. He gets up and plants a kiss on your forehead before reaching his hand out for you to grab.

You place your hand is his warm grasp and let him guide you out of your chair. You both stand at the end of the covering, that the tarp you set up earlier, provides as the rain starts to pour down.

Minho wraps his arms around your middle as you lean back into him, your mug of hot chocolate warm in your hands as he rests his chin on your shoulder. You both love to just watch the rain together, the sound of water beating down bringing you both peace.

Peace brings relaxation and relaxation brings drowsiness. You start to slump in his hold, laying more of your weight back into him, your head leaned back into his shoulder and the now empty mug is held loosely between your hands. Feeling you start to grow heavy in his arms, Minho grabs the mug from you.

"Let's go to bed." he says and puts the mug away so no critters get at it in the night.

You shuffle over to the tent and are grateful that you both worked so hard earlier to have everything set up as you can just lay down and rest not with no preparations.

You lay down in what is basically a pillow/blanket fort. Four or five blankets on the large air mattress in the tent, dim light from a battery power gives just enough illumination to the small sleeping space. You get under the many blankets, and as Minho enters the tent and zips it close behind him, you reach your hands up making 'grabby hands' at him.

A smile graces his beautiful lips and he crawls into bed beside you. You snuggle in close to his chest letting his distinct smell surround and relax you. His arms wrap around you, he instantly makes you feel safe and attended to.

"Thank you, for making the time to do this with me." Your voice is soft, just above a whisper so he can still hear you over the pitter patter of rain that still comes down above you.

"I'll always make time for you." His arms wrap around you tighter with his words and you feel his sincerity through it.

Slowly you fall asleep surrounded by his warmth and soft rain around you.

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pankowcrumbs · 2 months ago

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Hard Scene to Film X Rudy Pankow (requested)

The sound of waves crashing against the shore served as a constant backdrop on the Outer Banks set. The once lively chatter of the crew seemed subdued today, a reflection of the heavy scene we were about to film. My character, Tessa, was meeting her end, and the thought weighed on me more than I’d expected.

I took a deep breath, adjusting the edges of my costume as I sat on a weathered bench near the trailers. Rudy appeared from around the corner, his familiar grin replaced by a more serious expression. Seeing him like this was rare—his usual lighthearted energy had been replaced by something quieter, heavier.

“Hey,” he said softly, taking a seat beside me. “How are you holding up?”

“Good,” I lied, trying to muster a smile. “It’s just… weird, you know? Knowing this is Tessa’s last scene.”

He nodded, his fingers absentmindedly fidgeting with the zipper on his hoodie. “Yeah, I get that. Feels like saying goodbye to someone you’ve really gotten to know.”

We sat in silence for a moment, the kind that wasn’t uncomfortable but rather filled with unspoken understanding. Finally, Rudy leaned back, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

“You’re gonna kill it,” he said, his voice steady but kind. “I mean, not literally, since it’s a death scene, but you know what I mean.”

I laughed despite myself, the tension in my chest easing slightly. “Thanks, Rudy.”

“Always.” He turned to me then, his blue eyes searching mine. “And hey, just so you know, JJ’s reaction? That’s gonna be all me. Not JJ.”

My heart squeezed at his words. Rudy had a way of saying things that felt like both a confession and a reassurance, wrapped up in his usual charm.

“You’re gonna make me cry before we even start filming,” I teased, trying to lighten the mood.

“Good,” he said with a smirk. “Use it.”

The set had been transformed into a storm-ravaged shoreline, the sand littered with debris and the sky artificially darkened by massive tarps overhead. The sound crew tested the crash of distant thunder, and a light drizzle from the rain machines slicked the ground beneath our feet.

I lay on the damp sand, my costume stained with fake blood and dirt. The makeup team had gone all out, giving my skin a pale, almost lifeless hue. I closed my eyes, letting the weight of the scene settle over me as the director called for final checks.

“Quiet on set! Rolling in three, two…”

The clapperboard snapped, and the scene began.

I could hear the chaos around me, the shouts of characters calling for help, the sound of feet splashing through shallow water. And then, Rudy’s voice—JJ’s voice—pierced through the noise.

“Tessa!”

He stumbled into frame, his breath hitching as he saw me lying there. His knees hit the sand hard, and his hands hovered over me, trembling as if he didn’t know where to touch, afraid to hurt me further.

“No, no, no,” he muttered, his voice cracking. “Tessa, come on. You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

I let my head loll to the side, my half-lidded eyes meeting his. “JJ,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the storm.

His hand found mine, gripping it tightly. “Stay with me, okay? Just… stay with me.”

The script called for me to smile faintly, a bittersweet expression that hinted at acceptance. It was supposed to be a goodbye, but as I looked into Rudy’s eyes, filled with raw emotion, it felt like more. The lines between acting and reality blurred, and for a moment, it wasn’t JJ holding Tessa’s hand—it was Rudy holding mine.

“I… I tried,” I murmured, tears pooling in my eyes. “I tried to make it.”

“You did,” he said, his voice breaking. “You did, Tessa. You don’t get to give up now. You hear me? You don’t get to leave me.”

The director’s voice came faintly from the monitors. “Push it, Rudy. Let it break.”

Rudy’s face crumpled, and a sob tore from his throat. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against mine, his tears mixing with the rain.

“Please,” he whispered, the desperation in his voice cutting through the scene like a blade. “Please don’t go.”

I let my hand fall limp in his, my eyes fluttering closed. The storm raged on around us, but all I could hear was his broken breathing, the sound anchoring me even as I let the character slip away.

“And… cut!” the director called.

The set erupted into applause, but I couldn’t move. Rudy stayed frozen, his hand still gripping mine, his forehead still pressed against mine. Finally, he sat back, blinking rapidly as if trying to shake off the lingering emotions.

“That was… intense,” I said softly, my voice hoarse.

He looked at me then, his eyes red-rimmed but steady. “Yeah. It was.”

Later, after the makeup had been scrubbed off and the costumes returned to wardrobe, I found Rudy sitting on a folding chair near the edge of the set. He had his phone in one hand, scrolling absentmindedly, but his expression was far away.

“Hey,” I said, taking the chair next to him.

“Hey,” he replied, his voice quieter than usual.

We sat there for a moment, the silence between us comfortable but heavy with unspoken words. Finally, he turned to me, a small, sheepish smile on his face.

“Sorry if I got too into it,” he said. “That… that scene just hit different.”

I reached out, placing a hand on his arm. “Don’t apologise. You made it real. That’s what makes you so damn good at this.”

He chuckled softly, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, well, you made it easy. You always do.”

The sincerity in his voice made my chest tighten. I leaned back in my chair, looking up at the night sky. The stars were starting to come out, their light faint but steady.

“You think they’ll keep it?” I asked, referring to the scene.

“They’d be idiots not to,” he said firmly. “That was magic.”

I glanced over at him, catching the way his gaze lingered on me, soft and unwavering. And in that moment, I realised something—Rudy wasn’t just talking about the scene.

Maybe, just maybe, he was talking about us.

#fanfiction #reader #x reader #rudy pankow x reader #rudy pankow #obx #outerbanks cast #outerbanks #outer banks #jj mayback imagine #jj mayback x reader #jj maybank #requested

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butterbabyflapjack · 2 months ago

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Since it's probably gonna be a few weeks before I can post the next chapter of wild animals, here's a little scene where Brian straps you to his table (or at least so it seems)

You grab what grocery bags you can, each filled with giant tarps and duct tape and heavy-duty stretch wrap; swallowing thickly as you do.

“Have you ever killed anyone like this?” you ask Brian beside you, trying to keep your mind busy with anything besides what you're about to do. “Like Dexter does…?”

He grabs a few bags, too; his filled with heavier hardware. “I sure as hell tried.” He spares you a glance. “Or at least–I tried, to…” one corner of his lips slowly quirks, “gently encourage, someone else to.”

His own brother, as you recall. Because that's not fucked up in the slightest.

“As you’re well aware,” he continues, undisturbed by whatever your expression, “seeing as how you likely helped dismantle that would-be crime scene.”

You eye him as he adds to the weight of how many bags he carries; the memory reforming in your mind. Of breaching that little garage attached to the small, white house your trail toward catching the Ice Truck Killer led you and your team to. That little white house which belonged to him; or at least, to Rudy Cooper. And why he bought it under his own well-known alias, paraded as it was within the walls of your precinct itself, is just another testament to how cocksure the man beside you can be.

Looks like arrogance didn’t pay off for him that time.

And you find yourself barely smirking at the thought of how aggrieved that must still make him. Though its shape is quick to die, falling completely, as you remember what Deb looked like on that day you found out who Rudy Cooper really was. Her brown eyes murky, barely conscious; her frail body naked and bound to that plastic-drenched table your team found her strapped to.

For a second, a harrowing flash, you see yourself as her; can't seem to scrape the unwanted image. Tied to the chill of a lone, isolated table. Stripped bare, wrapped tight in clear plastic, helplessly unable to move, as Brian stands there just beside you. Eying you before a halo of light which hangs high above him, even higher above you. Large hands wreathed in pale, latex gloves, which creak with the motion of his fingers as he tests the trigger of some sort of drill, just within your vision, like he wants you to see as its engine burns just for you. A handsome smile on his face as he makes a meal of your abject horror beneath him.

You're forced to blink to somehow rid yourself of such a horrid scene, with it taken like smoke back to whatever paranoia it surely spawned from. Though you still struggle to think beyond how it lingers, uninvited, against the far reaches of your addled mind. Like a ghost, a warning, that still haunts you.

#sneak peek for the weekend <3 #wild animals #brian moser #brian moser x reader #sneak peek #dexter

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heaven-s-black-box · 2 months ago

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The captain's hand- Capitano & gn!teen!Reader

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Recovery date: December 30th, 2024

Description: Hello, I wanted to request something that takes place during the natlan archon quest, so I was thinking, what if a few of the harbingers took on an apprentice or something similar, and the reader is a teenager and is the captains apprentice but they've accidentally called him dad a couple times,

Notes: This work was recovered in conjunction with an anonymous researcher, we thank them for their contributions. I like this concept, honestly i feel like Capitano is probably one of the best mentor/guardians next to Arelcchino.

pt.1 pt.2 HCs

Word count: 1 964

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“Sir Capitano.”

“Ah, Y/n, you’ve returned.” The harbinger didn’t look up from the map sprawled across the table, covered in markers and penciled in notes as he planned out his next move. The Natlan air warmed his back as Y/n held the door of his tent open– the air inside was always significantly cooler for his own comfort. “You may enter.”

The air was reminiscent of a Snezhnayan home when the fire’s running low, not dangerously cold but just bordering on uncomfortable. It made stepping into the warm Natlan sun comforting, unfortunately it made stepping into the tent somewhat unpleasant. Y/n was not dressed for a chill, having spent the better part of the day running reconnaissance in and around the stadium, making them shiver as the tent flap closed behind them.

They rounded the table, standing at attention across from Captaino, and taking a moment to study the map.

The map was an expanded view of the trial stadium, the entirety of the Masters of the Night-Wind’s domain, and part of the nearby Scions of the Canopy territory. Their camp was marked South-East of the stadium, bordering the Masters of the Night-Wind’s domain, and two small squads were represented by red pins. A clear pin was sitting on an unassuming grid block in the Masters of the Night-Wind’s domain, and a black pin was sitting in the camp.

Capitano moved the clear pin next to the black pin, and finally looked up. He was still wearing his heavy cloak, that was probably why it was so cold in here, and his mask. While some may think his back to the door was a sign of relaxation, he was still very much on guard.

“Report?”

“There’s a member from the Masters of the Night-Wind who lives in isolation, but he speaks of a “Granny” often. I believe this Granny is the Citali we’re looking for.”

The harbinger nods and reaches for a piece of paper and a fountain pen.

“Well done. Rest, I’ll have you take this letter to A squad once it’s ready.”

“Yes, sir,” Y/n nods.

The sound of pen scratching on paper pauses as Capitano watches them move to the corner of the office tent and settle onto a bench of crates.

They unwrapped the sweater from their waist, that they carried around solely because the meeting tent was always so cold, and put it on before curling up awkwardly on the bench. There was a tarp covering the crates, and they tested their weight on it to make sure it would hold them as they lay down.

“You may return to your tent,” Capitano said.

Y/n opened their eyes and tried to look at him, though their line of sight was blocked by the table.

“Is that an order, sir?”

“It is a suggestion, I am well aware you find the temperature in here less than desirable.”

“It’s not that bad, it reminds me of home.”

“If you change your mind, I will bring the letter to your tent when I finish.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Y/n assured, staring at him as they waited to hear another argument.

When none came, they closed their eyes and quickly fell asleep. It was a skill Capitano had been quick to instill the importance of; while some harbingers could go long periods without sleep, Capitano much preferred those under his command to be properly rested.

Y/n found the skill difficult to master at first, sleep did not come easy, but as exhaustion built up sleep came easier. Now they simply needed to master the art of waking up efficiently, though he was more lenient as they were still growing.

Arlecchino often shared stories of her children and the behaviours that were unavoidable such as sleeping in during their teenage years. She regarded it as a good sign; a sign that they felt safe.

As he wrote the letter to A squad– a summons to return and report their findings on the leylines, if they had a lead on this ‘Citlali’ they may finally be able to proceed with their plan– he periodically looked over at Y/n.

They were certainly capable, but Captiano has seen enough war to have very strong opinions on it. One such opinion is his distaste for including children on the front lines, though he is no blind idealist. Children will be subjected to the horrors of war, and sometimes the only way to prevent fear from festering is to allow them into the fray.

Y/n was one such case, having been victim to an attack by abyssal monsters at a young age. Their parents were traveling merchants, and they had perished in the attack along Shnezhnaya’s borders. The sole survivor, Y/n had been found hiding among the crates of goods by a patrolling team of Fatui and brought to the barracks for medical attention.

With no family to return to, Arelecchino had agreed to take the young Y/n in as a child of the House of the Hearth only for Y/n to refuse to leave– intent on avenging their parents.

Capitano is still unsure how they wound up as his apprentice, though he’s not sure he would trust Childe with them and Pierro has no interest in taking on an apprentice. Through the process of elimination, he supposes he was the only proper fit– their goals aligned and he could guide them as they matured. He didn’t consider himself to be raising Y/n.

He signed the letter and moved it aside to dry.

“Y/n.” There was no response. “Y/n,” he called a little louder, but there was still no response.

It was almost impressive how they seemed to be able to discern dangerous situations in their sleep. They had no issue waking up during ambushes but could not be moved otherwise.

He made his way to their side, standing closer to their feet so as not to startle them, and tried to gently shake them awake.

“Y/n, I need you to deliver the letter now.”

They groaned softly and curled furthur in on themself. “Papa…” They whined.

Capitano frowned. Were they dreaming of their father? He did not want to disturb their pleasant memories if that were the case, though they’d also mistaken him for their father plenty of times. Namely when they were younger, when safety and their parents were synonymous.

“Y/n.”

Capitano gave them a firmer shake, and they opened their eyes slightly.

“Papa?” They rolled onto their back and rubbed at their eyes, yawning as they looked up at Capitano. “O-oh, Capitano sir, is the letter done?”

Y/n sat up and moved back on the bench so they were a more respectable distance from the Captain.

“Yes, I just need to put it in an envelope.” He moved back to the table while Y/n stretched out and removed their sweater again. “You still have difficulty waking up it seems.”

“Sorry, sir. I’m not really sure how to work on it though.”

“It is a skill trained through experience, I was simply making an observation.”

Returning to the table, Capitano began searching for an envelope to seal the letter in. Y/n joined him and began searching the other half, finding an empty one stuck between some books on the Masters of the Night-Wind. They checked it for any contents before handing it over.

“Thank you.” He folded up the letter and placed it inside before heating some wax to seal it. “I’m sure you will have no trouble finding A squad,” he said, stamping his insignia into the wax and letting it cool. “Once you’ve delivered the letter, I’d like you to take over the search for Citlali in their place.”

Y/n nodded, “In case this hermit doesn’t cooperate?”

Capitano found himself smiling behind his mask, they’d grown confident in their time under his wing. There was no question they had found someone connected to Citlali, only that he would be willing to cooperate.

“Yes. Should plans change, I will send for you.”

He held the tent flap open, and Y/n shivered at the sudden change in temperature as they grabbed the letter and stepped outside. Capitano followed, the two not caring for formality.

“I hope your negotiations go well,” Y/n wished him, stretching out as they prepared to track down the squad.

“And may your search prove unnecessary.”

—

It had proved unnecessary.

Capitano sent for Y/n when he set off for the stadium, and they found him hiding in a cave with the ‘hermit’.

“Pa- Sir!” Y/n said, being mindful of keeping their voice down as they approached the cave.

The ‘hermit’ turned to Y/n as they ran up to the Captain and put themself between the two men.

“It’s-” The Captain broke into a coughing fit, and Y/n brought out their water.

He waved them off, not wanting to take his mask off, and they frowned.

“No need to force yourself. I’ve never seen anyone match the Pyro Archon in battle before.” The man turned from Capitano to Y/n, who was focused solely on their mentor, and addressed them. “You were watching me earlier.”

They whipped their head around, face slack with surprise as Capitano chuckled. Y/n opened their mouth, ready to defend themself in front of their mentor, when Capitano spoke again.

“Now is not the time, Y/n. I did not expect you to intervene at such a critical moment.”

“You know I’ve been following you. Why didn’t you stop me?”

Capitano waved for Y/n to join him where he was sitting. They hesitated, eyeing the ‘hermit’ suspiciously, before sitting between him and Capitano.

“When walking in the forest, it is only natural to encounter wild beasts. However, not every beast has the courage to come out and bite.”

“And yet, one of those very beasts saved your life”

Y/n turned to Capitano, a look of silent question on their face. He waved his hand dismissively. He would have to tell them what happened later, otherwise he would never hear the end of it; they didn’t like being left in the dark.

“Then speak. What do you want?”

Y/n bit the inside of their lip to restrain themself from speaking. They were left out of the conversation almost entirely, save for the hermit’s brief mention once more of how he’d known they’d been watching him. It made them feel a bit better that he’d only known because his soul was sensitive and they radiant a small amount of abyssal energy, though they made a mental note to be more careful going forward.

The Captain stood up, and they followed suit.

“Let’s go. We’ll see if you have what it takes to join my plan.”

Together, the three left the cave and began the round-about route back to camp.

“My name is Ororon, by the way.”

“Huh?”

Y/n turned to him, the two youngest were following behind the Captain.

“I never introduced myself, that was rude of me, and I never asked your name.”

Ignoring him, Y/n turned ahead again and sped up until they were in step with Capitano. Without a word, Capitano took two long steps until he was ahead of them again; a silent order to remain at Ororon’s side.

“Is he your father?” Ororon asked, as they fell back into step with him.

“What?! No!” Y/n stumbled. “Where would you get an idea like that?”

“You called him Pa, back in the cave.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You did.”

“I did not.”

“Alright… Can I at least get your name?”

“I doubt you’ll be around long enough for it to matter,” Y/n grumbled.

#researcher s's recovery #genshin impact #genshin impact capitano #capitano & reader #genshin impact ororon #reader insert #gender neutral reader #oneshot #genshin impact oneshot #rating unavailable

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buytarpaulinuk · 2 years ago

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ichorai · 2 years ago

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i was just a kid ; marc spector.

track one of BROKEN MACHINE.

pairing ; marc spector x vigilante!gn!reader

synopsis ; khonshu wanted you dead. marc just wanted you.

words ; 6.6k

themes ; action, mild angst/fluff, vigilante au, thief au

warnings / includes ; blood/injury, cursing, mentions of human trafficking/sexual assault but not at all graphic, marc is basically chasing after reader for half the fic, we're traveling the world in this fic baby !!! khonshu being Annoying, reader doesn't know marc has DID and thinks he's crazy, a steven cameo !! and one (1) mention of spider-man and daredevil <3

main masterlist.

NEW DELHI, INDIA.

The street market was crowded, bustling with chatty tourists, loud salesmen, and traveling vendors. The air was heavy with the sweet, saccharine smell of fresh mangoes, intertwined with the faintest trace of turmeric, ginger and garam masala from other stalls you hurriedly passed by. You would’ve given anything to stop and try some of the food, if not for the terrifying white-suited fucker hunting you down.

The bleeding cut on your cheek he’d given you from when he threw his crescent-shaped boomerang in your direction throbbed. You’d barely been able to duck away in time. At least here, in the busy street, he couldn’t risk hurting anyone else by striking you long-range.

At least, you hoped so. You weren’t entirely sure how far this bastard was willing to go to get you. Sure, you’d made a lot of enemies in the past, but, to your recollection, you’d never met any moon-caped supers keen on taking your life before.

You were quick to duck through the tight-knit throng, panic setting in when you realized the market was thinning away—you were near the end of the street, and you no longer had the advantage of cover on your side.

With agile steps, you sprinted into an alleyway, glancing up the side of an apartment.

Then, you began to climb. You scaled the small grooves in the bricks, expertly balancing your weight just right so you wouldn’t fall. You’d done this a million times before, with much smoother surfaces to climb—after all, that was the bare minimum required of a thief.

You hauled yourself onto the rooftop, laying low so he wouldn’t be able to spot you from ground level.

Only—he wasn’t on ground level.

A shadow loomed over you just as you crouched by the rusted air conditioning unit, and you had but a millisecond to roll out of the way before his foot came crashing clean through the metal.

Well, fuck me, he can fly, you wryly thought.

“Glide!” the man behind the mask gruffed as he grabbed your arm and shoved you against the crumpled AC unit, the searing hot metal digging painfully into your skin. “I glide, I don’t fly!”

“I said that out loud?” you panted with a hoarse chuckle, before quickly twisting and kicking his knee, brandishing a sharp dagger from the utility belt loosely secured around your hips. Up close, his suit appeared to be fashioned from a multitude of bandages, not unlike the cheap mummies from old nineties halloween movies. “Sorry, would it be weird for me to ask why a toilet paper cosplayer is trying to murder me?”

The man offered you no response, only diving forward and landing a good punch to one side of your jaw, which made your vision go blurry with disorientation for a moment.

There was no way you could best him with strength—you needed to get away from him.

With quick, nimble fingers, you pulled two smoke bombs from your belt and threw them onto the ground. Large plumes of ashen white immediately ate up the space between you, and he was left blinded for a couple of seconds. You tugged a grenade out a moment later, pulling out the pin with your teeth before tossing it in his general direction and throwing yourself off the opposite side of the building, where you’d spotted a plastic-woven tarp over one of the stalls by the edge of the market.

You’d crashed straight through their booth, fruits and drinks spilling all over the street’s asphalt. The vendors started cussing at you in a language that was foreign to your ears, but you knew they were saying foul things nonetheless. With a groan, you pushed yourself up, ignoring the searing pain that ran down your leg and began running back into the crowd.

The explosion on the building had blown Marc back several meters, and he cursed beneath his breath as he pushed himself back up. Just as he was about to set back off to track you down, Khonshu’s bellowing voice made him halt in his motions.

“Let them go,” the God rumbled. There was an undertone of mild disappointment that laid stagnant beneath his voice, as if he’d just lost a game rather than a target. “We have more pressing matters at hand. Ammit’s followers are stealing more souls in Cuba.”

Marc’s brow furrowed. “Let them go? You want me to go to Cuba? That’s halfway across the world! I can finish the job, they can’t have gotten too far—”

“We have more pressing matters,” he repeated himself, this time with an edge to his voice. A headache pulsed angrily through Marc’s temple.

“Why’d you want them dead so bad? This target—that person, were they a follower of Ammit? Huh?”

Much to his frustration, Khonshu ignored him completely, merely brushing past his avatar. “Go to Havana,” the bird-skull rumbled over his shoulder. “I’ll meet you there.”

And with that, he disappeared.

ASTANA, KAZAKHSTAN.

A final stream of smoke fell from Elena’s lips as she pulled the cigarette away, dropping it into the floor to stub with her boot. She fixed you with a neutral expression as you made your way to her, though the unmistakable affection in her molten brown eyes gave her away.

“Took you long enough,” she said, glancing at the large black cloak you were wearing. Her demeanor gradually shifted into one of a more somber variety. “Verdict’s been decided. The court decided not to charge—all those police that beat my friends to death… they’re walking away free of consequence. The government’s gone to shit. Everything is more expensive now—riots are breaking out over fuel prices, which means more people are getting killed. Nobody is willing to help anymore.”

You nodded grimly. “What can I do?”

There was a dark glimmer to her eyes as she squared her jaw. “You’re going to help me burn down government buildings. I don’t know how many, but… as many as it takes for them to change.”

A hint of a grin graced your lips as you regarded your past-lover with a nostalgic kind of fondness. “It’s the first time I see you in years and you’re already throwing me headfirst into war.”

She offered you a shrug and a wry smile. “Don’t kid yourself. You live for this kind of shit.”

“Yeah, I guess I do,” you hummed distantly. “Where do we start?”

It was pandemonium.

Everybody was yelling—the protestors, the police, the civilians watching from the sides, the sparse firemen as they tried to put out the massive, roaring flames that were greedily swallowing the government building in its entirety. You had to admit, you were rather proud of your handiwork—absentmindedly wondering if Elena would be happy with it, as well.

Before you could dwell on it any longer, a foreign hand tightly seized around your wrist and began to drag you back away from the crowd. Your gaze wildly swiveled around in confusion to the man yanking you along, noting his heavy-set furrowed brows and his frustrated scowl. With as much strength as you could muster, you dug your heels into the ground and halted his motion, pulling against him with all your might. He didn’t relent, only staring you down with dark eyes that held the warbling reflections of the fire you set behind you.

“Who the fuck are you?!” you barked, starting to get more frantic as you fruitlessly attempted to get him to let go of you.

And when he spoke, it finally dawned on you.

Well, fuck me. It’s that bitch that chased me down in New Delhi. Wonder why he isn’t wearing his super suit… probably not to attract attention like last time. The news was all over him.

“You’re just getting more people killed,” he husked, clearly talking about the fire you’d caused, before brandishing a dark karambit knife, one that you swore gave you a cut just by looking at it. “No wonder he wants you dead.”

Fear wove down your spinal column when the blade poked your lower stomach in warning. “I’m sending a message,” you growled in reply, lips curled over your teeth in a snarl as you bristled. “And what about you? You’re gonna fix the problem by killing me? I don’t even know you! Some hero you are—those people protesting out there? They’re better than you will ever be.”

For a moment, his pupils darted back to the rioting crowd, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features, and you used the short-lived distraction to your advantage. You expertly kicked the knife out of his hand and landed a quick blow square in the center of his face, feeling his nose break beneath your knuckles.

Not wanting to push your luck—you remembered how fast he was during your last encounter—you gave him one final shove, sending him sprawling into a trash can with a groan and a muffled curse.

By the time he forced himself back onto his feet a second later, you’d already disappeared into the shadows.

Fuck. Khonshu was gonna kill him.

PODGORICA, MONTENEGRO.

Marc still wasn’t sure why Khonshu wanted you dead so badly. Then again, he wasn’t sure about anything when it came to Khonshu.

But he knew one thing for certain—if Marc truly wanted you dead, then you would’ve been six feet under weeks ago. Which meant… he wasn’t actively trying to kill you because he didn’t actually want you dead. All the others that he’d killed for Khonshu felt like they’d deserved it—rapists, abusers, pedophiles… and though Marc didn’t know you very well, he knew you weren’t anything like the people he’d killed before.

Marc didn’t know what he was doing.

Jaw clenched, he pulled the cap lower down his face, shoving his fists into the pockets of his jeans. He followed not too far behind you, silent as a wraith, watching as you merrily strode down the streets of Podgorica.

Finally, when you stopped by a little coffee truck to order an iced latte, Marc stepped forward to stand beside you.

For the first minute, you idly tapped away on your phone, smiling down at the screen briefly before pocketing the device. You glanced at him, thinking nothing of the person beside you, assuming they were just another civilian—

Then you froze.

You knew that face.

After all, you’d broken that very same nose less than a week ago. Strange, it looked just fine now.

Immediately, you hunkered down into a defensive position, backing away from him with quick steps. Then, you ran, sprinting away so quickly that Marc could’ve sworn a trail of dust kicked up beneath your feet.

The man in the coffee truck incredulously yelled out after you, followed by a string of what Marc could only assume was a creative litany of Montenegrin profanity.

Dropping a few shillings onto the truck’s counter, Marc grabbed your coffee and ran after you, shocked at how far you’d managed to get in such a short amount of time.

There was no denying that you were a fast runner—but as the old tale went, the quick hare would always get overly confident. You slowed down to a moderate jog when you glanced behind you, Marc nowhere in sight. With a relieved sigh, you turned the corner and slumped against a building, wiping the sweat from your brow with the back of your hand.

Damn, you’d kill for that iced coffee right about now.

As if on cue, Marc rounded the corner, catching you by surprise. You were just ready to turn tail and run away again, but his hand shot out and held onto your wrist, not unlike he did in Astana.

You spewed out a myriad of curses, ranging from calling him an ‘insufferable cucumber-dicked motherfucker’ to ‘smooth-brained, butt-faced swine’, wildly trying to get him to let go of you. If you weren’t violently bucking against him with all the grace of a panicked mare, he would’ve laughed at the creativity of your insults.

“Stop, I just want to talk!” exclaimed Marc, dodging when you pushed yourself forward to try and wrap your hands around his throat.

“Last two times I saw you, you tried to kill me!” you breathlessly spat. “Sorry if I don’t quite trust you now!”

“I’m unarmed,” he gritted out, stepping back slightly to allow you to scan your gaze over him. Though you didn’t want to admit it, you knew that if Marc really wanted to kill you, you would’ve been dead long ago. “I just want to ask you a couple things. And look—I brought your coffee!”

A low hiss fell from your lips. “I’m not answering jack shit.”

With that, you lunged forward and shoved him hard—so hard that he stumbled into the jagged brick wall behind him with an oomf. The iced latte sloshed right out of its cup and spilled all over his chest. His head struck painfully against the stone and his vision went blurry for a moment, expression faltering.

You stepped away, watching him with cautious, narrowed eyes.

After a long, pregnant pause, the man blinked in a dazed fashion, seeming confused.

“What? Where am I? What’s going on?” he said, accent suddenly… British. He fixed you with a genuinely miffed gaze, appearing slightly frightened at your withering glower.

You didn’t stay to answer his question.

As you were turning on your heel to run away, you faintly heard him mutter to himself, “Where the bloody hell am I?”

Crazy bastard.

VALENCIA, SPAIN.

Your knuckles were split. Blood dribbled down your fist, a mixture of yours and the man whose face you were caving in.

One of your hands was bunched into the collar of his shirt, holding him down as you rained punches on him. The sickening sound of his bones giving way with your strikes didn’t deter you, and you only snarled and hit him again as he blubbered out prayers in Spanish. Blood-flecked spittle dripped from his busted lips.

“Who are you praying to?” you hissed, releasing his collar in favor of wrapping your hand over his throat, squeezing tight. The dull green of his eyes flashed with panic, legs flailing weakly. “The gods will not listen to the likes of you—I’ll make sure of it.”

A strangled wail erupted from him.

And just as you were about to land another punch, you found yourself being shoved away from the man, and promptly lifted off the floor with the scruff of your shirt collar, shoving you against a wall. You began kicking and twisting blindly, cursing furiously when you saw the man you were beating up scurry onto his feet and haggardly sprint away.

Your struggling was of no avail, and you weren’t at all surprised to see the same person that’s been trying to track you down for months now.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he snarled, brows heavily furrowed and dark eyes stormy with anger. “You were about to kill that guy!”

“He deserves it,” you bit out, glaring back at him with just as much intensity. “The fucker’s been stalking a friend of mine and sexually assaulted her daughter.”

There was a beat of silence. Marc’s cross expression seemed to drain away, but he still bore a stern face as he slowly let you go. You slid down the wall and got back onto your feet with a wince.

“Why have you been following me?” you huffed, dusting off your pants. “You think I don’t know that if you really wanted to kill me, I would be dead by now?”

Marc squared his jaw and leveled his gaze on you. “Someone… close to me wants you dead. I want to know why first—he won’t tell me.”

“Sounds like you shouldn't be all that close to him, then,” you snorted derisively.

“Not for a lack of trying,” the man dryly replied.

With a scoff, you stepped forward and wiped your bloody knuckles onto his shirt, leaving a damp trail of darkening crimson. “There’s way too many reasons a person would want me dead,” you whispered, one hand patting his chest. The other trailed down, down, down…

To the high-rise potted plant beside you. You grabbed a fistful of dirt.

“See, he’s not exactly what you’d call a person—”

Before Marc could finish his sentence, you chucked the dirt straight into his face. He inhaled some of the soil and doubled over, pounding on his chest as he coughed it out. With a growl, he frustratedly swiped the remaining flecks of dirt out of his eyes, blearily looking back up. And, to none of his surprise but much of his dismay, you were already gone.

OSLO, NORWAY.

“Why aren’t they dead yet, Marc?” grumbled Khonshu in that grating, gravely tone of his. Even though the God had no eyes, Marc could still feel his stare burning straight through him.

With a frown, Marc was quick to respond, “Because you haven’t told me why yet.”

“You’ve never needed a reason before—always blindly following my orders,” the bird-skull crooned. “What makes them so different?”

There was a bitter taste to the back of Marc’s throat. What made you so different?

“Because I don’t know if they deserve it, alright?” he retorted, crossing his arms to glare up at the tall figure. “You can’t just expect me to kill everyone who mildly inconveniences you.”

Harrumphing, Khonshu snapped back, “They are naught but an inconvenience—they are a disruption to the very balance of nature. Y/N has taken justice into their own hands, and that is a very dangerous thing for a simple mortal to do.”

Marc cast his gaze away in frustration, pacing back and forth. “But that’s exactly what you make me do.”

“Yes, because you are my avatar,” deadpanned the God. “And Y/N is not. Though, they might as well be because you are being a fool.”

He could feel one of his eyes twitch. There wasn’t ever a conversation Marc could remember where Khonshu didn’t insult him.

“They’re doing what they think is right,” defended Marc. “They’re not hurting people just for the sake of it.”

“That is not for them to decide!” bellowed the God, which made him step back just a bit. “They have done terrible, unimaginable things in the past—though mistakes some may be—and they will continue to make them. Take a look for yourself.” With that, Khonshu swept his arm out, gesturing to the large bank across the street, large windows giving him a clear view of what was going on inside.

His heart dropped down to his stomach when he saw you.

You were wearing a mask that covered the entirety of your features, except for your eyes and your mouth. The rest of your body was shrouded with simple, dark clothing, suitable for running.

And, most notably, you had a gun in your hand, pointing straight at the trembling woman working behind the counter. Your mouth was moving and you gestured with lax, calm movements, despite the explicit terror written across the woman’s face.

Marc’s brow furrowed. Damn it.

He watched as you snatched the bag of money the woman slowly slid over, and hightailed out of the bank with the gun still gripped tightly in your hand. You ran the opposite way, before disappearing down another block. Glancing over at Khonshu, only to see that he was nowhere in sight, Marc huffed out a sigh and began sprinting after you.

One downside of Oslo was that their buildings weren’t exactly the easiest to climb—which meant that you had to stick to the ground and trust your speed.

Marc wasn’t as fast as you without his suit, that was for certain. But with his suit—he could glide.

And so that’s how the white-caped figure dropped straight down in front of you out of seemingly nowhere, which elicited a shriek of surprise from you, nearly dropping the bag out of shock. You had pulled your mask off long ago, shoving it into the knapsack shrugged over your shoulders, along with the gun.

This clearly wasn’t your first time doing this.

“You,” was what you incredulously breathed out, eyes wide. “You must be obsessed with me or something.”

Not in the mood to play around, Marc growled out, “Why are you doing this? Give the money back. It’s not yours.”

“Who said it was for me?” you countered, upper lip curled in contempt. You tilted your head at him, eyeing his suit with interest, before returning back to your scathing disposition. “Not that it’s any of your business, but this money’s for the small orphanage a couple miles from here. They’re barely getting by with the money the government gives them. I have a kid there I know.”

With bated breath, Marc willed the suit away, leaving him in a dark sweatshirt and a pair of woolen pants. He eyed you suspiciously, still not too sure if he should trust you.

Sensing this, you rolled your eyes and unzipped your bag. “If you don’t believe me—check my gun. It’s blank.” You fished out the small weapon and handed it over to him with the end pointed towards you so he wouldn’t think you were going to shoot him. “No bullets.”

Marc didn’t need to check it—by now he knew you were telling the truth. But he looked into the chamber anyway, finding it void of any ammunition.

“Can I go now? We both know you’re not going to kill me. The cops will be looking,” you said, voice a bit more gentle than before. He noticed that the anger on your face had melted away, leaving only urgency and another tumultuous emotion that he couldn’t quite pinpoint.

When he offered you no response, finally relenting, you nodded once to him, a glimmer of gratitude behind your irises. And with that, you began running again, effortlessly disappearing into the shadows.

“Fool,” thundered a rumbling growl from somewhere above him. Marc looked up, but the bird-skulled God was nowhere to be found.

COLUMBUS, OHIO.

Damn. Nothing hit harder than classic, greasy, American cheeseburgers with a side of curly fries and a milkshake. You shifted eagerly on the sticky red leather of the booths, shooting the waitress who’d handed you your food a flirtatious smirk and a ten dollar bill, which she took with an equally salacious wink.

You grinned down at your food before taking the first bite into the burger, a muffled noise of content falling from your throat.

“Am I interrupting something?” said a frustratingly familiar voice, the man sliding into the seat across from you. “It sounds like you were just about to have the greatest sex of your life—with a cheeseburger.”

You pointedly glared at him, though it lacked any true heat. After about a dozen deliberately slow chews, you finally swallowed down the food. Marc looked like he wanted to say something else, but you merely held up a finger, slurping on the paper straw of your milkshake. He pursed his lips with a mildly aggrieved look.

Finally, you tilted your head at him.

“Is there something you want from me?” you asked him casually, reaching to the end of the table to grab a napkin and wipe at the corner of your lips. “Because I’m not in the drug business anymore, if that’s what you’re looking for. Or is it something else, hm?”

It seemed that Marc hadn’t completely thought this through. Sure, he’d planned out what he roughly wanted to say to you, but now that you were right in front of him, he found his tongue running dry. He fumbled for words, fists clenching and unclenching by his knees.

“I don’t want to kill you. Or hurt you at all, for that matter.”

You scoffed, remembering the instances in which he’d hurt you plenty.

“I just… I want to know your side of the story. I want to know why you do what you do,” he said, a bit quieter.

For a moment, Marc thought you’d just tell him to piss off. But there was a gradual shift to your features, going from obvious irritation to gentle curiosity.

“Alright. I’ll cut you a deal,” you said, popping a curly fry into your mouth. “I tell you about my tragic backstory, and you tell me all about this… thing that’s been wanting to kill me. And before I start—I’m gonna need your name. I can’t keep mentally cataloging you as the toilet paper man.”

And for the first time since you met him all those months ago—Marc laughed. It was deep and gratingly genuine, coming from the very bottom of his chest.

“Well, first of all, it’s not toilet paper. It’s the ceremonial armor of Khonshu’s temple. And second, it’s Marc. Marc Spector.”

“Ceremonial armor of whose what now?” you balked.

A hint of a smile graced the corner of Marc’s lips. “Khonshu—Egyptian God of the moon. I’m his avatar. He’s the one that wanted me to kill you. He called you a disruption to nature—said that you were wrongfully taking justice into your own hands.” As he spoke, the smile began to wane away, and he regarded you in a more serious light. “I want to know why he thinks that.”

You stared down at your plate of fries, stunned. An Egyptian God wanted you dead? You knew you pissed people off, but Gods too?

“And if you don’t like what you hear?” you quietly asked, lifting your gaze to meet his. “Will you drag me out of the diner and strangle me to death?”

Though you could tell he didn’t like saying it, Marc’s face was set in stone when he leveled with you. “I’ll give you a head’s start.”

Another beat of silence. You picked up another fry and popped it into your mouth. The plate slid across the table as you nudged it towards him.

“Alright, Marc. Settle in, have some fries, order a milkshake—it’s a long story.”

And you told him everything. You told him about your childhood—rumbling stomachs, nimble thieving hands, falling off of buildings when running away from cops. You told him about your teenage years—pulling off heists, brokering deals with gangs, breaking nearly every bone in your body being reckless. You told him about your early adult years—falling in love with Elena, getting more comfortable as a vigilante, as you liked to call yourself, meeting other superheroes and helping out on occasion. Marc seemed to recognize Spider-Man and Daredevil’s names when you mentioned them in passing, his eyebrows arching up closer to his hairline.

You told him that you now spend your days traveling around the globe helping people.

By the time you were done spilling your entire life story, your fries and burger were cleanly polished off.

Marc was silent for a long time, as if unsure what to say.

“I was in love once, too,” he said in a tentative manner, gaze trained on the table. “Her name was Layla.”

“Oh, yeah?” you curiously said, sipping on the last frothy remnants of your milkshake at the bottom of the glass. “And how’d that work out for you?”

There was a sad glint to his eyes. “Not so good. We’re divorced now.” He cleared his throat before you could press him about it. “What happened with you and Elena?”

It was now your turn to stare out the window in a despondent manner. “Same as you. Except we were never married. My lifestyle was… too much for her.”

Marc nodded in understanding. “Yeah, me too.”

The two of you stared at the glossy table in silence.

“You still in love with her?”

You lifted your gaze to meet his. “I love her, yeah—I always will. I’m just not in love with her anymore.”

The man across from you hummed. There was a newfound understanding between you two—unspoken, but the both of you could feel it.

“Do you still love Layla?”

A ghost of a smile graced his features, but it was gone just as quickly as it came. “Not in the same way I used to. But I do.”

With a final slurp of your straw, your drink glass was emptied. “Seems like we’re a lot more similar than first meets the eye, huh?”

Marc fixed you with a loose, awkward smile. Without another word, he pulled the bill of his cap lower down his face, and slid out of the booth. It seemed that he wasn’t going to be strangling you tonight.

You didn’t look back when he walked out of the diner, the bell hooked by the doortop tolling with his departure.

YEKATERINBURG, RUSSIA.

The bird skull was saying something. His bony beak was moving. You could feel the vibrations of his thundering voice beneath your feet. And yet—you had no fucking clue what he was talking about.

You blinked up at the God with wide eyes.

“Could you repeat that?” you winced out, having not picked up a single word Khonshu had said in the past three minutes. The God grumbled, and somehow glared at you despite having no eyes within his bony skull. Beside you, Marc let out a muffled snort.

“You insolent buffoon,” the bony figure snarled. “Have you not been listening?”

Despite the bristling God in front of you, you found the entire situation to be amusing. “Sorry, it’s just… your head’s really big. It’s kinda distracting. Just paraphrase yourself—I don’t need all the terms and conditions.”

Marc’s shoulders shook with silent laughter, but he immediately sobered up when Khonshu rounded his pointed beak to him, back straightening.

“This is a gravely serious matter—!”

“You know what else is serious?” you snapped, pulling your thick woolen coat closer to your quivering body. “Catching hypothermia! Did you really have to pick Russia of all places? We couldn’t have met on a warm beach in the Caribbeans, or something?”

If Khonshu had eyelids, you were sure they would’ve been twitching with repressed agitation by now.

A deep baritone of a sigh fell from the lanky God. He leaned his weight against his crescent-tipped staff, as if willing his own patience to hold steadfast.

“I said—” he started again, watching you cautiously, “—that I will be letting go of your past sins. But only because my avatar is so keen on you, and because you show a consistent effort to rid the world of evil. However, if you slip up so much as once, I will personally see that to an unkind descent into the afterlife. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal!” you harrumphed, tucking your frigid nose into the collar of your fur coat. “And I did those things to people who deserved it—which is exactly the same as what you do, you bony hypocrite! Can we go inside now?”

The God grumbled something unintelligible, though you suspected it had something to do with your impertinence, and disappeared in the blink of an eye.

“You’ll get used to him,” assured Marc, placing a hand on your back to lead you back inside. “He doesn’t get any better but—you’ll get used to it.”

“That’s reassuring,” you dryly responded, teeth beginning to chatter. As soon as the two of you started to walk back to the small little city hotel, you elbowed his side with a playful grin. “So… you’re keen on me, huh?”

Marc gave you an unimpressed look. Snowflakes danced with the wind and landed in his neatly-combed curls. “Khonshu had to believe that I liked you—the last thing he’d want is a sloppy, grieving avatar.”

“Mmh, I don’t know…” you said, tapping your finger against your chin in thought. “He’d probably like that, considering he’s one manipulative son of a bitch. Maybe he just secretly likes me and wants to keep me around.”

“Yeah,” snorted Marc. He halted in his tracks, forcing down a smile. “That, or I blackmailed him.”

Your eyes widened, frost clinging to your lashes and brows. “You blackmailed an Egyptian God?”

“Let’s just say that he’s had a sticky romance with the Egyptian Goddess of love—ironically, she’s one of the few beings that he’s genuinely terrified of. I threatened to get in contact with her avatar if he didn’t absolve you.”

You kicked at a small build-up of snow by the sidewalk, an excited gleam to your irises. “Crazy how even the Gods have petty dating drama to gossip about,” you commented, turning to him. His nose was tinted a faint shade of red from the cold, bits of white frost freckling his hair and his clothes. “Thanks for not killing me, by the way,” you added as an afterthought, fixing him with a warm smile.

“Just keep out of trouble,” he gently reminded, mirroring your soft grin. The two of you were now standing in front of your dingy little motel—and Marc apparently had something to attend to halfway across the world in Cuba.

So this was goodbye.

For now, at least.

Without thinking, you leaned forward to press your cold lips against the warmth of his cheek, the tip of your nose grazing his cheekbone as you laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Thanks,” you whispered when you pulled away slightly, breath misting into an opaque fog. Marc was regarding you with an expression that bordered on fondness, which was certainly a new look that you found yourself craving for more. “I haven’t really properly talked to anybody in ages so… this was nice. Goodbye, Marc.”

With that, you turned on your heel and headed into the hotel, grateful for the blast of warmth from the overhead heater, though you could still feel Marc’s burning stare bore holes into your back, even as you turned the corner and disappeared from his sight.

ADDIS ABABA, ETHIOPIA.

Blood, everywhere.

Gunshots in the distance.

Snarling men rounding the corner—human traffickers.

Your dagger glinting beneath the hot Ethiopian sun.

A man screaming as you sliced his throat.

Gurgling.

Red on your hands. On your clothes. On your shoes.

Two successive punches—one to your stomach, and the other to your face.

Pain blooming beneath your skin.

A fist around your throat.

Squeezing.

Choking.

Dark spots dancing about your vision.

Your nails clawing into their eyes.

Air.

Gasping for breath.

Wheezing.

You desperately parried away another assailant’s knife.

A song of steel against steel.

More gunshots flying every which way.

You dove behind large metal crates.

Sand in your shoes.

Copper on your tongue.

Crashing. Yelling. Cursing.

Your fingers flexing around the hilt of your dagger.

Bated breath.

You looked around the crate.

Marc fucking Spector.

A ghost of a smile on your lips.

Your name being called out—surprise in his tone.

“Fancy seeing you here!” you shouted.

Marc’s fist curled into one of the traffickers’ collars.

“It’s been a while!” came his mildly amused reply.

A grunt. A punch. A groan of pain.

His white cape fluttered with the wind.

“You down for a burger or something later?”

You spoke calmly, as if you weren’t currently strangling someone with a long power cord.

The man fell limp in your hold.

“Sure—I could go for a burger,” he called out,

Blood trickled down your nose and grazed your lip.

You wiped it away with the back of your hand.

The last of the traffickers was struck down with Marc’s crescent boomerang.

A breath of relief.

Drenched in blood (most of which was not yours), you made your way to Marc.

“You clean up nice,” he joked.

A roll of your eyes.

“Oh, shucks, Marc,” you simpered with a mischievous grin, dragging a bloody hand down his face once he retracted his mask.

He grimaced in disgust, but didn’t push you away.

A laugh fell from your throat, hoarse and echoing.

You looped your aching, bleeding arms with his.

“Let’s go get that burger.”

LIVERPOOL, ENGLAND.

“Ow—ugh, Marc, could you go any faster?” you barked through the dirty cloth wedged between your teeth, glaring up at him with watering eyes. You’d endured pain far worse than this, sure, but Marc was taking twice as long stitching you up than when you’d do it yourself. Though, admittedly, whenever you had to patch yourself up, it was a rather shoddy job and often left a much larger, gnarled scar than it would’ve, had you properly taken care of it.

The man above you shook his head, dark curls hanging loosely over his forehead. “Stop moving and maybe it’ll hurt less,” he replied, the tip of his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth as he worked on your stitches. “You know, just because we work together now and I heal quickly doesn’t mean you do, too.”

With a grimace, you tore the cloth from your mouth, chucking it somewhere across the small motel room to freely speak to him. “It was just a mistake,” you replied, nearly doubling over with a strained groan when he punctured the skin of your abdomen with a small needle, where the deep gash resided, one last time. “I timed myself wrong. Happens sometimes.”

Marc let his eyes roam over your exposed skin, brows divoting ever so slightly upon seeing the multiple other scars littering your body. They were memories of your past, and you weren’t ashamed of them.

“Doesn’t look like it only happens sometimes,” he murmured, tying off his sutures and cleaning off the last bits of flaking, dried blood on your stomach before binding the open wound with thin bandages.

“You worried about me?”

Marc didn’t spare you a response. He busied himself by putting away the medkit and tossing the discarded, bloodied clothes into the bathroom sink. When he came back to sit on the bed beside you, you had gingerly moved positions so that you were propped up against the creaking bed’s headboard.

“How are you feeling?”

“Shitty,” you whispered. “England fucking stinks.”

Marc chuckled, a small smile curling his lips upwards, though you noticed that it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

The two of you sat in silence for a while.

“Thanks for stitching me up,” you told him.

“Thanks for not dying on me,” he replied. His hand sought yours and your fingers laced with his. “I know we’ve only been working together for a month by now, but I’m starting to really like you.”

With one last painful shift, you moved so that your faces were only inches away. You paused when your lips were just a hairsbreadth from his, giving him time to yank you away if need be.

But he didn’t.

His lips met yours with a tender sort of sadness, pouring months of frustration and anger into the embrace. A warm hand came up to cradle the back of your head, angling you closer, wary of your newly-stitched wound.

Forehead resting against his, you gently pulled away, finding solace in the fact that he chased after your lips just a bit, before cracking his dark eyes open.

“We shouldn’t do this,” he mumbled, gaze darting back down to your parted mouth.

“Okay,” came your broken reply.

And despite it all, he threw all caution to the wind and kissed you again. Again, and again, and again—far into the night, until the two of you passed out on the stained sheets of the motel bed, limbs intertwined and your nose pressed against his throat, where you could hear the soft thrumming of his heartbeat.

Unbeknownst to the two of you, Khonshu was hovering on the rooftop, finding himself rather glad that his avatar had finally found someone he could trust—even if that someone was the very bane of his existence.

“I need a new avatar,” the God harrumphed to nobody but himself, knowing full and well that he wasn’t letting go of Marc Spector and his… counterparts any time soon.

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uk-tarpaulins · 1 year ago

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tarpaulinscover12 · 1 year ago

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daryltwdixon · 4 months ago

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The Promise of Us: Chapter 24

You swing your legs off the bike as Daryl cuts the engine, dust rising as you all dismount, heading toward the gates of what looks like an abandoned army base around the grocery store.

“Military came and put these fences up—made it a place for the people to go,” Daryl explains to Bob, his tone steady but a bit gruff. “Last week when we spotted this place, there was a bunch of walkers behind this chain-link.”

“They were keepin’ everyone out like a bunch of guard dogs,” you add.

“They all just left?” Bob asks, sounding doubtful. But before you can answer, Sasha steps closer.

“Give a listen,” she suggests.

In the distance, you can hear music playing from the stereo of a car, and you look at the hole in the fence, smeared with dried walker blood from where they’d pushed through.

Michonne steps up beside you, her eyes assessing. “You drew them out?”

You nod, half of a smile crossing your face. Your gaze shifts to Glenn, who stands off to the side, looking more tired than usual. There’s an unsettled look in his eyes, and you know why—he had tried to convince Maggie to stay behind, feeling like something might go wrong. The thought sends a chill up your spine, and you shift your weight, tightening your grip on your rifle.

Daryl addresses the group, his voice low but commanding. “Let’s make a sweep. Make sure it’s safe, and we’ll come back for more things with more people.”

You follow him as he ducks through the fenceline, your steps cautious but confident. The makeshift army camp is covered in green tarp tents, most ripped open, the ground littered with decaying bodies. You wrinkle your nose at the stench, even after all this time.

Reaching the main doors to the store, Daryl leans against a window, knocking behind him with his elbow. “Just give it a sec.”

You drop down beside him, throwing your legs over his lap as you wait for any sign of movement from inside. You sigh, leaning back against the large window, and catch Zack staring at Daryl with a curious expression.

“Okay, I think I got it,” Zack finally says.

“Got what?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

Daryl shoots you a warning look, like he’s begging you not to engage. But Zack is persistent, sitting down on the other side of Daryl with a grin.

“I’ve been trying to guess what Daryl did before the turn,” Zack explains, glancing between the two of you.

“He’s been tryna guess for like, six weeks,” Daryl grumbles, his hand resting on your knee as you let out a quiet laugh.

“Yeah, Dare, tell us—what were you and I up to before the world went to shit?” you tease, a playful smirk tugging at your lips.

Zack’s eyes widen. “You two knew each other?”

“Grew up with this knucklehead,” Daryl mutters, but there’s an affectionate squeeze to your leg that belies his rough words.

“Yeah, ‘cause you were all sunshine and daisies,” you retort with a lopsided grin.

Zack continues, unfazed. “Well, I give myself one shot a day with my guesses.”

Daryl shrugs, giving in. “Alright. Shoot.”

He pauses dramatically, gathering himself. “Well, the way you are at the prison—you bein’ on the council, helping people… but you’re still kinda…” grimacing, he shakes his hand in the air, “surly.”

You exchange an amused look with Michonne, who’s leaning against the wall by Zack, clearly enjoying this.

“Big swing here,” he announces, “Homicide cop,”

You and Michonne nearly lose it, trying to stifle your laughter. You press your hand to your mouth to muffle the giggles, while Michonne doubles over, laughing quietly.

Daryl glances between the two of you, frowning with feigned indignation, “Wha’ so funny?” he demands.

“Nothin’,” you manage, catching your breath as you lower your hand.

“It makes perfect sense,” Michonne chimes in, her grin growing wide.

Daryl deadpans, “Actually, the man’s right—undercover.”

Zack blinks, confused. “Come on… really?”

“Yep,” Daryl quips, his face dead serious, “Don’t like to talk about it cause it’s a lotta heavy shit, ya know?” he peers back at you beneath his bangs, a smile ghosting over his features as his eyes meet yours.

“Dude, come on, really?” Zack repeats, looking incredulous.

Daryl shoots him a look with his head tilted, a smirk across his face, and clears his throat.

Zack finally sighs, defeated. “Okay, I’ll just keep guessing, I guess.”

“Yeah, you keep doin’ that,” you chuckle, your hand squeezing Daryl’s shoulder. Suddenly, a loud pounding sounds against the glass, followed by snarls from inside. Your head turns quickly to see a few walkers pressing against the windows, their ugly decaying faces hungry once they see you.

“Ready, Detective?” you ask with a grin, throwing your legs off him and standing.

“Let’s do it,” he chirps, and he pulls your face to his before getting up, his lips meeting yours quick and firm.

As you all ready your weapons at the door, Sasha’s words are firm and authoritative: “We go in, stay in formation for the sweep,” she says, “After that, y’all know what you’re s’posed to be lookin’ for, any questions?”

You nod, making your way in as Daryl stays at your heels. You hear Tyreese and her go back and forth, teasing each other as brother and sister before everyone makes their way inside to the dark grocery store.

❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥

Soon enough, the inside is walker-free, and you all start your rounds around the place for goods you’d been assigned. Pushing a grocery cart almost feels normal, a strange echo of the past as the wheels squeak against the dusty linoleum. You roll up behind Glenn, who’s eyeing a shelf of Polaroid cameras.

You pick one up, exchanging a small, tired smile with him before placing it in your cart. The store is eerily quiet as you move away from him, the only sounds being the squeaking wheels, soft footsteps, and the occasional clink of items hitting the carts. You pass by scattered kids' toys and Halloween decorations, the candy still sitting on shelves like eerie remnants of a world that turned into a real-life horror movie.

The silence shatters with the sudden crash of glass. You spin around, heart jumping, just in time to hear a shelf come crashing down, followed by someone shouting.

Daryl is already moving, and you’re right behind him, beaming your flashlight toward the commotion. Bob is on the floor, pinned beneath a fallen shelf, surrounded by shattered liquor bottles. The smell of alcohol is sharp in the air.

“You alright?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady as you flash the light over the debris. “Cut or anything?”

Bob’s wide eyes lock onto you and Daryl. “Nah, but my foot’s caught,” he mutters, grimacing as he looks down at the wood trapping his leg.

You and Daryl exchange a quick nod before calling over Tyreese and Zack to help lift the shelf.

“What happened?” Glenn shouts from the other side of the store.

“We’re good, we’re in wine and beer!” Daryl shouts back, his voice ringing unnaturally loud in the empty space. The sudden noise sets off a surge of anxiety, making your gut scream for quiet.

All four of you manage to lift the shelf off Bob, but his leg is still wedged awkwardly. Tyreese kneels beside him, assessing the situation. “You lucked out,” Tyreese says grimly. “If this thing had come down on you the wrong way…”

A strange sound from above interrupts him, almost like a soft crumbling. Your eyes snap upward just in time to see pieces of the ceiling give way. You lurch back as debris rains down, and then, to your horror, a walker dangles from the ceiling. Its stomach is torn open, intestines caught in the ceiling tiles, preventing it from dropping fully.

You gag at the sight, instinctively grabbing your rifle and loading it. The walker’s growls are guttural, and it reaches down, trying to grab anything within reach.

“We should, uh, probably go now,” Glenn says urgently from across the collapsed ceiling, Sasha right behind him.

“Bob’s still stuck,” Daryl barks, his voice sharp. “Get him outta there!”

“We’ll get the others,” Michonne says, her hand already on the hilt of her katana. But before she can move, more walkers start falling through the ceiling, each one landing with a sickening thud. Your adrenaline spikes as more of the dead rain down, some of the walkers breaking apart on impact, others snapping limbs as they hit the ground. The sound of them falling through the ceiling rings in your ears, their snarls filling the air as they take notice of all of you and make their way hungrily.

You fall back, trying to keep your distance from the chaos, but then you spot Glenn on the ground. Two walkers are on top of him, and you don’t hesitate. Dropping your rifle, you pull out your knife, slamming it into the temple of the one on his leg. Glenn manages to bash the head of the other, and you reach down, yanking him up.

“Come on!” you shout, and the two of you sprint through the store, dodging falling debris. Slivers of sunlight cut through the darkness, guiding your path. Your eyes catch Daryl’s form across the way; he’s standing on crates, firing down at the advancing walkers.

The creaking above gets louder, and your stomach drops as you glance up to see something massive above you. Your eyes widen as you realize what it is—a crashed military jet, barely supported by the weakened ceiling.

“Daryl!” you scream, panic tightening your throat.

He snaps out of his focus, spotting you and the danger above. Without hesitation, he jumps off the crates, making his way toward you. You grab his shoulder, pushing him toward the exit as more gunshots echo and people shout.

Zack is at the shelves where Bob is still trapped, stomping a walker’s skull just in time. He lifts the last piece of shelving, and you reach down to pull Bob free. He’s soaked in liquor, smelling strongly of alcohol but still alive.

“Let’s go! Now!” Daryl yells, urgency clear in his voice.

You’re moving fast, but a sudden scream makes you whip around. Zack is struggling in a walker’s grip, and before you can react, he falls. You start to surge forward, but Daryl’s hand clamps down on your arm, holding you back.

“Zack!” you scream, but he’s already being dragged down, the walker sinking its teeth into his neck. Blood sprays as it tears away flesh, and the sound is sickening. Daryl’s grip tightens as he pulls you away, his voice raw. “We gotta go!”

You stumble, tears blurring your vision, but you finally turn and follow the others. Just as you make it out of the section, the ceiling collapses completely, the fighter jet crashing down and crushing everything beneath it.

The sound of metal and concrete slamming into the ground is deafening, drowning out the last of Zack’s screams.

❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥・・❥

Later on, you make your way through the darkened halls of the cell block, your hand loosely entwined with Daryl’s. Your eyes are downcast, the weight of the day’s events heavy between you. When he stops outside one of the cells, he turns to face you, gently lifting your joined hands. You’re heading over to Beth’s cell then, where you have to break the news to her about the person she refused to say goodbye to.

“I’ll do it,” he says quietly, his fingers grazing the side of your face. You look up at him, seeing the pain etched deep into his features—pain mixed with the silent acceptance of the burden he’s taken on. His duty, his responsibility.

You nod slowly, your chest tight, and lean in, pressing your forehead against his. For a long moment, the two of you just breathe, taking what comfort you can from the closeness. You feel the warmth of his breath, the subtle roughness of his skin.

Finally, you step back, letting your hand slip from his grasp. You turn and make your way toward the old warden’s office that’s become your space. As you reach the stairs, you glance back. Daryl stands in Beth’s doorway, shoulders tense, his head slightly bowed. You can hear the low murmur of his voice, words too soft to make out.

You linger for a heartbeat longer, then turn away, retreating into the solitude of your room.

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